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Regan
by Dillon Vita A motley of wires and tubes highlight the horrid product from mixing two parts cancer with one part atrophy: Regan. She examines the wall (half curtain, a quarter window, and the rest completely unknowable). Her eyes rest upon the windowed zone. Cara, her hair golden in the light (like a dyed Helen, Regan’s sure), blocks a good portion of the parking lot. "Is Seamus coming?" The IV resists her scratching but oddly enough the wig does not. To hell with my femininity. "Don't mess your hair." "They're gonna know I have no hair if they knew me at all." The wig is now worn upon Regan's outstretched hand. "I mean look at this thing." "It was hard to find a good one." Not many matched the hair Regan had worn for the greater part of a century. A sort of curliness no curler could entice. "Sorry." Regan implies her forgiveness with a blink of her eyelids that lasts unusually long. Before she can actually vocalize this implication the doctor walks in. Doctor Herz. No that was the other one. "Hello." He addresses both women without names as he hasn't peeked at his clipboard. "Mrs. Kilkenny," he'd hoped this would include both women, but unfortunately neither really fits the narrow name (both unmarried: one through death the other through supposed choice). "Could I speak with you for a moment." The curtain flutters like the dress of an angel said to visit others in nearly similar situations (Hello, my name is Gabriel and I've been sent for you. And no, you don't have to name your next child Jesus). The off-white seems at least a few shades duller without company. The sky is just as beautiful, though. As long as you ignore the asphalt below it, that is. "...doesn't have much." She's heard this before and it's not the type of repetition you can grow fond of. Not like this sky. Same shade of blue day in and day out. Footsteps draw Regan's attention back to the skirt of the curtain. It's not just Cara anymore. A smiling child and a slightly emaciated woman that dwarfs her. "Hey Mum," says the thin one. The kid isn't for formalities and is upon Regan before speaking a word. "Regan! Watch the IV." Regan was never for passing her name on. Said they could let her name die with her. But that didn't do any good, just made Evelyn cry. The rims of the girl's eyelids are just as thin as her waist. "Sorry, Mum," and "She's fine," are heard from the Regans concurrently. Only the elder one continues speaking. "You really didn't have to come." "We wanted to,” says Evelyn. “Regan wanted to give you something." Suddenly a doll is inches from her face. Old and worn. It must have spontaneously generated because at no point did she see Regan walk in with it. "Here!" The thread, which serves both as the outline of the pupil and as a means of attachment to the rest of the felt head, is loose so that the whole button sags: a new wrinkle in the face of the doll cleverly named Regan. Three Regans is too many Regans. "You take it." In the moment that the doll transfers ownership Regan sees how perfect a composite of the two of them the doll is. Reddish strands taking the place of hair (from the child), the old felt sagging at places that met moisture for 60 some odd years (from the dwindling yet endlessly growing mass of Regan), and softly coarse cloth pretending to be skin (from a bit of both of them). “Tell Grandmum about school. Me and Aunt Cara are going outside for a little.” “Aunt Cara and I.” While teaching she’d learned to cringe at such a mistake. Regan, sitting between her Grandmum’s legs, speaks as if she thinks she has to make up for the other women leaving. “Today I got married to Timmy he’s a month older than me so I wasn’t a cougar. Fred did the service brought a Bible and everything.” “Oh, yeah? Where’d you get a dress?” “That’s the only thing we were missing I had to wear a white shirt and a white skirt instead.” “That’s almost a dress.” “And guess what?” During the brief moment that her granddaughter waits for Regan to say “What?” she hears Cara’s voice, sounding a little angry, say, “I can’t believe Seamus.” “He kissed me! On the lips it was gross. We said we were just gonna kiss on the cheek instead but then out of nowhere he kissed me on the lips.” Regan now massages her lips at the mere thought of the memory. “Oh no. What happened next?” “Then we moved in we used the place under the playground as a house then he said he wanted a pet and there was a cockroach right there so he picked it up and named it Freddy. But then this mean kid came over.” “What was his name?” “Chris. No Michael. I don’t really know. But he came over and grabbed at Freddy. He grabbed him right from Timmy’s hand and then he squashed him!” “No!” Regan tries to feign tears but she was never too good at acting. “He did! I swear.” She takes what seems like her first breath. “So we buried him right by the trees cause it’s pretty there.” The curtain announces Cara and Evelyn’s return with another ruffle. “Did you hear? Regan got married.” “Oh really?” Cara asks. Evelyn’s face doesn’t respond. She must’ve heard the story about a thousand times already. “What was his name again?” the elder Regan asks. “Timmy!” the other proudly announces. “His last name silly.” “Canniff or something. I forget.” “Mrs. Regan Caniff has a nice ring to it,” says Cara. The younger Regan’s cheek muscles tighten and pull her lips farther up her face. The same sort of smile Regan used to smile. “Anyway, I have to get going,” Cara says. She continues, feeling that she owes her Mum at least an explanation. “I had to trade for a night shift and it starts in about an hour.” Cara’s scrubs are still hiding in her dresser at home so she really does need to get going. “We really should get going too.” Evelyn speaks for both herself and Regan. “The nurse said your food should be coming any moment.” “Well, thanks for stopping by.” Cara’s hug is short, and Evelyn’s even shorter. But the Regans latch on for what seems like minutes. The elder just forgets to let go as sixty year old memories flip through her like an incredibly faded flip book, faces fading from the shaky silhouettes that appeared just moments ago. When she is again unaccompanied in the curtained half room, Regan peers back through the windowed wall to the sky. Images of her long past Aunt beholding Regan’s work impressed upon the blue sky make the sky slightly different today. Flawless she’d said. Regan reaches beside her. The windowsill is thankfully in reach. The doll moves obediently to her lap. The recently unhidden car (a deeper red than the red threads it replaced in the parking lot’s strictly controlled color scheme) begins to roll forward, a hand beckoning the stick from R to D. It’s her daughter’s. Evelyn’s. It jolts forward beyond the unknown wall. Regan feels warm upon her chest somehow. There’s no pulse nor bloodstream, but somehow it does feel warm. She used to let it sit on the radiator for a few minutes before she took it in bed. That usually did the trick. Made her really think there was someone lying with her. Let her jump forward a few years. Hopefully that’s what heaven’s like. Like lying with Regan, her forever warm, in my undeveloped skin. |
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