The pain came from behind her eyes. An aura opened up all around; nothing smelled right and she was getting faint. Fluorescent lights shook her vision like an airbus plowing through a flock of Canada Geese. It was the first Wednesday of the month and Jasmine was going to have a migraine.
As the meeting droned on, Jasmine knew she couldn’t make it. In an instant her eyes bulged and the sour taste of acid writhed into her mouth. She wretched into the classroom trash bin as her colleagues looked on in sympathetic confusion. It was coming on strong now, as the stars opened up before her. Jasmine had to get out of there, to somewhere safe, to her mom.
The massive car door opened and closed. Key slid into ignition. Black. She drove hard onto the road and bent the Cadillac to the right, then to the left. Right and left over and over until the haze engulfed her and she barreled into her mother’s driveway.
The couch was soft and her mother’s voice soothing. “Are you sure you want to take these, Jasmine?” “Yes! I swear to God I will end you where you stand if you don’t give me those marijuana drugs! It’s either the drugs or a shotgun, and I don’t think the Pakistani wants to watch you clean up his daughter’s brains off of his fine Persian rugs.” “Alright, you don’t have to be so descriptive” “I was a communications major, mother.”
The THC exited the tincture in a bubble and landed softly below Jasmine’s tongue. She could taste the bitter Indica as it sullied her pallet. It hadn’t worked; the pain persisted. Why hadn’t it worked and where was the shotgun? “Give me the cookie!” Nothing. No thing. Stars...The Universe...Hell. No refuge from the insufferable. It was her first time.
“How are you doing, dear?” said her mother. “I’m fine, mother, just dying” Jasmine said with nauseous repugnance. The couch got deeper as skin touched linen. Now linen, now cotton, now velvet; ever smoother while sinking. Eyelids shade light but eyes see.
See! As sparks concus synapses and flood pathways. Hear! The remote sounds of padded feet on the sidewalk. Feel! While soft wind brushes against earlobes. A karmic wheel of color splashed overhead and at once it was too much. Anything to make it stop.
Eyes open to light and solid shapes, firm and real. Her mother was painting, that’s right! she was an art teacher. She liked John Singer Sargent. Things were coming together now, she thought, as the second wave crashed over. A flurry of sights and sounds alight in front of her retinas just as tiny clouds pulsed from circles to muted gasps. Her field of vision blurred and circles gave way to thin bands like lines on a chalkboard.
Jasmine leaned into it, feeling the gravity of the room. Lines bent and fused. Triangle, oval, arch, crescent, diamond. Yes, diamonds, diamonds! If only Rick would leave her alone and let her buy more diamonds. Better yet, he could work more and buy her diamonds. That was it. He could buy her stripes. Not stripes, no, diamonds. She was good. Eyes closed. Fog ebbed and flowed as diamonds slipped from view and out of grasp.
Her mother released her gaze on the painting to check on Jasmine. She was, after all, the only one of her daughter’s who had given her a grandchild. Two, in fact, and that gift could never be repaid. Jasmine had done everything right; education before marriage, marriage before career, career before house, house before kids. Her child, and she was still her child, was rigid in her plans. Running from ghosts will keep one in a straight line. The old art teacher, with her white sandals built for comfort, craned her neck and set her sight on her daughter. “Jasmine!” she tried to yell, but the word lodged in her throat and offered up only a croak.
Arms were reaching and feet were kicking, she had to help. “Jasmine, honey, are you alright? Can you hear me?” “It’s polka dots, mother.” “Polka dots, dear, what are you talking about?” “Make Rick buy me diamonds, mother.”
The years plowed through her mind like a freight train. Where had she gone wrong? Calling for her husband was out of the question; this behavior would not do. His years in Pakistan had altered the chemistry of his brain. No, she could not call for her husband.
“Would you like me to call Rick, dear?” “Yes, Rick would be good and tell him to bring tacos.” “How many would you like?”
“All of them!”
Yes, all the tacos!!
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