Lizard People (3 page)

Major problem he had was his work. No schedule. Long periods of nothing happening followed by some intense deal closing. He sold commercial pumps: irrigation, wells, circulating pumps for factory machinery. Most years he made a fair amount of money on commission.

He'd been the only salesman for Carbondale Pumps in northern California for years. He traveled some, drumming up business. He had his own contacts, and his laptop kept him current on inventory and e-mail orders, so I guess if he wanted to take a couple of weeks off, he could. No big deal. But when he was living at home, whenever he went on the road, he always packed his bags and took them with him. I didn't like the sound of Dad leaving empty-handed and not coming back.

I thanked Charlene and got off the phone to make a circuit of our house. Make sure the red candles weren't setting anything on fire. So far everything was okay, and I found Mom in the hall closet, sitting on the floor and singing hymns. Her voice wasn't great but I didn't think it would drive Lizards away.

“You better get in here,” Mom said. “I don't know if the cross will hold them.”

“Yeah, okay,” I told her. “I'll be with you in a minute. I'm just making sure the windows are tight and the candles are safe. You go ahead.” She started singing again and I closed the door.

I called Dad's work number. Maybe he'd found another woman and told the office people not to tell Charlene anything. I had met Dad's boss and I thought he'd tell me the truth. When he came on the line, Mr. Tracy said he hadn't seen or talked to Dad for the past week. He thought Dad was on a road trip through Siskiyou County because that area was next on his schedule, but he hadn't called in for any parts or sales confirmations, which was unusual. “Things must be pretty dead,” he concluded.

I decided to take the car and check every motel in town. Probably Dad was holed up.

Mom first. I went to the bathroom to check the garbage can. Nobody ever empties it until it begins to spill over onto the floor. Down about the middle, I found Mom's current antipsychotic meds. I knew she was also supposed to be taking Klonopin to knock down anxiety, and I didn't think she'd toss that. I checked the medicine cabinet. Yep, the Klonopin was there, along with some old Ativan, and the sleepers: Dalmane and Ambien.

I took an Ativan and two Ambien to crush and put in mom's soda. She was tough to figure. The last time she went nuts, I tried to sedate her with Everclear in her fruit juice. Oops. Instead of falling asleep, she decided to drive to the sheriff's office and knocked down our mailbox and our neighbor's bay tree before I got her out from behind the wheel. I was hoping the Ativan would slow her down and the Ambien would put her out for a few hours.

Mom was very suspicious of medication, having had some pretty rough times in the hospitals. I couldn't just hand her the meds. Back in the kitchen, I mashed the pills between two spoons, keeping an eye on the closet door. I poured the powder into a glass of Mom's favorite, Coke Classic, and added extra lemon to cover the taste.

“Check the back porch,” Mom told me when I opened the closet again.

I handed her the doctored soda.

“I think that's how they got in last time,” she said, taking a long drink. “Do you still have that red T-shirt?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I'll put it on in a sec.”

She was looking over my shoulder, distracted by the bars of light the venetian blinds cast against the far wall.

“Hey,” I said. “You're going to need liquids if you're going to be on watch today. Finish the Coke and I'll bring you a bottle of water.”

When I came back, she handed me the empty glass, and I handed her a liter of water and the pillows and blankets I'd brought to make her more comfortable.

“You keep singing and I'll take care of the other stuff in the house.”

“Unscrew the lightbulbs,” she said. “I don't want them listening to us when we talk. And Ben?”

I stopped and waited for her to speak.

“Whatever you do, don't turn on the TV.”

“You got it,” I said.

Tough life. All your appliances are out to get you.

Twenty minutes later, when I looked in on her, Mom was dozing. I dug the car keys out of her purse and went to look for Dad. I didn't think he would spring for something expensive, but I checked the Hilton, Holiday Inn, and Red Lion parking lots first, then the other motels on Hillside Drive, then the cheap places on 273, and finally the downtown places on Main. No sign of his car.

Next the bars. Nothing at the Tropicana or Dave's Blue Light Club, the Coop, or any of the other dives I drove by. I know Dad doesn't like to drink in restaurants or pizza places. I was ready to give up, when I remembered the Pit, five miles north in Lake Vista. “A good pour,” is how Dad had described it when we drove by one day. Right. His car was parked around the rear where the blacktop gave way to weeds. Hidden from the street.

He was in a back corner near the storeroom, with his laptop and a bottle of beer on the table in front of him. The booth was dark. I couldn't see his face. He was scribbling on some papers beside the computer. He didn't look up till I sat down.

“Ben,” he said, but he didn't seem particularly surprised.

“Hi, Dad. How are you doing?”

“What brings you in here?” he asked, signaling the heavyset bleach-blond bartender and mouthing the word “Coke” at her.

“Mom is going off. It started again this morning with the red and the candles. I need your help.”

“What do you expect me to do?” he asked, but he didn't seem to care about the answer. He was looking away, over to the bar, and holding up two fingers like he wanted a double for himself.

“Come on, Dad, I can't get her admitted to any hospital without you. You can at least take Mom into the unit and ask them to evaluate her.”

“I'm done with your mom,” he said, as if that was the last word on the matter.

“She's still your wife,” I reminded him. “You have to help me. There's nothing else I can do by myself.”

He pursed his lips. “Okay,” he said. “I got to whiz and then we'll finish these drinks I just ordered and then we'll go home.” He stood up and headed around the bar, toward the restrooms.

I was restless. Any minute Mom was going to wake up and the home situation would escalate to the next level. That could be anything: neighbors, police, firemen, even a local news team.

The waitress served his double whatever-it-was and my Coke, gave me a crumpled smile, and went back to the bar. I began to wonder where Dad was. It didn't usually take him this long to shower, shave, and dress at home.

I went to the men's room.

Empty.

I ran outside. His car was gone. Gone. Damn him. Lazy, good-for-nothing bastard! I wanted to punch him.

I headed home.

When I got there, Mom wouldn't let me in.

“You're infected,” she yelled through the door.

Lizard pox?

I left and went to the police station.

Danger to Self

“My
mom has stopped taking her medication, and she's a danger to herself and others,” I told the policeman behind the counter at the station.

His face didn't have any expression. I guess you get that way working behind the counter in a police station. He waited for me to go on.

“She has locked the house and won't let me in, and my dad won't come help get her admitted.”

Still the old stoneface.

“She's been admitted before, here and in Sacramento.” I was trying to think of the right words to get him to do something. “Uh, I'm her son, and I'm requesting a safety-and-welfare check on Mrs. Noreen Mander, 3212 Sandie Lane.”

“Name?” No change in expression, but at least Stone-face was finally speaking.

“Noreen—”

“Your name?”

“Ben Mander.”

“Residence?”

“Same place,” I said. “I'm a student at Sierra High.”

“Take a seat, please,” he said, and nodded toward some wooden chairs against the side wall. “An officer will be with you shortly.” The man's attention shifted to the next person in line behind me.

The patrolman was huge. He looked like a blue wool mountain. “Mander?” he said.

“Yes.” I stood up.

The man's face was round, bisected by a sparse black mustache. He yawned.

“Your mother has destabilized?” he said, but it didn't really sound like a question. “This is, what, the third time in the past couple of months?”

“Second or third,” I said.

“Has she been drinking or using street drugs?” he asked.

“I don't think so,” I said. “Really, I guess, uh, I don't know. I think just benzodiazepines, uh, you know, antianxiety stuff like Klonopin.”

“Any guns in the house?”

“No. She's not exactly dangerous,” I said. “She hits and bites when she's afraid and cornered, but she doesn't actually try to hurt people.”

“She's locked herself in your home?”

“Yes.”

“You have a car?”

I nodded.

“I'm going to meet the mental health liaison at your house in ten minutes. We'll probably take your mother to the hospital for an emergency evaluation. Meet us at the hospital in thirty minutes. Don't go back home. You'll just be in the way.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thick finger, like he was thinking how complicated this might get. “I know this is rough on you,” he said. “Don't worry. We won't hurt her.” He looked me in the eyes. “I mean it.”

He was out the door before I could think of anything to say.

Something's Happened

Marco!
Marco was sitting in the admitting area of the hospital when I walked in. I recognized him right away.

“Something's happened to me,” he said without looking up.

I looked at him closer. He looked kind of shaggy, but I couldn't see any injury.

“What do you mean?” I asked him, wondering if he would suggest I sit down beside him. I gave the room a quick scan to make sure Mom hadn't arrived yet.

He looked up again, looked around the lobby.

I didn't see the self-confidence that had been so obvious when we first met. Now he seemed tense.

“It has to do with this illness thing,” he said. “I don't want to talk about it here.”

“I think my mom's going to be admitted again,” I told him. “When that gets done, I could probably meet you somewhere.”

I thought about suggesting he come to my house, but I didn't. I figured he'd understand. This was a thing about having a strange mom. You couldn't exactly invite someone to your home whenever you wanted to, because you were never sure what you would find when you opened the front door. Mom covered in lipstick singing hymns in the closet? Not so good.

“Ah,” he said, “you don't want to hear about all this stuff. This is nuts. It can't help anybody.”

“Try me,” I said.

We had just agreed to meet at his house later that night, when Mom came in between Man-mountain and the gray-haired County Mental Health woman. Mom's lipstick was now smeared all over her face, and her hair was mussed like she had been in a struggle. The mountain was also a little worse for wear. He had puffy red scratches on the plains of his cheeks and a white tape bandage on his right hand. Mom was trying to pull away but they had her in a firm grip. When Mom saw me, she started crying.

I stood to the side while the caseworker requested an evaluation. The big cop and an RN who was large enough to have been his sister took Mom down the hall. The social worker stayed in the waiting room. I knew her. She had visited our home before, assigned by the county to oversee our “case.” I don't think she saw me. She was busy jotting something down in a black notebook. I looked around to see what Marco thought of all this, but he had slipped away.

I wondered how long Mom would be staying. I thought she would probably get at least a forty-eight-hour hold for being what they called a “danger to others,” maybe longer if they were going to start a new medication.

The patrolman returned. “Are you eighteen?”

I shook my head.

“Then the liaison, Betty Lou, will sign if your mother has to be admitted, but I don't think she will be. I'm guessing they'll look at her and give her some medication and let her go.”

“Let Mom go? That won't work. She'll be back here in less than twenty-four hours.” I went straight to the admitting station, to the male clerk with the thick black glasses.

“You can't let Mom go,” I interrupted his conversation with the liaison lady. “There's no one home but me to take care of her, and I have to go to school.”

It took an hour. In the end, the hospital would not admit Mom because our insurance wouldn't cover her stay. It would, instead, hold her for twelve hours or so, to monitor her response to the dose of medication they were giving her. Betty Lou would make a daily check on Mom and me for the following week to make sure our home was safe and secure. This, too, had happened a few times before. Mom would probably take her medication as prescribed until Betty Lou stopped coming around, and then, same old, same old.

Man-mountain's radio squawked and he informed Betty Lou he had to leave.

He turned to me.

“Things get bad later this week or next week, give me a call and I'll see what I can do,” he said, taking a card out of his shirt pocket. “Ask for Dullborne.”

I watched him walk out, turning to the side to get through a door that was built to accommodate gurneys. Dullborne. I bet nobody teased him about his name.

I drove Betty Lou back to our house to pick up her car. Betty Lou set up tomorrow's visit. She gave me her card, too. Watching her drive away, I thought, Okay, I've got two new cards, but nothing's really been fixed. Hey, not a bad idea. Got a problem? Get a card! I could have some business cards printed, and whenever Mom lost it, I could hand her one. Is this whole world crazy? Hey! I deserve another card!