Scattered

When he awoke from his midday nap, the large handwriting that ran across the sheets of construction paper scattered around him reminded Jonas Jackson of his grandson Troy. Looking around the room, he caught sight of his daughter’s picture, which sat atop a corner table, and he remembered her, not as the runaway mother of his grandson, not as a convicted drug addict, but as the five-year-old child who Jonas treasured so much in the vivid, but aged, memories of his deteriorating mind. For a brief moment he wondered when she would return before remembering correctly this time that she would not.

Sometimes, as he sat back and fell asleep in his old chair, his confusion would overtake him and offer up an assortment of memories that would substitute for reality. He lived in these memories often, spending more and more of his waking time in a dream state that he could not control. Lately, it had become increasingly difficult for him to tell the difference between his real life and his memories.

The most vivid memories troubled him the most, especially the ones that included his wife Estelle. There would be days when he would relive the last moments of his wife’s death, when the cancer she had suffered from for two years had finally claimed her life. Whenever he awoke from one of these memories, the anger he had known during those days would return, and he would awaken to the reality of his present day without understanding the confusing emotions that his memories brought him. Many times he would struggle against confused anger or sadness until he gradually remembered that many years had passed, that he was now an old man, and that he was a widower who had a grandchild in his care.

His growing inability to concentrate and the increasing lapses of time in his life were beginning to make him uneasy. He had no one else in New Domangue to help him and no other family members to speak of, and he knew that he had to do something about his condition. Jonas knew he needed medical attention. Except for the trips he made for his grandson’s sake, he had not been to a physician in years. But he couldn’t avoid it any longer: he felt that there was little time left for him. So he made an appointment with the downtown public clinic.

On the day that he set out toward the clinic, a late-summer storm had just rolled through town, and a few stray raindrops scattered over his head as he left his apartment and headed down Haven Street. He walked toward E. K. Long Avenue, where the main bus line would take him north from the southern part of New Domangue into the center of town.

As the bus rolled to a stop in front of him, he looked up, then down the street as if to remind himself of where he needed to get off when he returned. He climbed aboard slowly, his hands on the railing, and inched himself forward in small steps as the bus began to move. For a while, he stood near the bus driver, fishing his fare from his immense pockets and dropping it down the change slot. As he made his way toward a seat, the bus came to a rolling halt at a busy intersection. He looked out the window and down the street as far as he could see, staring at the rows upon rows of tattered, decrepit apartment buildings. Suddenly, his confused mind threw him into a memory of a day when he and his wife had been walking up that same intersection, hand in hand, in order to wait for the same bus to arrive. The white bus driver in his memory let in a group of youngsters and then closed the door on him and Estelle. The driver shook his head at them, signaling with his head that there was no room in the back of the bus. The front of the bus was empty, but the bus drove on. Jonas relived his anger from that day, and in an instant he re-awakened to the here and now. Estelle was gone, and he was inside the bus. A black bus driver was talking to him, telling him to sit down.

For a moment he was disoriented. Then he remembered that he was on his way to a clinic. Something about his mind not working right, something about his grandson, Troy—that was why he was on the bus. He sat down.

A few minutes later the bus stopped at its first downtown destination. This was his stop. But as he sat on the bus, barely aware of his breathing, his mind again traveled elsewhere, and he remained quietly in his seat while the bus moved past his stop. When he awoke, he looked around and felt lost. He was on a bus, but he didn’t remember how he had gotten on, and as his eyes followed a group of people who were exiting, he noticed that he was downtown. He couldn’t remember why he was on the bus or where he intended to go. He decided he would ask the bus driver where the bus was going, but as he made the laborious effort to stand, a crowd of people entered the bus from the front. He sat down again, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. The bus kept moving, making its stops while Jonas tried to remember what he was supposed to do. At the last stop, the bus driver looked back at Jonas, let him know it was the last stop, and then left him alone for a while. Jonas could see that he had reached the northernmost part of town, and he recalled once again that he was on his way to the downtown clinic.

At the next stop, a young woman boarded the bus and sat in the seat across the aisle from him. He turned toward her. “Excuse me,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Where can I get to the downtown clinic?”

“That’s going to be three stops down. Then you get off and go across the street.”

“Thank you,” he said. He wasn’t certain he understood just which stop she meant, and he puzzled over this detail quietly until the same woman tapped him lightly on his shoulder.

“This is your stop,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied.

He stepped off the bus and walked toward the clinic. He stopped at the side of the building, where a small ramp led to double doors that read New Domangue Downtown Outpatient Clinic. He looked at the sign and followed the ramp inside. People filled the hallways, hurriedly walking from one place to another. The clinic was full, but he waited patiently in line for his turn to sign in with a clerk who sat behind an imposing desk. When he made it to the desk, he gave his name and his complaint.

“Confusion?” the clerk asked. She looked up quizzically. “Huh. Well, have a seat. We’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

He sat and waited for what seemed like hours to him. Eventually, he heard a voice from the desk: “Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jonas Jackson. Step this way, please.”

He walked through a door and entered a small hallway. The clerk led him to an examining room filled with medical supplies, a chart, a desk, an examination table and two chairs. Then, the clerk asked him for his address, age, and other basic information, which Jonas provided with difficulty, exasperating the clerk. Next, a nurse came in with more questions. She took his blood pressure and his temperature and documented it on a chart before walking out. Shortly afterwards, a physician walked in, a pile of charts cradled in his arms. He placed the bundle on the desk, sat in the chair, and grabbed Jonas’s chart. The nurse walked in, said something to the physician, and then left once more. “Well, what’s the matter, Mr….uh…Jackson?” the physician said.

“I don’t know, Doctor, but, you see, I’m old, and lately I’m not sure what I’m doing sometimes.”

“Well, sure, that’s natural, Mr. Jackson. As we get older our bodies degenerate slowly, so by the time we reach old age, everything is close to worn out. You see?”

But Jonas didn’t see. He wondered if he was making a mistake by coming to the clinic, but he knew that he had to come: he needed help. He knew that he had been well last year—or at least he believed that he had been—and he couldn’t help thinking that there was more to it than just old age.

“Doctor, I don’t think you understand,” he pleaded once more, hoping to find an end to the confusion. He stared at the young physician for a minute, looking at him as if it would mean all the difference. But the physician, busy scanning through the pile of charts he had brought with him, just asked Jonas to continue without once looking into his eyes.

“Doctor, I get confused too much lately,” Jonas said. “I never been confused my whole life like I been confused these days. I think I have days when I’m just plain not myself.”

The physician tried to speak, but Jonas waved him off.

“Please, Doctor, let me finish,” he insisted. “Last year I was fine as a fresh pine needle. Least I believe so.—I just don’t truly know now. You see. I got a little boy. He’s young and he’s my grandson. His mama disappeared long time ago. She said I was getting crazy, and that she couldn’t stand my crazy moods. So she left, but she forgot her boy. Now I have to take care of him, but I get confused too much these days. He ain’t got no one else but me, and I’m afraid I can’t take care of him.”

“Tell me, Mr. Jackson,” the physician said, “what’s wrong lately? Give me a little history. Maybe we can work from there.”

Jonas spoke about his confusion, something he couldn’t understand, because as a man of God he shouldn’t have anything to be confused about. He described how, on various occasions, he would stop whatever it was he was doing without remembering that he’d stopped, only to awaken later without remembering when he’d fallen asleep. And lately he would sometimes find himself lost in strange places, or waking up full of anger over something without knowing why. Worst of all were the memories, which he could remember as clearly as if they had happened yesterday.

As Jonas continued, the physician nodded several times as he wrote in Jonas’s chart. The physician asked more questions, wrote more notes, and urged Jonas to keep going.

Jonas talked on, slowly forgetting about the physician in front of him as he drifted off into several memories of his daughter. In one memory, he watched his five-year-old daughter tossing herself about in a playground as his wife smiled at him from a nearby bench, and from this he began to believe that he was remembering more about his life than he had previously thought. He felt hopeful, and he lost himself in the vivid joy of his memories of times long past. What he didn’t know, and what no one could tell him, was that he had trouble remembering what he had done that day. He could not tell the physician about the breakfast he had prepared for his grandson that morning because that memory was lost to him.

No immediate diagnosis was made, which troubled Jonas, who had expected to be presented with a solution right away. The young physician simply drew blood samples and had them sent to the lab. He gave Jonas an appointment to return in a week for his results and further testing, if necessary, and instructed him to not worry about anything until the results came back. Jonas felt that this wasn’t enough, that he needed to know what was wrong with him right away, but he didn’t say anything. The physician walked out of the room, and when the nurse returned she asked Jonas to sign a document and to return in one week. She placed a small piece of paper in his breast pocket that had the time and date of his next appointment.

As he made his way outside, the disappointment he felt dissipated. He focused on getting home and recalled that he had taken a bus. Somehow, his feet found their way to the bus stop, and as soon as he boarded he forgot all about the clinic. By the time he arrived at his stop, he was not even aware of the slip of paper partially inserted into his breast pocket.

A few blocks from his apartment, his attention fixed upon a Dollar Store, and he remembered that Troy had asked for a notebook—a large notebook, with wide spaces. He walked inside, grabbed a couple of notebooks, and walked out without remembering to pay. He tucked the merchandise under his right arm and followed the sidewalk home without incident. No one had seen him take the notebooks, which he forgot about as he headed home.

He crossed E. K. Long Avenue slowly, barely aware of the noon traffic, and walked down Haven Street until he reached the street that turned into his housing project.

It was a decent day, he felt, as his mind raced across a few confused memories of his wife and his daughter. As he thought of them, he suddenly remembered Troy’s request, and the notebooks he carried filled him with an immense sense of pride. He was a father again, he thought.

Lost in his memories, he absently made his way to his apartment. A few feet from his door, his gaze was drawn across the square to a group of old men sitting in chairs. They were leaning against the wall, as usual, watching everything that happened in the square. As he reached his door, Jonas thought how lucky he was to have something better to do than just sit around and watch other people. He fumbled for his keys within his immense polyester pockets, felt his fingers hook into his key chain, and let himself in.

Inside, he laid the notebooks on the dusty floor and sat back in his old chair. He thought of everything he would need to raise Troy, thinking that perhaps he could manage, after all. But as he thought further, his mind became blank, and the fear and anger returned. Rage hovered over him like a vulture. But before it could swoop down and devour him, he heard the lock turning. He knew who it was, still, and the anger subsided.

“Hello, Grandpa,” Troy said. He stepped inside the small apartment.

“Why, hello Troy, how was your day today?” Jonas asked.

“Not bad, I guess,” Troy responded. “Today was full of work. They gave me plenty of homework. But I’m real sleepy, Grandpa and I want to take a nap. Is that okay?”

“Sure, son,” Jonas said. He spoke with the confidence of a father, a real father. “Go right ahead and take you a nap. When you get up, I’ll try and help you with your homework and have supper ready.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

“To be sure, I ain’t going nowhere yet,” he mumbled to himself as Troy walked away. Jonas sat back down in his dusty old chair, and as soon as he sank into it he fell asleep. He drifted into a frenzied half-sleep and lingered there a long time, semi-conscious, asking himself questions about Troy.

“What I going to do with the boy?” he asked himself. “I’m too old to raise a young boy. But if I’m getting better, maybe everything can work out fine. I still got strength, and I’m healthy.”

He talked to himself for a while until he lost his grip on the present, and memories of his daughter surfaced. He saw her when she was ten, and he saw how the long workdays had kept him from being at home, from being with her. Then, the image disappeared, and Jonas heard a voice calling him.

“Grandpa. Grandpa,” the voice said. Jonas felt something nudge his shoulder a few times, and then he heard the voice again. “Grandpa, wake up, you been sleeping. I got up and made me a sandwich. Grandpa, you been sleeping, wake up.”

Jonas listened, desperately trying to understand what was happening. He was confused, and when he opened his eyes he couldn’t tell where he was or who the boy in front of him was. He looked around and wondered where his daughter had gone.

“What you want, boy?” Jonas asked harshly.

“Grandpa, I was just—”

Jonas cut him off. “Leave me alone, boy! Who are you? What’s your name? How did you get in my house?”

“Sorry, sir,” the boy said. He disappeared from Jonas’s view.

Jonas watched the empty space where the boy had been standing. His rage began to dim, and he remained still, as if he were contemplating something great. He was not. He was just blank, devoid of thought or word, like a fresh sheet of paper. From this emptiness he slid quickly back into sleep.

When he awoke, he looked at his clock and saw that it was late. He thought nothing of it, except that he must have dozed off. He walked toward the boy’s room, having no memory of what had happened earlier. Nonetheless, a sense of apprehension guided his urgent steps. Troy lay on the mattress, asleep in his clothes, his face down on the back of his hands. “What am I going to do?” Jonas asked aloud.

Jonas walked over to the child and bent over the low-lying mattress. He removed Troy’s pants and covered him with a sheet, glad that the boy was asleep.

The next morning, Jonas awoke early and prepared his grandson for school. Neither mentioned anything about the previous night. The memory was beyond Jonas’s reach.

After Troy left, Jonas sat down in his chair and lingered there while he struggled with something that he was supposed to remember. But whatever it was, it refused to surface, and soon he forgot that he wanted to remember anything. Confusion gave way to indifference and then emptiness. In this space, he found a quiet calm that enabled him to drift into a dream. He saw himself standing next to a river in an open field. Eddying currents of bubbling water ran down, toward, and away from him with brutal force. The currents rose quickly, and in an instant a wave rose up and swallowed him in one swift motion. When he looked up, he was being washed away into a gray cloud. He saw Troy on the edge of the riverbank he had just left behind. The boy stood atop a large rock, his arms outstretched toward him and his mouth the shape of an O. The boy couldn’t jump in. He couldn’t swim. And Jonas couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t swim back, he couldn’t get his body to move toward the shore. He was swept away.

When he roused himself from his dream, he looked around at the scant items that occupied his apartment. He slowly recognized that everything belonged to him, even though nothing looked the way he remembered. The old eight-track was gone, the television set looked foreign, and the walls were old and moldy. Anger swelled again, but in minutes it subsided. He remembered everything: his grandson, his dead wife, his missing daughter.

He had to do something now, he thought, and he recalled a recent visit from his minister.

“Come see me, Jonas, when you need my help,” the minister had said.

Jonas knew what he had to do. He rose out of his old chair, stepped into the noonday sun, and made his way through the housing units until he reached Haven Street. The church was only three blocks toward the river. When he stepped inside, he found a young woman who asked him to wait in one of the pews. The minister that greeted him was not the same one from his memories. This minister was young, had a light-colored shiny face, and wore a very crisp suit. Jonas wondered if he was losing his memories again or if he was making new ones.

“Where’s the reverend?” Jonas asked.

“I am the reverend,” the young minister answered.

“Where’s the old reverend?”

“Oh, you mean Reverend Williams.”

Jonas remembered the name. It was Williams. Reverend Williams presided over his wife’s burial. “Yes,” he said.

“He’s not here today, but he’s still with the church. What may I help you with, my brother?”

Jonas told the young minister the same story he had told the physician at the clinic, emphasizing that he had no one to help him. He didn’t know where his daughter lived, and there was no one else who knew him.

“Today I was able to remember that I sent him to school. But most days I can’t tell what I’m doing. I was hoping to be a father to my grandson, but…” Jonas didn’t finish.

“Mr. Jackson,” the young reverend said, “I am glad you came to see us today. Let me consult with Reverend Williams, and we will figure things out together with you. Please stay here a minute.”

Jonas thanked the young reverend and waited patiently until his return. While he waited, Jonas felt a sense of calm come over him. He envisioned his grandson and his daughter coming to visit him in the future on one of those breezy New Domangue spring afternoons.

The young minister returned and asked Jonas a few more questions. When he was finished, he asked Jonas to go home and wait for his grandson. He and Reverend Williams would visit Jonas later that evening.

Jonas thanked him again and slowly made his way out onto the sunlit sidewalk. Haven Street hummed with life, with busy people coming and going, cars speeding past, and music flowing from opened doors and opened windows. Although everything looked foreign to Jonas, the way back resonated with the memory of a familiar experience, imprinting a sense of belonging that he understood. With a slight nod to no one in particular, he allowed his feet to guide him across the familiar path that took him home.