jeff mcCrory : “four swallows”
I don't want the mashed potatoes.
Yeah okay.
I don't want the mashed potatoes.
I heard you. Try this. It's sweet.
Her caretaker held a spoonful of applesauce under her nose. He touched her lips with the spoon. A daub of the applesauce hung from her upper lip. He expected her to lick it off, but she only looked at him with her astounded, blue eyes. Her face was immobile. The applesauce dripped onto her chin.
Open. C’mon, open up.
She parted her lips a little. He pushed the spoon past her teeth and dumped the applesauce on her tongue. It was cold and raw. She let it settle to the bottom of her mouth like thick spit.
Swallow.
I can’t.
Yes, you can.
My throat is swollen shut.
You can swallow. You just did. Here try some of these.
He lanced a pair of green beans with a fork and put them in her mouth. Her mouth watered against her will. She chewed the soft flesh of the beans.
Swallow.
The mash went down in one gulp.
I’m going to choke.
You’re not going to choke.
My throat is swollen shut.
What next? Meat or potatoes?
Her chair was tucked tight into the round table. The nurse had said to get her near the food, make her smell it. Put the plate right up to her face if you have to. The smell makes them hungry. Her hands were tucked up against her belly. She looked as if she were frozen in the act of pushing the plate of food away. Its ceramic edge touched her fingertips.
The portions of roast beef and potatoes were conservatively splashed with gravy, while the green beans were drowned in butter sauce. A pat of margarine sat atop a dinner roll. The roll looked like the heel of a foot.
The man across the table writhed in his wheelchair. He couldn’t sit still for a moment: the effects of Huntington's disease. His caretaker, a pretty Filipino with a mouth like a sad child’s, shoveled his pureed dinner into his toothless jaws as fast as she could manage, and still it wasn’t fast enough for him. He was hungry!
More. More.
He sputtered flecks of potatoes when he spoke. They landed on the table, not very close to her, but close enough that she noticed. She turned away from the writhing man.
Her caretaker was a handsome brown man. He had Freda Kahlo eyebrows, big muscles and large, strong hands. He cut the meat with the fork and a butter knife. The utensils were plastic: no good for cutting meat. He tore a frayed chunk of roast beef into three parts and fed her one.
Chew it up good and swallow it.
The meat was salty. It felt foreign in her mouth. She sucked the gravy off of it. When she chewed, the meat juice filled her mouth. Her stomach grumbled in ecstasy.
I can’t swallow it.
Swallow.
The meat was a gummy mass. It would never go down. He put a cup of ice water to her lips. She sipped.
Drink a little more.
She sipped again. Her throat convulsed and pulled the meat down. The swallowing was hard and made her ears pop.
He opened the carton of milk. She drank from its paper spout. She loved milk. Before they had imprisoned her behind locked doors and high walls, she had drank buttermilk everyday. It was the only thing that soothed her swollen throat.
I don’t want the mashed potatoes.
Try one bite.
He put a big helping in her mouth before she could protest. The potatoes were warm and lumpy. She pressed them against the roof of her mouth with her tongue.
Swallow.
She didn’t want to. She would choke. Her throat was swollen shut. The fat nurse who weighed her everyday didn’t believe her, either.
Nothing’s wrong with your throat. I don’t want to hear anymore about that. If you keep losing weight, you’re going to die.
She was already an old women at fifty-four. Her hair had gone gray. All of its body had been siphoned away. Now it hung in a lank pleat. She was going to die soon anyway, but she didn’t want to choke to death.
I don’t want anymore.
A little more. You haven’t eaten much.
No more.
The potatoes were slimy, and she could feel the grainy spuds floating around her mouth. White liquid began to seep out of the corners of her mouth.
Swallows those potatoes.
She wouldn’t.
Swallow.
She gulped them down. It made her wretch a little.
Her caretaker was shaking his head at the Filipino. He’d had enough, so he picked up her tray. She grabbed the milk carton before he took it away and drained it in a long swallow.
The writhing man’s bowls of baby food were scrapped clean. He pointed a wobbling hand at the skeletal women across from him.
Milk. Milk.
My throat. It’s for my throat.
Drink it. Drink mine.
He barked the words desperately and writhed so violently that his caretaker had to pull him back into his wheelchair.
Jeff McCrory lives & works in Sacramento, CA. Currently employed as an orderly in a psychiatric hospital, he has long considered pursuing a second career in Angelic Reiki, crystal healing & chakra clearing, but as there are few elderly hippies in Sacramento he has decided to try his hand at writing fiction. "Four Swallows" is his first published story.
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