Second Rate Demons

Mary R. Finnegan

Tyler washed his mother’s face with a warm washcloth and tried to remember what she looked like before the stroke made the right side of her face all droopy. It really bothered him that he couldn’t remember. She’d been pretty, his mom, and very nice. She was still nice, of course, but she couldn’t talk or feed herself or do much at all. Luckily, Tyler was around to take care of her.

“There you go, Mom. How’s that? When the nurse gets here she’ll see how clean you look, right? She’ll know that I take good care of you.”

The phone rang and Tyler rushed to answer it, knocking over the washbasin he’d left on the floor. Stupid move, he thought. Water spilled all over the floor. He’d have to clean that up.

“Hello,” he said.

“This is Tina. I’ll be over today around three o’clock to see your mother.”

“Okay….” She hung up before Tyler could say anything else, like thank you or goodbye or are you always this much of a bitch to everyone? He took a deep breath.

Tyler looked at his mother and at the water on the floor. He wished that Tina was not coming to check on his mom. He liked Bea, the other nurse. She was sweet and thoughtful and showed him the right way to do things instead of making him feel stupid. In his mother’s chart, under Primary Caregiver, Bea had written: son, Tyler, is very motivated to learn proper care and technique. Tyler has a TBI, and, due to this, may require extra time and education. Tyler asked her to write that out on a slip of paper so he could show it to anyone else who came to check on his mom.

Tyler turned to his mother, “Well, we got some bad news. Tina is coming today.” 

His mom gave this sort of cough, one of her happy sounds. Then she smiled her lopsided smile. Tyler was pretty sure his mom didn’t remember the names of the nurses, but she had her favorites. Tina was not a favorite. There’d be no smiling when Tina got there. After her visits, Tyler had to bend over backwards to get a smile or a happy sound out of his mom. He was pretty sure today would be no different, but he’d do his best. Maybe he’d get some ice cream for dessert. They both loved ice cream. He checked his wallet: $14.00. He looked at the calendar. It was the 20th. Maybe just a small thing of ice cream, for his mom. He could have a bite or two.

Tyler brushed his mother’s teeth, holding a little basin under her chin for the drool. She scrunched up the left side of her mouth to try to help him. She was good like that, a wonderful patient. His dad used to take care of Tyler’s mother, but he never thought to brush her teeth, so Tyler would do it when Pop was out in the garage drinking and hitting things with a wrench, pretending he knew how to fix them. Tyler’s dad had not been as nice as his mother, but, still, Tyler was sad that he was dead. Not so much because he missed him, I mean, would you miss a guy who, when visiting you in rehab after you got blown up by an IED while fighting for freedom, said, “Now you’ll be even dumber than you were before.” No, even someone with a brain injury wouldn’t miss that guy, but his dad was his dad and all, so Tyler was sad because it was the natural thing—to miss your dead dad. Of course, Tyler knew his dad hadn’t been entirely wrong. Tyler was dumber than he’d been before the TBI and he’d been pretty dumb. Still, it was a shitty thing to say.

When his mom was happy, Tyler felt pretty good, but the jinns were always there to remind him of the bad things he’d done, of how stupid he was, of how his mom would be better off without him. Back in Fallujah, the jinns got Tyler’s mind to go to bad places, dark places, put-a-gun-in-your-mouth-and-pull-the-trigger places. Crater was the one who always set him straight.

“Dude,” Crater would say, “Ignore them. They ain’t nothing but second-rate demons.”

Now that Crater was dead, Tyler had to figure out how to deal with the jinns and all the other troubles in his life by himself. Tyler sighed. This was not easy. He reminded himself that he had a mission, to take excellent care of his mother. Right now, to complete this mission, he had to keep his shit tight, especially since Tina was coming.

Tyler’s mom took hold of his hand and squeezed. It was only a small squeeze, but Tyler knew what she was saying. Thank you for not putting me in a home. Thank you, Tyler, for washing my face with water and brushing my teeth. Thank you for taking care of me. She couldn’t talk so the squeezing was her way of saying how grateful she was for Tyler and all he’d done. When you’re sick and have been stuck in bed nothing feels better than to have someone wash your face and brush your teeth. He remembered that from rehab.

It was twelve-thirty. Tyler counted on his fingers, one-thirty, two-thirty, three-thirty, minus half an hour. Two and half hours to get his mom ready and tidy up the house. He didn’t want Tina scrunching up her nose like she smelled something bad when she walked in the door, though maybe that was just the way her face always looked. Tyler wasn’t sure. She seemed like the sort of person who got annoyed by lots of things, especially people and their smells.

“Okay, Mom. I have to give you a bath-shower. You need to be really clean when Tina gets here.”

His mom made her grunting sound that meant no. It made him sad to hear this, but he had to get her washed up. Last week, Tina threatened to call Adult Protective Services because she did not think Tyler could take care of his mother. What she’d actually said was, “I don’t think you are capable of caring for yourself, much less your mother.” She didn’t say it nicely either. Tina reminded Tyler of one of his sergeants, a guy from Oklahoma or Florida, some place like that, named R.J. He was all business. The littlest infraction and he’d run your ass into the ground with push-ups and hikes and latrine duty. He never, ever let anything go. It was exhausting to be around him, the constant need to be perfect. It was the kind of pressure that could break a guy, make him do something stupid, like walk into the desert with no clothes and no weapon, lay down in the sand and let the sun cook him to death. Some people, they just made you want to give up, that’s what Tyler had learned. He wanted to think about this some more, why the R.J.s and Tinas of the world were like that, but he had shit to do. There was no time for thinking.

Tyler gathered all the bath things together: towels, nightdress, clean sheets, washcloth. He used the washcloth to wipe sweat away from his forehead. It was very stressful, being the primary caregiver for his mom. Then he remembered the water on the floor. He cleaned that up with the washcloth as well.

It was true that the house wasn’t as clean as it should be. Like, he was pretty sure there were mice, he’d seen the droppings on the kitchen countertop and in the bathroom, and he didn’t always do the dishes, sometimes he left them out for a few days, and when his mom peed or pooped he might not realize it for an hour or more and she had these things called contractures so her fingers curled up and wouldn’t uncurl and the nails cut into her palms and her right leg was starting to bend backward and she had a sore on her heel because of that and then there was the sore on her butt that just wouldn’t go away no matter what they did and he forgot the exercises for her contractures, like he couldn’t even remember what they were, and he’d lost the paper with the directions, and he hadn’t showered himself in three or four days and, and, and…Tyler started to breathe fast and heavy. He needed to sit down and get his shit tight before Tina came. That required situational awareness and calmness. In his TBI group at the VAMC , they taught him how to deep breathe. In and out, in and out. He sat down in the chair next to his mom’s bed. He did his breathing. He wasn’t completely convinced that the deep breathing thing worked, but he tried. He felt like ants were crawling all over him, into his ears and nose, across his eyeballs, underneath his fingernails. The same thing happened in Iraq. It was the jinns. The jinns loved Tyler. “Easy prey,” that’s what Crater said. “You’re too nice, Dude. You need to ignore them.”

Tyler tried to remember Crater’s exact advice, “Don’t be afraid, Man. Tell them dollar store demons to F-off. They ain’t got nothing on Jesus.” Crater was really into Jesus and the only curse word he said was “shit,” which he claimed was not a curse word, but rather a substance excreted by humans to get rid of waste or, sometimes, a substance spewed out by jinns to make life difficult for God-fearing Christians. He missed Crater. They’d been best friends, swore to always help each other, never leave the other behind, but he had left Crater behind in a 1,000 pieces, scattered all over the desert. The least he could do was complete his mission and not lose his shit over some bitchy nurse. Tyler shook his arms out, rolled his shoulders back, clapped his hands. He was okay, he was okay. He was not afraid. He was okay.

“Alright, Mom. We need to get it together. You don’t want Tina taking you away, right? This is our house. It might be messy and in a bad neighborhood, but we live here and I take care of you.”

His mom made a noise, a short groan followed by a longer one. This was her Rosary groan. His mother was a very holy woman. She’d gone to Mass and said the Rosary everyday. She lit candles and fasted. Tyler had always been amazed at that, how long she could go without eating.

“That’s good, Mom. Prayers are good. I’m doing my deep breathing, counting to ten. Let’s say some prayers together.”

Tyler took two sets of Rosary beads from the bedside table. He put one set in his mother’s left hand. She could move this hand and arm pretty good. Sometimes, she’d reach up with it and stroke Tyler’s cheek. He loved and hated when she did that. It felt nice to have that loving touch, but it overwhelmed him, reminded him of the war and all his friends who’d died and of how his mom had been before the stroke. It reminded him that there was a God who might ask for an accounting of everything Tyler had done, during the war and during his life. All he could really say to God was, I take care of my mother. He couldn’t say he’d kept his buddies alive because, at this point, a lot of them were dead. And he wasn’t sure how much caring for his mother counted. That seemed like a bare-minimum thing to Tyler, like the least you could do for the woman who brought you into the world. He would like to have asked someone about this, but who? Crater was dead. The priest from church hardly ever came by and his social worker at the VA didn’t seem like she had time to deal with Tyler, much less his eternal salvation. There were always ten other guys outside her office. Deep thoughts weren’t her thing. Paperwork was her thing. She had a nice smile, Tyler gave her that. And she’d fill out any paperwork you asked her to.

Tyler said his Hail Marys in long deep breaths. His mother made a low noise in response. Tyler tried to block out the sounds in his brain, the ones that seemed to chase him around, stalker-thoughts, he called them. The worst one was his own voice telling Crater a dirty joke and Crater laughing, not paying attention, walking forward, forward, eyes closed, shoulders shaking, laughing, laughing, boom!

Tyler’s head dropped forward and he almost fell out of the chair. He caught himself. He opened his eyes and scrambled for his weapon, but then he saw the room and his mother. The Rosary beads were on the floor. His mother was banging her arm against the bedrail. The room smelled like fresh shit. Tyler picked up the Rosary beads. He looked at the clock. Oh no, he thought, it was almost two o’clock. Sometimes, Tina showed up early. He figured she was trying to catch him out when she did that, see if she could find something wrong. He grabbed the can of Lysol and sprayed it. He coughed. This shit-Lysol combo smell was worse than the just-shit smell. What could he do? His mom coughed. She pointed her finger and made a gurgle noise. Tyler was afraid he’d killed her with the Lysol. Who knew what was in that shit? Then he realized she was pointing at the window. Tyler smiled. His mother was so smart. He opened the windows. The air was chilly. Autumn was finally here. He’d been so busy he hadn’t noticed. He stood by the window for a minute, enjoying the fresh air. His mom banged on the railing again. Crap. He’d gotten distracted. He made a mental note to close the window so no one would try to slip in and rob them.

“Mom, Mom. We gotta be quick here. I gotta bathe you.”

The bathing and wound care parts were the only real issues with taking care of his mother. It was a little uncomfortable for both of them. He could easily lift her. She weighed next to nothing and he was strong. He’d always been strong. In Iraq, sometimes on long humps, he’d take another guy’s gear. Tyler never got tired. It just wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t always good at following along in briefings, but he could carry anything, strong as an ox. He just needed someone to lead the way. That’s what Crater said, “Shit, Tyler, you don’t always know where to go, but you’re strong enough to carry the whole world on your back to get there.”

So it was easy as pie to lift his mom up and bring her into the bathroom, he could roll her from side to side, he could probably hold her with one hand and change the sheets with the other. That’s the kind of thing you learn in the army—how to do things that seem completely unnecessary until the shit hits the fan or your mother has a stroke. It was just really awkward, giving your mom a bath or wiping her butt. The only thing he could come up with was to bathe her in her nightdress and hose her down with the handheld shower. This seemed very undignified to Tyler, but what else could he do? He’d tried bathing her with a bandana covering his eyes and it was a disaster. She almost drowned and he slipped and nearly broke his arm. He couldn’t imagine how blind people got anything done. Mrs. Ryan from next door used to come over and bathe Tyler’s mom and help him do her wound care, but she’d broken her hip and was recovering at her daughter’s house in Doylestown. She did call every few days to check in, but she wasn’t sure when she’d be back. She’d been gone almost two months already and things were kind of falling apart without her. Tyler and his mom did not have a back-up plan so all he could do was keep trying his best.

“Okay, Mom, let’s go. I know you don’t like it, but we have to do it."

He made sure he had her good and safe in his arms and carried her down the hall to the bathroom. Warm poop seeped from the sheets onto his forearm. He’d probably need a shower after this, but there’d be no time. Please God, he begged, don’t let Tina show up early. In the bathroom, he put his mom and all the sheets right into the tub. He’d made some bumpers out of pool floats. The first few times he’d done this bath-shower thing, his mom had slid down into a heap in the bottom of the tub. She had cried for an hour afterwards. The bumpers kept her in place, sort of. He had to hide them in the closet, though, because Tina might think it was dangerous.

“Okay, Mom. I’m gonna pull these sheets out from under you.”

He liked to tell her what he was doing so she wouldn’t be surprised. When he’d been in the hospital, he hated when the nurses and doctors just barged in and did things without telling him like he wasn’t even a person. It was disrespectful and he would not disrespect his mother.

He got the sheets out from under her, made sure she was positioned with the bumpers, then turned on the water. Every few minutes, he peeked to make sure she was okay. He felt that preserved her dignity. No mother wanted her son to see her half naked. He sprayed the handheld shower nozzle around as best he could. He wouldn’t wash her hair today, there wasn’t time. Tyler opened his eyes to check on his mom. She had her mouth open like she was screaming. The only sound that came out was as a sort of mangled grunt, but he knew what she was trying to say: No, Tyler, no. Please stop. He would have stopped, but it’s just, what else could he do? She had to be washed.

After the shower, he wrapped her in a blanket and dried her off as best he could, then reached under the blanket and pulled off the wet nightdress. He was really sweating now. He wiped his face with his shirt. He carried his mom out to the couch and left her like that while he made the bed with fresh sheets. He took the comforter off his own bed since hers was dirty. He’d have to try to get the laundry in before Tina got there. He wasn’t sure about the shitty sheets in the bathtub. He couldn’t keep throwing sheets away, but they didn’t always get clean in the washing machine, especially if there was a lot of poop on them. Tyler felt like there was a giant clock, ticking loudly, while he tried to get everything done. Deep, slow breaths, he said to himself. One, two, in, one, two, out. He tried to ignore the jinns.

After he made the bed, he went back out to the living room and put a new nightdress on his mom. He took a towel and dried under her knees and between her toes, doing his best to get her really dry. Bea had told him that sweat and damp skin caused bed sores and infections. When his mom was dry enough, he picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. As he walked, she was sighing again, falling asleep in his arms. Like a baby, he thought. My mother is like my child. He kissed her on the forehead and put her into the freshly made bed. He put pillows in place like Bea had shown him so that no part of his mother was pressed against the hard bedrails. Bea had shown him this trick because Tina had written a note in the chart stating that Tyler didn’t understand proper skin care and pressure reduction. The next time Tina came and saw the pillows in place she looked a little pissed. He tried not to be too happy about that.

It was two-thirty. Not much time, definitely not enough time to put the dirty stuff in the washer. He grabbed a trash bag and went into the bathroom and shoved the sheets into the bag then he got the blanket and put that in, too. He tossed the bag out the back door to deal with later.

He ran back into the house and took a few deep breaths before checking on his mom. Tyler squeezed his mother’s hand, hoping she’d squeeze back or press even just a little bit. She was very weak after the bath-shower, though, and could only move her finger slightly against his thumb. He sat down in the chair next to her.

“Say some prayers, Mom. We need this visit to go right.”

His mom moved her lips a little. He took deep breaths. The doorbell rang. Two-forty-five. Of course, she was early.  He rubbed his hands over his face. Tyler noticed his arm still had some shit on it. He ran into the bathroom and washed up. He looked in the mirror and was pretty sure that it would take more than prayers and deep breaths to survive this visit with Tina. The doorbell rang again. He walked over to answer it. Please God, make her be in a rush, or even better, do a miracle and transform her into a nice person. He opened the door. Tina sighed and pushed past him. No miracles today, thought Tyler.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was in the bathroom.”

“Hmm,” Tina curled up her nose and looked him up and down.

She walked right into his mother’s room without saying anything. He followed behind her and tried to keep himself from talking. A lot of thoughts were swirling around in his head. He knew, though, if he started talking he’d just jumble things up and sound crazy and make everything worse. He was better off not saying anything.

Tina put her bag down on the bedside table and pulled the sheets back so that Tyler’s mom was exposed. His mom groaned. She did not like to be uncovered. Tyler held his fists behind his back. Keep it together, he told himself, keep it together. Tina rolled his mom on her side.

“Mrs. Lawrence,” she said, “I am going to dress this wound on your sacrum.” She turned her head and stared at Tyler. “Tyler, as I’ve said before, I think we need Adult Protective Services in here. I really don’t think you are capable of caring properly for your mother.”

Tyler bit his lip. Keep your mouth shut, he told himself. Don’t say a word. Don’t lose your temper. Keep your shit tight. You are an excellent caregiver. When Tina rolled his mother over and pulled her nightdress up, Tyler turned his head away to help maintain her dignity. His mother had been a very lady-like woman. He respected that, even if this bitchy nurse didn’t.

“You can’t even look at her. How can you expect to take care of her?”

His mother groaned again. Tyler kept his mouth shut. There was no winning with this nurse.

“This wound is much, much worse.”

Tyler turned back to look. It did not look worse to him. It smelled bad, maybe worse than last time, but it did not look worse. She was lying, he knew it. She was like a jinn, out to get him. Tina kept working. She was fast and not very gentle. Tyler should report her. This was like elder abuse. He’d read about that. It was a thing where elderly people couldn’t defend themselves against abusive caretakers or health care professionals. In this case, the abuser was the nurse, Tina. He would write this up as soon as she left. He’d file a complaint. Maybe his social worker would help him. He paced around the room, trying to breathe deep, asking God for help. Tina kept sighing and making clicking noises. His mother kept groaning. This situation was going FUBAR. Finally, Tina rolled his mother onto her back and covered her up again. She cleaned up and then went to the bathroom to wash her hands. She had not washed her hands before touching his mother. He’d put that into the report.

“Aaah,” Tina screamed from the bathroom.

“What? What?” Tyler ran toward the bathroom.

“The bathtub is filthy dirty. And what are those foam tubes in there?”

Tyler put his head down. He’d forgotten to take the floaties out and clean the bathtub. How could he explain this? It really was disgusting in there.

“That’s it,” Tina said. “I am calling Adult Protective Services.” She marched out of the bathroom and grabbed her phone. She scrolled through her contacts and dialed. She probably called Adult Protective Services on everyone, not just him.

“No,” Tyler yelled. “No. I can take care of my mom. It was just a bad day. We were rushed because you are such a bitch…”

Tina stared at him. “I will not be spoken to in that way. Do you want me to call the police instead of APS?”

Tyler stood still. What was APS? Why was she calling the police now? There was all kinds of noise in his head—the whirring of helicopter blades, boots pounding on desert sand, his mother groaning, his father saying he was a dumb shit, an engine sputtering, Crater laughing, boom, boom, boom.  He felt like the jinns were crawling across his back and shoulders, into his nose, all over his face. Tyler put his hands over his ears and bent down into a ball on the floor. He thought maybe he was crying, though he couldn’t be sure. Tina was talking, her voice fast and angry, the voice of someone who thought she was always right. His shit was not tight, not tight at all. The only situational awareness he had was that he had no situational awareness.

A loud wail made Tyler look up. Maybe Tina was having a stroke. Maybe God had struck her with lightning. No. It was his mother. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Tyler got up and went to her.

“It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. I’m here.”

He picked her up and held her in his arms. He rocked her back and forth. He hummed to her. She leaned her head against his chest. He felt his own tears streaming down his face. He watched them drop from his chin onto his mother’s nightdress, her arms. It seemed to him that their tears were streaming together with all the tears that had ever been cried. He was tired. He hardly ever got too tired to carry his mother, but he was tired now. He sat down in the chair, holding his mother and rocking from side to side. Tina was still on the phone. He didn’t look at her. She called his name, “Tyler, Tyler,” but he ignored her. She was like those bad jinns, and like Crater said, the bad jinns were second-rate demons. They had nothing on Jesus. There were good jinns, but they were few and far between. “Better to rely on Jesus,” Crater said. Tyler wondered what he had to do to get Jesus’ help. “Don’t be afraid, just keep trying,” that was always Crater’s advice, but Tyler wasn’t sure he knew how not to be afraid anymore. This was not like Iraq where he had training and friends to help him and someone to follow. How much trying and failing could he do?

“Open your eyes and look at me,” said Tina. “You need to put your mother back in bed.”

Tyler opened his eyes, but he did not look at Tina. He held his mother. Her breathing was getting slower and calmer. She wasn’t crying anymore. Her face didn’t seem so droopy now that she was relaxed in Tyler’s arms, in the arms of Tyler, her son, her excellent caregiver. Tyler’s mom reached her hand up and touched his cheek. He would rest a minute, just a minute, until his mother felt light again in his arms, until he could stand and carry her to the bed.

Tina called his name again, “Tyler, please put your mom back in bed.”

Finally, Tyler looked up at Tina, her eyes were small and sharp, her face was red. She didn’t look happy. She looked tired. Tyler felt sorry for her. Maybe if he explained the situation, she would understand, but he doubted it. Still, he had to say something.

“The thing is,” he said, “my mom and I, we only have each other. There’s no one else. Just us. Mrs. Ryan used to help, but she broke her hip…” He was talking to much. Tina wasn’t interested in Mrs. Ryan’s hip.

“You need to put your mother back in bed, Tyler. For her safety.”

Tina still had the phone in her hands, like a grenade, like she was deciding whether to pull the pin and toss it, or not. Tyler bit his lip. He did not want to start crying right now, but he wasn’t sure he could stop himself. All he needed was for someone to cut him a break, just help him out a little. Tina was sighing. Her lips were pursed. She folded her arms across her chest. Tyler wanted to punch her, but he reminded himself that his mission was to take care of his mother. Punching Tina would not help him complete that mission. He could hear Crater’s voice in his head, “she ain’t nothing but a second rate demon. She ain’t got nothing on Jesus.” Tyler wished that Crater in heaven, if he was in heaven, would pull Jesus aside and mention that Tyler was down on earth, falling apart, and Jesus might want to step in and actually show that the second rate demons had nothing on Him. That was the kind of assistance Tyler needed to complete his mission, but he had a feeling that Jesus was not going to actually show up and grab Tina and explain to her how hard Tyler was trying or, even better, just make her disappear. Tyler sighed. If Jesus could just give him something, even a small thing to keep him from giving up, it would really help. Tyler wasn’t asking for much, which, Tyler thought, might be the problem. Maybe he should ask for more.

His mom’s breathing slowed. She’d fallen asleep. He put her back in the bed, then sat down and picked up the Rosary beads. He closed his eyes and waited for the sound of footsteps and the front door closing.

Mary R. Finnegan is a freelance writer and editor, and leads writing workshops with Catholic Literary Arts. Her work can be found in Ekstasis, American Journal of Nursing, Catholic Digest, and elsewhere. Mary is currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at the University of St. Thomas, Houston.