by Elizabeth M Taylor

The first thing I did every morning was examine my purse to make sure nothing was missing. Satisfied today that my markers were still there, I lovingly put them back. A woman-in-white entered my room, cheerfully greeting me with a good morning Darlene. They all dressed in white, these people whose names I've forgotten. And the walls, curtains, and furniture in my room were all white. I didn't like the monotonous, mind-numbing whiteness; it was depressing. I despised this place.

The woman-in-white helped me bathe and get dressed, chattering, saying nothing I was interested in hearing. Still damp from my bath, I reached for my tiny yellow blanket, which had fallen to the floor, and wrapped my shoulders tightly with it. I remembered how the people-in- white tried to take my yellow blanket away from me. "It is filthy and needs laundering," each one of them would say. But I would kick and claw and scream at them, for fear of not seeing that yellow blanket again. They would then leave me alone, but I knew, oh I just knew, that they would take my blanket away while I was in a drugged sleep. Each morning I would find it somewhere else instead of on my bed. It would be on the chair, or draped over the footboard, or on the floor.

I was fed my meals. I couldn't feed myself well. Once, I was handed an item and had forgotten what it was. "It's a fork," I was told. I couldn't remember what to do with it, and like all items that had lost their meaning for me, I dropped it. Now I had to be fed because they gave up trying to teach me to eat and they were tired of cleaning up the mess. "For cryin' out loud, Darlene, just eat," they would beg me. I dawdled; I was not interested in eating, the food was tasteless, and I was frequently nauseated from the odor. But then I would eat, just so they would leave me alone.

And I had to stay in my room each morning now. I was grounded. All because of a misunderstanding. It was that blue ceramic vase. I saw it in one of the women resident's rooms. It had the exact shade and luminosity as Niina's eyes, a deep dark cobalt blue. I couldn't believe my luck when I saw it! I had been on the lookout for that particular shade, and the spartan and dull décor here didn't help. And there it was, within my reach.

It really stood out from all the whiteness. Entering the room and seeing two other flower-filled vases, I knew she wouldn't mind my having the blue one. So I dumped the water-soaked flowers out and hid the vase in my gown. Oh, the flimsy gown. I was caught. "Darlene made a mess out of my bed and took my vase!" screamed the owner, and in the tug-of-war with her I dropped it. Two people-in-white dragged me back to my room and told me I was grounded. "Darlene needs to be watched more closely. She's hoarding again," I heard one of them say. Well it was not the blue vase I needed; it was the color.

Later that afternoon I was allowed out and I quietly and carefully looked into each trash can until I found the shards. Just one tiny shard is all I wanted; one tiny piece to hold in my palm and put in my purse. One insignificant item that no one would miss, but meant hanging on to my humanity. I cannot, must not, forget Niina.

Niina. My baby. Thank God I could still remember her name, which was the one thing I remembered my husband and I ever agreed on. It was her face I'd begun to worry about. I remembered her bright and curly yellow hair and her wide, almond shaped blue eyes, but it was as if her face was being erased. I could no longer remember how tall she was or what her smile looked like, or if she had freckles. Niina.

She was born at a time when society and the medical establishment knew next to nothing about her condition, except to recommend an institution. But I would not be persuaded to put her in one of those places in spite of the advice of well-meaning doctors, and in spite of what others usually did at that time. I visited such a place, and I was glad I did. It was supposed to be better than most. It was horrid. The patients that could walk were herded like cattle, silent, avoiding any eye contact with the staff or each other. The babies, usually wet and weeping, stayed in cold metal cribs all day. There was nothing for the patients; no school, no playground, no toys, no music, no colors, no smiles, no hugs, nothing. The uncovered windows were sooty, the floors and bare white walls were grimy, the food was ill-prepared, and the employees were callous and without pity. I felt so sorry for the patients, and I was horrified at the idea of my own daughter being one of them.

She was tiny and fragile and frequently in and out of the hospital with breathing problems. She was only three, and so sick with pneumonia the last time, that her damaged heart just couldn't take it any more. I remembered sitting by her bedside, sobbing and bargaining with heaven and hell and everyone in between, that she might live. "Oh, God, I don't want to lose her," I would wail out loud until the nurses and my husband would take me away.

My husband. The cheat. I remembered him being handsome, and ten years younger than me. I was embarrassed to admit it, but I was flattered that he would focus his attentions on me. I should have known better. The hardness in his eyes never matched his smile or his words. He knew how to charm people into giving him what he wanted, and people did. Including me. A stage actor, his sudden stardom got the best of him, and he cheated on me. Rehearsals, he said, when I asked him why he was rarely home. I called the theater from the hospital one evening because I was exhausted and needed him to drive me home. He was not there. I was given a number, and a woman answered. I never cared to see him again after that day. But he was clever. And I hated cleverness, especially in him! He used my love and concern for Niina to worm his way back. After all, he said, it would be in Niina's best interest to have us together. It will take the two of us, he said, to raise a sick child like Niina. She needed a father in her life, he said, and he loved her. We could start all over again, he said, and it would give Niina a strong chance of making it. He's in love with me, he said, and the other woman meant nothing to him. So like a bad joke he came back to me and my daughter died.

My train of thought was interrupted by the woman-in- white, reminding me to go to the bathroom. Yeah, that's regimented here, too. I guess I'd had one accident too many. And I easily lose track of time. Now I'm reminded every so often to go.

The lobby was at the other end of the hall. I occasionally went there when I was allowed to leave my room, although I was not supposed to go there and a person-in-white would steer me back. The furniture was upholstered in dark green. There were several plants in large terracotta pots on the floor, and several more hanging on knotted ropes. The floor had a textured brown carpeting. The walls, painted in beige, had big framed photographs of various cityscapes and people hanging from them. That's where I wanted to go today, to see the photographs. I liked them. I would stand up close to look at them, and wondered about who the people were and where they lived.

There was one particular framed piece which unnerved me each time I saw it. I wanted to avoid it, but I was drawn to it somehow, and I just had to see it yet again. It was of an old woman with short hair the color of sand. Her eyes had that mixture of sadness and suspicion, and they followed me around the room. She looked pathetic, unloved, and familiar. Sometimes, when I would look at her, she seemed to want to ask me a question, or tell me her story, or warn me of an impending tragedy. I felt pity for her, yet at the same time I was rattled by her.

I finally asked a woman-in-white sitting behind a desk if the woman in the photograph once lived here. She said, "Darlene, that's only a mirror. You're seeing yourself." Dismayed, I told her that I didn't look like that. That woman wasn't me; she couldn't be. When did my light brown hair turn into that color? When did my face turn sunken, ashen, and wrinkled? Looking around the earth-tone décor, I felt so out of place. Worse, I felt as if I was in the wrong time. What happened to the last ten years? To the last few months? To yesterday morning? There was such a gap between now and maybe ten years ago that I couldn't account for. I wanted to remember, and I started to cry. The woman-in-white led me back to my room.

And yet...

I can remember when my hair wasn't the color of sand and my fingers weren't crooked and painful. I had long light brown hair at a time when many women were cutting theirs very short. I was not conventional in my clothes, preferring them loose and long, rejecting the cashmere sweaters and thin skirts that were in vogue. I had painted my own fabrics, with colors and patterns inspired by my travels in Asia and the Middle East. My apartment was a riot of colors. I had painted the jewel-toned drapes in the living room, and the murals on the walls in the hall. There was a fireplace which had a golden fire all year, even during the summer, because it made the living room cosy and peaceful. My bedroom wallpaper was covered with big red cabbage roses, and the floor had a thick plush red rug that made my toes disappear. The windows were big and they let in the city at night.

I painted. I remembered that. I painted right out of paint tubes using bright colors and big brushes, and many people liked my work. Yes, I was a woman who painted at a time when most successful painters were men. And I made enough money with my art, but my husband would squander it in half-baked multi-level schemes when he couldn't get decent acting parts. When Niina became gravely ill it meant putting aside my art. That didn't sit well with him, and in one of our many fights he said the most despicable thing to hurt me: "Hey, there are no mongoloids in MY family!"

At her funeral I promised to never ever forget her. But I got busy. I got busy living and trying to bury the pain of her death. I painted wildly and furiously, accepting practically every commission I was offered, and travelling every chance I could. My husband and I, though married, led separate lives. He eventually opened an acting school, and he even tried to reach out to me, but at some point I simply got tired of his games. Living on my own again, I began to paint Niina's portrait, but I didn't finish, because it was during this time that I noticed changes in my memory.

I didn't pay attention at first. I would misplace my glasses and forget appointments. I would forget where I parked the car. That happened to everyone everyday, I reasoned. But then, talking became embarrassing when I'd forget words in midsentence. Using the telephone became difficult. I couldn't remember the phone numbers that I frquently called, and I consulted my address book more and more, until I misplaced that, too. I had a painful time looking at my photo albums. Who were those people? Family? Friends? I couldn't remember them. I blamed it on stress, but when I could no longer drive, the doctors called it early-onset with rapid progression and poor prognosis, whatever that meant. And when the kitchen caught on fire because I forgot that the stove was on, I was placed here.

The woman-in-white came in my room again to take me to the patio right outside the lobby. I loved the patio best of all. There were many trees whose overhanging branches made dappled shadows over a sprawling, thick green lawn. The sounds of footsteps and squeaky wheelchairs were muffled, and people's voices were gentler. The air moved and smelled good, and made pleasant noices of the leaves. The wide sky was clear and peaceful this evening.

Sitting in the shade, I took out each marker from my purse. I created my markers, as I called them, because I've already forgotten many significant people in my life. And with Niina, it was almost too late. I couldn't remember her birthday, which at one time was unimaginable. I couldn't remember if she talked. Did she ever say "mom"? What did she like to eat? Did she have a favorite toy? I hated myself for forgetting.

My markers. They were not easy to get, and I was frequently in trouble because of them, but they were mine now, and I fought to keep them. I kept them in my purse, which I carried with me everywhere. Each one marked something wonderful. There was the dark blue shard, a color that matched her dramatic and expressive eyes. I remembered her eyes at times clear and luminous, at other times tearful and filled with weariness, rimmed with thick lashes, and closed tight in her sleep. The tiny yellow blanket reminded me of her curly golden hair, her cheerful room with the yellow ducks that I had painted on the walls, and the way she felt in my arms when I rocked her in the dark with just the glow of the nightlight. The half-empty salt shaker was when we took her to the country one sunny winter and it had started to snow and she laughed out loud because she had loved it so much. A set of keys, like a set of chimes that I hung in her room, which when I opened the door would make the chimes softly play and it made her smile, only now I had a hard time picturing her smile. An empty container of talcum powder reminded me of playful bathtimes and bedtimes and her good night kisses. Five items. Five? I was sure I had more. Wait. I looked in my purse again. It was empty. Five items. I was so sure I had more...

I quickly put them back in my purse when I was approached by a fat, stubby-looking man. He came just before dark to feed me dinner and read to me. His presence immediately clouded the entire patio. He was condescending towards the woman-in-white, and he had a hardness in his eyes that didn't match the smile on his lips when he spoke to me. There was no tenderness in the way he took my hand into his; his grasp inflicted pain. I was not happy to see him.

His presence and the approaching darkness made me restless, and I started to pace. Darkness meant sleep and I liked sleep the least of all because it meant waking up to a new loss. The stubby-looking man took me back to my room, and he began to read to me. I couldn't sit still and continued to pace, this time more vigorously and noisily. I must have annoyed him, because he stood up to leave.

I took out each marker to remember again. The tiny yellow blanket, the empty container, the shard, the salt shaker, and—and—something. A collection of cold metal. What was it? Oh God, what was it? I believed it was-wait. Think, Darlene, think! I dropped it and screamed. I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember!

"Niina! Oh God, I don't want to lose her!" I screamed. The stubby-looking man ran back in with the woman-in-white.

"Niina's been gone for twenty years now, honey," he said, while they forced me to lie down. She gave me a shot, but in my struggle it caused me a great deal of pain.

"Her sundown agitation has become a daily thing lately. And we would find her in the middle of the night confused and wandering the halls or trying to get out through the patio doors," I heard the woman-in-white say, while we fought for my purse. She won, but not before I spat at her and scratched her arms. She immediately took out my yellow blanket and covered me with it, then gave me back my purse. She then tended to her scratches. The stubby-looking man picked something up from the floor.

"Look at this. I've had to get a whole new set of keys about two months ago and she's had these all along," the stubby-looking man said, annoyed.

"Can't you people do something about her thievin'?"

He glared at me and shook his head. They both put the side rails up around my bed and turned the lights down, and I watched them leave. Still clutching my purse, I started to feel groggy. And before I faded into sleep, I reached inside my purse and grabbed the blue shard that matched her haunting blue eyes and clenched it tight.

Niina. Oh, Niina...