Brain in a box

   One

   Last week the inflater in Mom's air mattress malfunctioned and blew up so high that she slipped out of bed. 

   Aides found her propped on the floor beside the bed, an upright burrito in her sheets. She kept saying, "I'm so happy. I'm so happy." 

   No new skin tears, no bruises.

   But now she has a different mattress, and one of the aides has crammed a pillow between the bed's half-railing and her mattress, walling her off from the room on her left. 

   She can't see over it when the bed is cranked flat.

   Two

   

   A roving band of church ladies came through, leaving behind a lap-size, overstuffed pillow on Mom's knees. It's a vibrant floral pattern, and the filling is crunchy. It is just fat enough she can't see over it to the room beyond her feet.

   Three

   She was asleep with her mouth open when I arrived Thursday. Roommate Sunny rolled her chair slowly from the restroom, stopping just beyond where I stood frowning down at Mom. I decided to sit down a while, gossip with Sunny.

  Our murmurs rose and fell, and Mom slowly emerged from the depths. I watched her blink at the dim white ceiling, her face otherwise immobile. 

   I spoke her full name. 
   Mom bit her lip. Her forehead wrinkled. 

   I said, "Hi, Mom. It's Celia." 

   She cocked her head, puzzled but thinking. "Celia?" Where was I? What was this place? A box with voices.

   Four

      Someone has painted Mom's nails a Goth midnight blue. 
      She touched the pillow. She poked it. 
      She said, "Hello?"