Anne

“Miss Anne, you need to sit up, Miss Anne,“ Nurse Sylvie says in her melodic Haitian voice. She is one of the good ones. “Give me your hands. I will help you.” She draws near. The gold cross that she always wears around her neck presses close to my face as she grabs hold of my hands and pulls me upright. It hurts. “It’s time for your meds. “ She tells others that she is Catholic, but Catholic is not the same religion in Haiti. Her door is open. Her walls melt. She is the only staff person who allows me in.

She is transmitting now… Covid is not the true epidemic; in America the true epidemic is loneliness.

Sylvie has two small Dixie cups; she rattles one, and then pauses. She selects a few pills and puts them into a plastic baggy that she keeps in her pocket. I hope she hasn’t pocketed the good ones, the ones that allow me to dream while I’m awake. I once flew over the Tower of London. I could hear the wailing of Princess Elizabeth. I am not a cruel person, but I found it enchanting.

“Everyone here is a damn drug addict,” Nurse Sylvie mutters. Is she talking to me? It is her voice. She does not mutter when she is transmitting. “Swallow.” She lifts the Dixie Cup of cranberry juice to my dry lips. “That’s a good girl, Miss Anne.” Nurse Sylvie is my nursemaid. She cares for me because mummy is a grand lady and doesn’t have time. “Someone will come back soon to bring you to the dining room for lunch,” she says as she scribbles on her clipboard. She pushes her rattling cart of pills and is gone. 

Study, practice, practice, practice, learn, teach, study, practice, practice, practice; practice does not make perfect! Little by little, bit by bit-by-bit, those things practiced enter into our cells, into our DNA, and very slowly, over many, many years, more slowly than an addiction, it becomes a part of who we are, which is either always or never perfect.

There are three things I had the will and discipline to practice: sculpting words into meaningful sounds, taming the vibrating strings of the cello and sending and receiving thoughts, feelings and images. It’s not just me, but it is every bloody thing around me that changes through practice. 

John Peterson, a wonderful man and the luthier who skillfully made my cello, that lovely instrument that for so many years sang and trembled in my arms, told me this insightful truth. He said, “Anne, before you play her I must tell you, you won’t like her voice. You must teach her to sing through your rigorous practice. You see, Anne, she thinks she is still a tree. You must teach her that she is now a cello.”

The first step, and thus the most important step, of harnessing the will to practice is to sit your butt down in the chair. That is true for building the DNA for music and the written word. The third, mental telepathy, can be practiced standing up, sitting down or lying in bed. Perhaps that is why it is the last to decamp.

As we all come to find out, or at least those who have been given the gift of time, the knuckles swell, become knotted and stiffen; the eyes blur, their windows film up and block out the light; the ears grow weary of receiving sound until sounds become jumbled, muffled and recede. The mouth, with its teeth like a stone gate that can open to allow drivel, curses and verse to enter into the indifferent air, refuses to obey the will. The words one wishes to say run away like so many scattering ants. Even the mind fills with raucous static, but it is the last to go, for it exists in many realms. I have practiced entering the realm of others for a very long time. 

As a small child back in England, a very small child holding my Teddy, sitting upright in my bed, I practiced. What was my chum, Tim, thinking and doing at this very moment? What color were his PJs? What toys were scattered willy-nilly around his bedroom? I would focus, straining whatever that muscle is, until a cleansing peace swept over me, until some heavy door creaked open, until the walls of my room melted, as did the walls of his room, and I could see. I practiced this skill nightly as a child but did not know it had a name.

Do you believe me? Are you able to receive? So very few people can receive. These days of distraction and noise cause our senses to nullify. 

We have lost so very much.

It was my best friend Julia who taught me the name, mental telepathy. She was a painter who was fond of denigrating science as if there were a constant war between the arts and sciences. She assaulted poor Sir Isaac Newton for his quest for the Philosopher’s Stone. With his alchemical furnaces, glassware and distilling apparatus he dissolved silver and mercury in nitrate, thus proving that metals were alive. The concoction transformed into tiny growing trees of pure silver, the Tree of Diana, complete with branches and roots. Science was always trying to become art and likewise art aimed to substantiate itself into a science.

Julia gave me a book called Mental Radio, by the American writer Upton Sinclair. The book aims to establish a scientific study of mental telepathy. Albert Einstein wrote the preface. Mr. Sinclair’s wife, it seems, was especially capable in the transmission and reception of mind vibrations, for she practiced. This thing, which now I could name, does seem very much like a radio. The broadcast, so clear for one moment, quickly fades unexpectedly to static the next. I fear that here in my cell transmissions are monitored. The fear itself causes transmitting to be interrupted with that loud buzzing sound, a sound similar to the buzz of fluorescent lights, though much amplified.

I am imprisoned in an institution. It is the antithesis of everything I have held as truth: a nursing home, where no one is nursed back to health. The caretakers, the nurses, the janitors are all prisoners. Their sentences have not been determined. The residents have been sentenced to life. 

A caretaker comes and painfully hoists me into my chair with wheels. I am taken to the table. Others slink out of their cells, some pushed, others trudge slowly, wrapped in their metal cages with yellow tennis balls for feet. It is always Rosie, Martha and Dee who dine with me. We always sit at the same table near the window. Today it is chicken, mashed potatoes and bright green peas. 

One, two, three… Miss Rose transmits as she counts her peas. … their value is poor… we should buy while the price is down… four, five, six…”

Her sweater is soiled with the remnants of her breakfast, and it is buttoned wrong.

“Miss Rosie, stop playing with your peas and eat them. They are good for you,” an attendant says.

…These are my assets… Miss Rosie transmits. … I will not eat my assets. My net worth will decrease. Where was I? One, two, three…

Miss Rosie’s assets are her peas! I laugh out loud. Attendants turn and prisoners lift their eyes up from their plates to stare at me. The sound of laughter is rare. 

“Miss Anne, you must eat,” an attendant scolds. “Pay no mind to Miss Rosie. She is as crazy as a loon.”

Mum made me cucumber sandwiches so that I would not have to eat the school lunches.

“This is not my asset. I no longer have any assets,” I say. This time they all ignore me except Miss Rosie, who nods. I have the cello that was once a tree. It was once alive but now stands mute and gathers dust in the corner of my cell. Perhaps it will turn into silver and live again. 

Nurse Sylvie rolls her rattling cart up to Dee, who is sitting away from her spot at the table. Dee sits in a chair near the window where the light is better. She holds a newspaper in front of her face.

Nurse Sylvie is transmitting… the fool is holding her paper upside down… like stealing candy from a baby… “Miss Dee, let me have the paper. You need to take your pills now.”

“It’s Doctor Dee, nurse.”

Miss Dee was once a doctor. We were all once something.

“I am so sorry, doctor. Please forgive me,” Nurse Sylvie smiles, while transmitting… Damn arrogant fool. Doctor Dee, you no longer have a practice. You will not be getting your Hydromorphone today. Today I am the master. For once, the wealth will flow back to my family, for they took part in the slave revolt. I am now part of a new revolution, doctor!

Is there to be a revolution? I wonder. I was born during the blitz. That was what mummy said. I don’t remember. “Nurse Sylvie, is there to be a revolution? A slave revolt?”

“Miss Anne, why would you say such a thing? I swear you are getting crazier and crazier.”

 “Are we still part of the empire?” I ask. I do not feel as though I am anyone’s master. “They say the sun never sets on the empire, but I think perhaps it does.”

“Miss Anne, you are speaking rubbish. Elle est devenue folle!”

Nurse Sylvie’s voice sounds just like music.

Miss Martha pipes up: “May I approach the bench, Your Honor? Slavery is in violation of federal law.” Miss Martha once worked as a lawyer in the D.A.’s office.

“Is it?” Nurse Sylvie says. Now she is angry. She transmits... on my island slavery is very much the law…. “The French navy surrounded my island with their gunships,” she says. “The French have required that the Haitian people give reparations to those who held them in slavery!“

Does Nurse Sylvie think she is addressing the bench?

“We are still paying our masters for their, assets! We are made to pay for our freedom with cash when we have already paid with blood. Haiti was the first nation to abolish slavery yet we remain slaves! Why am I defending myself to a silly bunch of white folks who drool and soil themselves?” As she rattles away in a huff, she calls back to me over her shoulder. “Miss Anne, I think we need to up your medications.”

One of the attendants follows her. “I will pay you on Friday. I need some now,” he whispers. “I will pay. Why waste them on those people?”

“You cannot pay with promises. I don’t take IOU’s.”

I don’t think Nurse Sylvie eats her assets. I hope she isn’t angry with me. She is one of the good ones.

After lunch I am put back into my bed. I am so tired. She didn’t give me the good ones. I can’t dream while I’m awake. All I want to do is sleep and sleep. 

The light coming in through the window is a soft violet-blue as I am roused from my dreamless slumber.

“Wake up, Miss Anne. Your son Jacob is here for a visit.”

I open my heavy eyes, but the attendant is the only other person in the room.

“Where is Jacob?’

She places a very small portable T.V. on my lap and props me up on my pillows.

“Here he is,” she says.

I look for my son on the T.V. screen but there is only an old man. How strange it is that he has Jacob’s eyes.

“How are you mom?”

“Who are you?”

“This is Jacob, your son. I’m sorry I can’t be there but I’m in Santa Monica.” 

I answer “yes” to be agreeable. He seems like a nice enough man, though he is quite confused.

“I’m coming out there soon to see you. I promise, mom. How are you feeling?”

“I am afraid. Everything is wrong.” I have said too much. What is the point of talking to this old man? Why does he call me mum? “Can you get me out of here?”

The attendant stands over me. She is not pleased.

She takes the small T.V. and talks to it. “I think you need to come here very soon. Nurse Sylvia thinks her medications need to be adjusted. She has both anxiety and pain.”

“I understand,.” the old man says. “But when I fly out to see her, I want her to still be my mom and not a doped-up zombie.”

“I’ll find the nurse. You should talk to her.”

“When is Jacob coming?” I ask, for they seem to have forgotten about him and me.

Nurse Sylvie comes into my room and talks to the T.V. “It is difficult to find the proper balance between medications. Yes, they will change her personality. As you can see, she is already very confused. Should we not alleviate her fear and pain? I understand how hard this is for you, but is it really about you?”

“Can I have the good ones?” I ask. 

 Nurse Sylvie transmits… the good ones… everyone wants the good ones…

“Yes, everyone wants the good ones,” I say.

Nurses Sylvie turns her head slowly away from the screen and stares at me. “What did you say?”

“Everyone wants the good ones, right?”

She laughs a joyless laugh and starts talking again to the old man on the T.V. screen.

I am so confused

… who buzz, are buzz, you? Buzz. How? Buzz… there is so much static. Nothing makes any sense. What is happening to me? I can’t receive. Can I transmit?

The small screen, which was the only light in the room, has gone dark. There is only blackness and the buzz of static. I want to scream… come sit with me, Nurse Sylvie, and we can scream together… As in all nightmares, I try to try scream but can’t; only a long sigh issues forth. What is to become of me? How does my story end? I am so alone and unloved.

“Miss Anne,” Nurse Sylvie speaks slowly and softly. She sits down on the edge of the bed. “It will be ok. I will give you one of the good ones. I am not a monster.”

She returns with a cup of water. “Open your mouth and swallow.”

“Don’t leave.” Am I speaking? Am I transmitting? I don’t know. I think I am too frightened to transmit.

“In America, there is an epidemic of loneliness,” Nurse Sylvie says and then taps gently on the side table, tap, tappy, tap, tappy, tappy, tap, tap, tap. She taps this rhythm over and over again. I follow the rhythm and fall into a calm indifference. “Who are you, Anne?” Sylvie whispers. “How do the spirits know you?”

… I have practiced… I transmit.

All her walls have melted.

“The loa are not to be toyed with, Miss Anne.”

There is only the sound of Nurse Sylvie’s tapping. She wears a flowing white dress; her hair is wrapped in a white turban. She sways her hips and raises her arms. She dances. A barefoot boy is playing a turquoise drum keeping time with the tapping fingers. Spirits live inside the painted trees. Candlelight flickers across the face of a painted icon of Mother Mary. A black rosary dangles from a nail on a red wall. The smoke of incense hangs in a cloud over the room. There is a strong, sweet, earthy fragrance of sandalwood, rum and sweat. All the walls have melted.

The scene changes, now I am sitting cross-legged on the green rug with pink roses. My schoolmates and I sit in a circle. My chum, Tim, is here. Teacher is seated on a miniature purple elephant. She holds an enormous picture book with a judge and a unicorn on its cover. We wait for the story to begin. Dandelions are sprouting through the floorboards. It is enchanting. We all want to see the picture book and hear the story.

… we want to hear the story. I could not speak if I tried, but I don’t try, for all her walls have melted.

… there was once a beautiful island alive with comely people… Nurse Sylvie transmits… There were so many astounding colors on this magical, tropical island. The beautiful people dressed themselves in rainbows. There was no want. There were no leg-irons or chains, no slave ships, and no white monsters. But the white monsters came. Their pale skin was translucent. Their veins and organs were visible through their thin, white, gauzy flesh. They had lungs and livers, kidneys and spleens, but they had no hearts. This, Miss Anne, this is a secret story, though everyone knows it, for it has been told over and over again.  The white monsters have a voracious appetite, for where their hearts should have been there is a vast abyss that they try to fill, though it can never be filled. Like a cancer they spread and colonized until they had devoured everything. When everything was taken, they colonized the future, for they do not even care for their own children and grand babies. When there seemed no hope, a clever, brave woman emerged. She was favored by the loa. The spirits guided her. They guided her to Brazil, through Central America, into Tijuana. After a very long and very perilous journey they shepherded her into the U.S. That is where the great abyss is. All the hollow people are here… Our dried voices, when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass…

… it is T.S. Eliot… I transmit… I have taught T.S. Eliot…

… the loa led her to the university. This daring woman has found a way to use the abyss. She has learned that reality is too real. The hollow people are very aware of their hollowness…

Yes. 

… I don’t know how they know, Miss Anne, but they know. They all want the good ones. I am in the right place, for the loa has guided me. I have the good ones. I have an endless supply of the good ones. The hollow people will pay me very well for the good ones. I am colonizing the colonizers. Miss Anne, do not mention this, but really it doesn’t matter. No one would believe you. My harvest is more abundant than I could imagine. Unlike the white monsters, I share. I have few needs, while my island writhes with great suffering and want. I share. It’s late. Miss Anne, this is our little secret. If you are good to me, then I will be good to you. Good night, Miss Anne… 

… for God’s sake don’t leave me. I am afraid to be alone in the dark…

… I’ll turn on a light. Look, Miss Anne, the Dandelions that grow through the floorboards have gone to seed. You may blow on them and make oh so many wishes…

Nurse Sylvie’s thoughts have filled the room with Dandelion fluff. They swirl about. A conductor stands in the mists of the circling fluff. His arms are raised. He holds his baton. He stands perfectly still. He does not give the downbeat. Will it be a waltz, a march, a symphony or a solo? I wait. I think it is a solo. I feel so deserted and alone. He does not count off a measure. He stands frozen with his arms raised. Why does he make me wait? Is this the beginning of the opus or it’s ending? If it were a play it would be a Beckett play.

 Why am I waiting?

You are waiting for your son, Jacob, Miss Anne.

We must wait for Jacob. I don’t like this music that neither starts nor ends. I don’t like this story that doesn’t have a resolution. I want to make a wish, Nurse Sylvie. I wish I knew how the story ends.

Little by little the beautiful island blooms again with bright blossoms of freedom and prosperity.

That is lovely, but how does my story end, Nurse Sylvie?

Your story ends the same way everyone’s ends, Miss Anne. The curtain rises and there is no separation.