At the end of the first part of the story of Christiane Tauzhers The teenager collapsed in front of a sausage counter. Her family rushes to the supermarket. How is she, how is this damn holiday going on?
The news that our daughter had collapsed in the supermarket on Capri (read what has happened so far in part one of this story), the lack of sleep, and my nerves on edge made my imagination run wild. I had an inkling of how Stephen King must feel when the hideous takes over his thoughts before he can put them on paper. I swear I was in Stephen King’s mind for a moment, or more moments, I can’t exactly say:
The beloved child in his favorite blue and white polka dot dress, stretched out on the cold tiled floor of the supermarket. One arm dramatically draped over the eyes. Cold twitching neon light from a broken tube. Soft moan. Oddly twisted left foot. Above the child, the glass sausage display case with prosciutto ham and mortadella sausage staring down at her like two huge eyes. A gigantic monster that… shatters the display case, the creature climbs out and…
“Hi? Christiane? Final destination! Everyone get out!” Olaf shook my shoulder. I winced.
We hurried across the piazza and headed towards the supermarket. Luckily we had been to Capri before and knew the way. The youngest, whose knee had puzzled the doctors in Naples two days ago, seemed to have miraculously healed. He jumped like a young kid over the cobblestones in front of us. “Take it easy” was what the doctor had said when he left the hospital. Ha! Ha! Ha!
Finally, the supermarket. We stepped panting over the threshold. And there she lay, like them camellia lady just before her last breath. Even the dress was right. The ham and sausage eyes, the showcase. Except that, unlike in my vision, the casualty was not alone, but at least eight concerned Italians were standing or crouching around her to help the big blond girl “dall’ Austria”. The owner of the shop had put vinegar under her nose to bring her back to life. When she saw us, she tried to get up with the last of her strength, but collapsed again and immediately two young men offered themselves as crutches. She was gratefully hoisted up. We hugged her gently, I kept the sausage and ham in the corner of my eye just to be safe.
“None of this would have happened if…”
“Here,” she said with death defiance in her voice and broke away from my hug, “here are the groceries you ordered.” She pointed to a large sack that was on the floor next to her. “None of this would have happened if you hadn’t made me go shopping.” I was too tired to answer at length. “Yes,” I said. “No”, would have also fitted.
“Can you perform?” asked Olaf. The camellia lady said no and made a face. Immediately the two Italians jumped back to her side. “Thank you,” said Olaf, “we can do it on our own now.” The teenager grimaced again, this time with regret because the two crutches (finally) left the field. “Ci vediamo dopo” (“See you later”) they shouted. “Si, certo” (“Yes, of course”), our daughter whistled.
We dragged her to our quarters, where she sank onto a bed, exhausted, but still had the strength to plug in her cell phone.
Next, we suggested calling a doctor. “No, that’s not necessary,” the patient moaned. She rejected the suggestions to freeze the leg, put on a compression stocking, massage in Voltadol and elevate the leg.
“How could that happen at all?” asked Olaf.
shrug.
“Did you perhaps drink too little?”
Sigh.
“Have you fallen over lately?”
shaking his head.
“Michele (note: the owner of the supermarket with which the teenager is now best friend ist) meant that it was just all too much for me. My body collapsed because of the mental stress.”
Oh, this Michele is really cute. Collapsed from concern for brother and mother who were locked up in a Neapolitan hospital for two days? When I trust my daughter with everything, but not this compassionate heart by God.
“I just think you haven’t had enough to drink,” I said.
“I drink when I’m thirsty,” I was told, “and I wasn’t thirsty.”
(Note: Drinking water in Italy has to be bought in bottles. It doesn’t come from the tap. So you would have had to BUY a bottle. You would have had to CARRY it home. With your own arms.)
“This whole situation was generally exhausting for me,” she said now.
I just wanted to eat something. I didn’t care about the rest. Surprisingly, the camellia lady was able to get up with the last of her strength and hobble with us to the pizzeria. It was to be the last time she set foot on public soil for the next three days.
From now on she never left the house until we left. She lay in bed or on a sun lounger, had us deliver her food and was invisible or in a bad mood the rest of the time.
What was not possible in her condition was: washing up, hanging up the towels, making the bed.
What went well was: look at the cell phone, watch Netflix, wash/blow dry your hair and draw.
The picture she drew in isolation with her brother’s felt-tip pens falls into the category of “very naive art.”
On the day we left, I wanted to get rid of the picture with the old newspaper.
“Of course you’re not going to hang it up. The main thing is that you have wallpapered the kitchen at home with Benedikt’s pictures.” (Note: Benedikt, the little brother, is seven years old.)
“Look”, I said, “you can give the picture to your grandmother. I’m sure she’ll be happy.” No, I confess, I did NOT want the picture, it would remind me of this vacation that I would like to forget.
Apropos: As soon as we arrived in Vienna, our daughter’s ankle forgot that it was badly injured.
After three days of “being locked up” (in paradise), she “now urgently needs to get out and socialize.” Light-footed.
Help! Stephen, how do I get out of your head?
PS: Grandmother didn’t put the picture up either.
Reason for the granddaughter: “You helped Benedikt too much with the picture. I prefer pictures that he painted alone.”