Bi-Polar Deception Fish

Eleanor Brophy has turned me into a liar. About once a week, during a very specific meal request, Eleanor will sometimes say “I don’t mean to be so fussy.”

Usually I ignore it, but one particular day, oh, I don’t know, let’s say… today, I replied back with “Yes you do.”

I was expecting her to be insulted, as my intent at this point was to actually insult, as she often, unknowingly, insults myself and Melanie. She’ll make a comment about breakfast or lunch not being made fast enough and tell us to do something we’ve already done or something that we are currently doing in front of her while uttering something negative under her breath. Rather than be insulted, however, she laughed, as if I was making a joke. My intended effect having been negated, I just left it alone.

But she does mean to be so fussy. As we’ve pointed out before, she’s very particular in everything she does and as her dementia and senility sets in, she’s losing more of her memory and control over her temper. Eleanor hates something at first and then likes it later. Or she likes it at first and then hates it later. There is no way to know if this is senility or dementia for sure, but again, the family informs me that she has always been this way. Recently, we went to Trader Joe’s, at her request, and purchased low-sodium premade meals for her; salmon, sole and cod each with delicious sides of rice and beans.

We had made fish for her before, which we purchased from the monger at Stop and Shop, then froze it in the freezer and thawed it as we needed it, you know, like most people. She really enjoyed the Salmon we made for her last month. The Trader Joe’s Salmon meal, however, she said she did not. I believe the reason she did not is because she watched me put it into the microwave in it’s cardboard packaging to heat up. When the meal was heated, I gave it to her with her 5 P.M. meds and tea, and left the room. When I re-entered, she told me she “hated, hated it” never wanting it again. For some reason, I simply didn’t believe her.

Eleanor only trusts two people, and I’m not one of them. One is her “handyman,” and the other person Eleanor trusts is Eleanor. A few weeks ago, we had run low on, not out of, toilet paper in the bathroom. She made sure to tell this to me in the most urgent of manners. Upon inspection, the roll was exactly half gone. We usually keep a spare roll in the bathroom cabinet, but that would soon become the primary roll we would be using. She wanted me to go to the store and get some, but I had reminded her that we went shopping the day before and during that trip we had purchased a lot of toilet paper. She asked if I was sure, and I replied that I was. She asked me three or four more times before she had me go into the basement to bring up the package of toilet paper for her to see with her own eyes.

I looked straight into those old eyes, one working, one not, and asked, “Are you calling me a liar? Because what you’re saying right now means you don’t believe me, which means that you’re calling me a liar.”

“I’m not saying you’re a liar, I just want to see it for myself.”

“Auntie, I’m going to go into that basement because I can’t stand being called a liar, and when I come up, I’m going to come up carrying a big pack of toilet paper. So, I’m going to ask you again, do you believe me when I say that we have toilet paper downstairs?”

“…No. Yes. No… I want to see it.” She said, confused and concerned that she might, possibly, in some horrible way, be wrong about something so infinitesimally small.

“All right.” I said, and went into the basement to get the toilet paper.

“Shit.” I said to myself. I couldn’t find it. “Did we get toilet paper? I swear we did. I know we did… didn’t we? No, it has to be here.”

Looking around the storage room, I still couldn’t find it. “Now she’s never going to believe anything I tell her, not that she does anyway, but this is evidence she’ll use against me in the future. I know it.” I kept thinking.

Ready to admit defeat and tell her I was wrong, I shut off the light in the storage room by pulling the string and saw myself from outside of my body; a sad clown standing under a street light that no one comes to see anymore because he simply isn’t quite what he used to be. The bulb above beams on me, illuminating my big red clown nose and my big red face, making one last flicker before I blend into the darkness.

I took my time walking out of the storage room and back into the main section of the basement where the stairs are. Then, like some kind of dawnbringer angel cutting through the darkness with a knife of sunlight, there it was, the package of toilet paper sitting next to the stairs. It had been out of my view as I first walked down them, but now, able to see on both sides of them, it called to me. I heard a victory song in my head. Trumpets, drums, high toned bells, I think I even jumped a bit, actually jumped with joy. “Ha Ha!” I shouted. “Fuck you, Universe!” I thought to myself. What a stupendous victory this was… for something so small… for an accusation of no importance that would be forgotten about by the accuser by sunrise.

Taking the package, I ran upstairs so fast that I tripped but managed to pick myself up before I fell and just kept right on going, running up those steps like I was an escaped slave heading for the freedom and warm, glowing light of the promised land. I walked right up to her, put the package right in front of her and asked her what she saw.

“Toilet paper.” She said. And I turned right around with the package to put it back in the basement. I had absolutely no interest in relishing in this victory in mediocrity. I didn’t even think about the phrase “I told you so” until the following morning, I just wanted it to be over and done with as I realized I put too much care into something that really didn’t matter and something that any member of her family would have told her to “shut up” about.

I had proven to Eleanor Brophy that I was not a liar. She has since proven me wrong, but thankfully, she doesn’t know it. She may still suspect it, but she doesn’t know it.

When she complained to me that she didn’t like the Trader Joe’s premade meal, which she had specifically asked for, I knew it had to be related to her mood. She was in her normal, infantile “blah blah blah everything sucks but me” mood before she sat down to dinner. It must have carried over. It must have.

“Okay,” I told her, “you don’t have to eat it again.”

“Don’t make it again.”

“I won’t.” I replied.

But I would make it again, I just wouldn’t tell her. I had decided that she needed to be proven wrong. That she needed to know that she was wrong about something she was so adamant about. She and Melanie recently had an argument, which was the first time I had ever seen Mel yell. It was over batteries. When we had moved in, we needed room in the refrigerator so we took out all of the batteries on the bottom shelf. Weeks later she wanted two AA Batteries for her 50 year old calculator, and yes, it’s broken (the 2 key is stuck, so 2 becomes 22), and no, she doesn’t want another one. She had started to yell at me that we didn’t have any right to move anything and she wanted them in the refrigerator. As usual, I calmly replied that what she was talking about was an old wives tale and she came back with a comment about how when people come over they’ll need to know where the batteries are and they’ll look in the fridge for them. I simply had to reply to that; “Why would someone come here and look for batteries? You barely even have any visitors” I calmly pointed out, not wanting to raise her blood pressure.

Really, who was she expecting? Apocalypse survivors? Tin soldiers? Walking Flashlights coming by for their weekly spot of tea? Who?

“I want them there.” She screamed at me.

Mel had heard this from the bedroom and flew out of there like a bat out of Hell. “What is your problem?!” She yelled at Auntie, and preceded to list every insanity she had asked of us since we’ve been here with such speed and precision that it was all a blur because I was in shock seeing Mel yell like that; yell at all really. They yelled at each other and had their first, and to date, only argument. Mel had stormed out and Auntie couldn’t understand how she could be the cause of such stress. She really couldn’t, it was just beyond her realm of comprehension.

When I prepared the Trader Joe’s Salmon meal again, I made sure that when she asked what was for dinner, that I answered “Salmon, but not from Trader Joe’s.”

“Good.” She said with both joy and contempt. (It really is a complex, Oscar worthy emotional response.)

I made sure Eleanor could see me “cooking” the fish from her chair in the living room. I had taken the premade Salmon meal earlier in the day and put it in the refrigerator to thaw. When it came time to heat it up, I put it in the pan and asked her how she wanted it cooked. “I want it done.” She said.

I nodded and then turned my body to block her view of the action in the kitchen. “How deliciously devious” I thought; pun intended. I took the fish and rice from the cold pan, put it on a plate and put the plate into the microwave. When it was done, I called Eleanor for her meal and 5 P.M. meds. She eagerly sat at the table and reached for her tea before the fish. I stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes and the pan, to drive the deception home just a little bit more, but I watched her eat it out of the corner of my eye. When I was finished I turned to her and asked, “How is it?”

“Wonderful.” She said. “A lovely dinner.”

“I knew it.” I thought, but what actually left my mouth was “Good, glad you like it.” …and that was it. No gloating. No “I told you so.” Not even a subtle “Surprise, you wrinkly old tyrant! It’s the same exact meal you hated last week!” Nothing. After she told me how much she liked it, I realized that any attempt to prove her wrong would only be forgotten. Any evidence lost. Victory was futile. Even the Borg would be proud of her hubris.

I was right, she didn’t know what she liked or hated anymore. I was right and it felt good. But what was the cost? I’m a liar now. I’m not some high moral crusader like Batman or Superman- I would have to kill to stop the same criminals from killing over and over; I would have to lie to live in this house, I would have to lie to keep my sanity and to keep Eleanor’s growing insanity at bay. I was given some perspective though, when Mel and I told her mother, Sue, about our “plan.” “So? Who cares?” She said. “Give her whatever she wants.