By Matthew Shaddock, faculty
“Am I dead?”
I look at my father. Disheveled but healthy, at least outwardly. Body, fine. Mind, like Swiss cheese. In a sharp blue Rice sweatshirt, the normal khaki pants replaced with loose fitting gray sweats. His beard turned gray, his bald head spotted by the sun. He still looks sharp in a distinguished manner, even while huddled over a walker.
“No dad, this is where you live now.”
Looking around, I could see why he would ask this. The Villages of Southampton looks like a Pottery Barn vision of purgatory. The ante-chamber to a peaceful suburban heaven. Muted yellow walls, with tasteful paintings at a suitable interval. Stately crown moldings. Comfortable couches in periodic seating areas. Even a nice outdoor patio for the residents able to venture outside on their own.
In its own way, this is purgatory. A place with a door locking in the residents. A place that will seem the same every day until there are no more days left and his stay is suddenly over. And then, shortly after, a new resident will replace him in Room 7.
The Muzak hums at a tasteful volume over the speakers. unknowingly twinkling a familiar, touching piano solo.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. Even without lyrics, I recognize the song instantly. Where Is My Mind, as performed on the piano by Maxence Cyrin. How can they be playing this very song? Have these people never seen The Leftovers? The haunting piano, missing loved ones, existential dread. A man questioning: what’s reality, what’s imagination, what’s somewhere in between?
With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
As we slowly circulate the fifth story, floor to ceiling windows allow a glimpse at large green oak trees in the surrounding sprawling suburban village. The very live oak trees I’d helped him plant years before. If memory serves, $1.00 an hour was the going rate for a nine year old family member in 1986. But here, only my memory serves.
Towering above the trees, a church steeple. How could he remember? That was his church. Member, choir director, church council head. The steeple, I recently learned from a family friend, was his brain child. A beacon across the flat plains, like those he’d seen all over Europe.
“Did you hear the church bells?” I ask.
“Yes, how nice. What church is that?”
“Christ the King.”
“Have we been there?”
“Yes, many times.” Me internally: every Sunday for 60 years.
“How wonderful! I’d like to go again.”
“Yes, for sure.”
Your head will collapse
But there’s nothing in it
We enter his room. Newly hung portraits dot the walls. He slow to glance at them. The impromptu beach picture of my mom reclining in a swimsuit stops him in his tracks.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
“Yes, she does.”
“Where is Dorry?”
“She’s at home feeding Heidi.”
A look of disappointment across his brow.
“Home? Why aren’t I there?”
“Because…” it’s almost impossible to answer. I pause. I sit on the foot of the bed to gather strength.
Just like my children, my own dad immediately recognizes the look on my face, my hesitation.
“It’s ok, you can tell me the truth.”
“Because….” I pause for what seems like an eternity. “She can’t take care of you anymore…. You had an operation, and now you need constant help. Here there are nurses who can take care of you.”
“Why can’t Dorry take care of me? Why, of course she can.”
“Because, dad.” It’s almost impossible to verbalize. To explain. Again.
And you’ll ask yourself
Where is my mind?
I turn to the CD player. Music always helps. I start the disc, at a medium volume. Bells ring out, a choir sings. His choir. His bells. His wife playing the organ in the background.
My dad sits down, reclines on the bed. I lie back into a pillow next to him. We lie silently, side by side, listening to a recording of the church choir.
As the sun sets and the room darkens, I realize we are holding hands. Something we literally have never done since I was a child. Tears silently soak my pillow.
With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse
But there’s nothing in it
And you’ll ask yourself
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Where is my mind?
Way out in the water
See it swimming
Where Is My Mind
- The Pixies, as performed on the piano by Maxence Cyrin