Zombie Time

2/'06

My mother staggered blindly around the living room, her arms outstretched and drool settling in a small pool on the collar of her nightgown. She had my Father’s leather belt wrapped around her knuckles and dangling from her right hand. My little brother, Thomas, and I were sitting where we knew we weren’t supposed to be at 10:30 on a Wednesday night: right in front of the T.V. watching ‘Married with Children.”
We stared in disbelief as our Mother, who had obviously gotten out of bed to deliver a beating to us, leaned against the mantle and slowly began knocking everything off of it. Pictures of our grandmother, our pictures from school, and finally the urn that our Daddy was in.
I made a quick dash from the couch and caught the urn before it hit the brick floor of the fireplace. Thomas screamed, “Mommy! Mommy! What’re you doing?!”


* * *


The next morning she made us go to the doctor with her. We sat in the dingy waiting room reading “Highlights” and picking our noses because she was too embarrassed to let us go in.
In the car on the way home, Thomas asked”Mommy, why were you a zombie last night?”
My mother wiped some tears that we weren’t supposed to talk about off of her face and said “The doctor says I’m a sleepwalker, Thomas.”
“But Mom,” I said hesitantly, knowing that my question might warrant a slap to the face, “We tried to wake you up…Thomas was screaming and I even tried slapping you in the face…”
She glared at the road ahead and rubbed the yellow cheek where I had slapped her, “Mommy’s also narcoleptic...”
“What’s that mean, Mommy?” Thomas chimed in from the back seat.
“It means I can fall asleep anytime, and you can’t wake me.”
“But…why?” he asked again.
I pretended to change the radio station and thought about the night we found out my Dad was dead. Thomas was still just a kid, three or four, but I was eight and I could still remember it perfectly. The police called at 7:30 in
the morning. Thomas and I were watching “Fragglerock” and I answered the phone. They asked if Mom was home. I said yeah, but she was still asleep. They told me to wake her up.
Mom stayed in her room for weeks. All she ever told us was that we should never, ever drink. Not a drop. If she ever caught us drinking she would take Daddy’s belt and wrap it around our throats. There was no funeral, after a couple weeks some men in black brought us Daddy in a red urn.
My Mother took a left on Elmwood, our street.
“The doctor says I miss your Daddy, Thomas.”

* * *

After that, Mom started having more and more of what Thomas and I started calling “Zombie Time.” In fact, if she wasn’t yelling at us for watching T.V. or threatening us with Daddy’s belt, she was usually slumped over in a corner or roaming around the kitchen knocking over pots and pans. At first we tried to clean up after her, but when she started having Zombie Time four or five times a day, we just couldn’t keep up. Thomas said he was worried about her hurting herself. I went to the garage and got my bike helmet. We’d make Mom wear it whenever she was a zombie.
She got real depressed when she was awake. One morning, at breakfast before school, Thomas and I were
watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” in the kitchen. Mom stood at the stove with one hand on her hip, still wearing her Zombie-gown with the yellow stains of drool all over it, waiting for the eggs to be ready.
“O.K., boys, T.V. time’s over…go get ready for school.”
“One more minute, Mom, Bebop and Rocksteady are gonna get whomped!” Thomas said, staring into the T.V. with a wide-open mouth.
That’s all it took. Meltdown.
She threw the frying pan and eggs across the kitchen, and right onto Thomas’ face. He let out a high pitched scream and fell to the tile floor as the steaming hot eggs mixed in with the blood from his nose and mouth. “Thomas!” I shouted, and bent down next to him. He writhed in pain and he was screaming. I grabbed some paper towels and ran back to him. “Put this on your mouth, I’ll call the ambulance…”I said. I stood and started to cross the kitchen to the phone on the wall, forgetting about my Mom.
It was Zombie Time yet again.
She stood there, head slumped to the side, and her arms reaching with tormented fingers towards us. She crept slowly across the kitchen floor. I picked Thomas up in my arms and dodged out of the kitchen. I laid Thomas on the couch in the living room, and using the cordless I called 9-1-1.
“Hello, we need an ambulance at 718 Elmwood Drive,”
There was a loud sound of breaking glass in the kitchen. I ran in and saw Mom, one arm through the window of the back door, slamming her head against the wooden frame. I ran back to Thomas.
“Come on, we’re going outside,” I said. He was already out cold from the shock. I picked him up again and ran out the front door to the front lawn. I kneeled there with my little brother in my arms, watching the normal people in the neighborhood drive by in their minivans and station wagons, going to work or school. They drove slow and stared in disbelief through black sunglasses.
Ten minutes later the paramedics pulled into the driveway. Two of them, dressed in white, got out and rushed over to me.
“Stand back…is this the only one?”
“No,” I said, wringing my wrists, “there’s another one inside.”