LET ME ALONE ALREADY: IN CHARGE

‘Do me a favor, Honey, while the morning is cool. Cut about nine roses from my garden for me. Will you? I want to use them on the dining room table.’ ‘Sure, Aunt Sylvia. Where’s the scissors?’ I’m staying with my mother’s sister for the week-end. She is eighty and admits her memory is not as sharp as it used to be and likes company now and then. ‘I don’t remember, Sweetie. Look around. It’s someplace.’ The kitchen what-not drawer is just that, but it has no scissors. I don’t even mention it to my aunt. She might just tell me she is glad I found them and I should be careful or the thorns will cause an infection in my hand.  For 15 minutes I go room to room. From down stairs, I hear her weak voice, ‘What’s taking you so long, Darling?’ My smile is internal, chuckling because my aunt cannot remember my name and simply calls me any sweet word that comes into her cob-webbed mind.

 

The scissors are on her bed, sticking out from under her pillow. This scares me. Why are they there? The reason is not important as long as she doesn’t hurt herself. I take them downstairs, try to make it sink into her brain to not take them into her bed. ‘I won’t do it again,’ she says, but who knows what she will do? My mother, my sister and I can’t watch her 24 hours a day.

 

The roses are still damp with morning dew. The odor is overpoweringly lovely, the colors alternating vividly red to soft, tender pink. Almost pure whites, barely, barely kissed orange on the petal edges envelop me. I stand there enjoying the moment. The sliding glass kitchen door breaks the spell. ‘Angel Face, I’m waiting for you.’ My haste causes me to prick two fingers. Tiny spots of blood break thru. Walking quickly, speaking loudly, I let Aunt Sylvia know I am coming in. She waits for me inside the kitchen, slides the door open, gives me barely enough time to get all of me in, closes and locks the door.

 

I hand her the flowers and she growls, ‘Why in the world did you cut my prize roses, Snookie? My mouth drops open. I am wordless. ‘Aunt Sylvia, try harder to remember my name. It’s Darla. Do you remember the Our Gang comedies when you were a little girl? Darla was the pretty little girl who had black curly hair. See? I do too. Maybe this will help you to remember my name.’ ‘Sugar Plum, you cut the wrong roses. Here, throw them in the trash can and bring me six of the right ones, please.’  Maybe I can trick her, please her.  Instead of roses I cut four giant, gorgeous, healthy, bright blue hydrangeas and take them to her. ‘If you had done what I told you in the first place, you wouldn’t have wasted my roses.’ Her eyes shine with happiness as she reaches the lowest shelf in the cabinet for a tall vase. ‘Thank you, thank you, Danni.’ ‘What’s the use? You’re welcome, ‘ I reply.

 

The phone rings. I pick up for her. My daughter is on the line and immediately falls on me. ‘Mother, I tried to get the dressmaker yesterday but you gave me the wrong number and I don’t know her last name so I can’t look her up. How can I set up a fitting for my prom dress without the right number?’ I snap back at her, ‘What number did you call?’ Careless Sharon tells me she can’t find the memo note and I tell her to look again. ‘Find it or walk there. You are old enough to take responsibility. Stop bothering me so much.’ She irritates the hell out of me. I hear her footsteps, can tell she has on flip flops and is messing up the kitchen floor. I am bursting to criticize her for wearing those sloppy flip flops instead of her soft, scratch proof slippers. It is tough to remain silent, but I do. ‘Mom, I found it!’ I break my silence and lam into her. ‘Why didn’t you look around for it and not bother me?’

‘Mother,’ Sharon says. ‘You gave me 572-4362 and that is wrong. My come-back is strong, angry. ‘No, I gave you 572-4342. Call Mrs. Fields and make your own arrangements. Drive carefully. Tell Mrs. Fields You’ll bring my check when the dress is ready. I almost have time to say, ‘I love you’, when Sharon says, ‘Mom, I forgot to tell you yesterday, Dad asked me to remind you about your dental appointment yesterday. I forgot.’ ‘Darn you. Yesterday is mover. I’ll have to explain  to Dr. Christo and wait two more weeks for an appointment. I do love you, Sharon but you really do aggravate me. Go get your dress.’

 

Looking deeply into the hall mirror, I can’t figure out who made me
Gate-Keeper of Aggravation Lane. I knew the answer but had trouble with the truth—

 

I DID !