An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: memoir

Roller Coaster

Nonfiction by Mary Zelinka

It’s 1973 and I’m working at the Federal Reserve Bank in downtown Denver. I’m twenty-five and at the tail end of my marriage. Only one of our two cars runs at a time and my husband uses it. After we drop our four-year-old Bobby off at the sitter’s at 6:00 AM, he drives me to work. I’m always an hour early. I spend this hour in the bank cafeteria’s kitchen tagging after Velma and her twelve-inch beehive hairdo as she fixes me breakfast and spouts raunchy jokes. This is the best part of my day.

After work, I take the bus home. This is the worst part of my day. Crowds of people jostle for position – if you don’t make the first bus, which I rarely do – you have to wait twenty minutes for the next. Then I’m late picking Bobby up and we have to walk the mile home in the dark.

On this particular summer afternoon as I’m being shouldered about on the sidewalk, I hear a loud voice, thick with accent, “Vitch bus the Elitch Garden?  I must to ride famous roller coaster!” 

It’s sweltering hot, in the way heat beats down on a city. My thin cotton dress feels damp as my opponents for the first bus press close. But the louder the Voice grows, the wider the space between me and the crowd becomes. Finally, the Voice is right next to me, and, since I haven’t learned (will never learn, actually) not to make eye contact with anyone in the city, he is looking at me right in the eyes.

“Vitch bus the Elitch?  I must to ride roller coaster!” I look around at the other bus riders, but everyone keeps their gaze firmly fixed at some point far away.  I shake my head and shrug my shoulders at the man. 

Deep lines cut through his big square face, his smile wide. He laughs, a great booming laugh. And then, to my increasing anxiety, unbuttons the left cuff of his heavy long-sleeved shirt (how could he wear such a shirt on this hot day?) and begins rolling up his sleeve in an alarming manner. 

He flexes his bicep at me and laughs. “Russian!  Ninety years!  Strong!” Not sure of the proper behavior in this situation, I nod at him and smile. 

“I like you!” He’s no taller than I am, but he wraps his arms around me and lifts me off the sidewalk. He tosses me upwards a bit, the way you would a child, and then sets me down. My legs wobble. 

“I find the Elitch Garden! Ride roller coaster!” And he marches on down the street just as the first bus sighs to a stop. The crowd shoves past and I’m vaguely aware of the bus leaving without me as I stare after him.    

My husband and I divorce not long afterwards. He leaves me the car with the payments and my bus riding days come to an end.    

Six months later, I am downtown at night on a date. It’s late and has been snowing. The sidewalks are slick and Jack has his arm around me as we leave the restaurant. 

Suddenly a short square man marches up to us, stops, and peers into my face. “You!”  He laughs his booming laugh. “I find Elitch! Roller coaster fast!” I laugh with him, but I notice Jack takes his arm from around me and moves a half step away.

“Still strong!” The Russian flexes his bicep at me, thankfully leaving all his clothing securely buttoned. He wraps his arms around me and tosses me upwards. This time my legs do not wobble when he sets me down. He laughs and then marches off into the night.

I look up at Jack, thrilled that he witnessed this event. He had accused me of making the Russian up. 

His face has gone dark. 

Later I will realize Jack’s reaction accurately foretold my next four years. And by the time I escape him, this dark look has become normal.    

But in that moment, watching the Russian materialize through the snow, giant flakes clinging to his hair, his wide smile upon recognizing me, I am so taken with the magicalness of his existence I am filled with joy.


Mary Zelinka lives in Oregon’s Willamette Valley and has worked at the Center Against Rape and Domestic Violence for almost 35 years. Her writing has appeared in The Sun Magazine, Brevity, and Multiplicity.

A Lifeline

Nonfiction by Gail Purdy

The afternoon was grey with light rain. No different than any other day during the winter months. The world appeared softer through the rain-spattered windshield as I sat motionless in the car outside my mother’s apartment building. I felt the deep heaviness that had made itself at home in my body. What else did I need to do before I went home and cocooned for the night?

My cell phone rang just as I turned the key in the ignition. The woman’s voice sounded harsh coming through my car’s audio system.

“This is the Director of Care at Evergreen Baptist Care Facility. Is this Gail?”

“Yes, it is.”

“We have a bed for your mother. You have until tomorrow to decide if you want it. If you do, you must move your mother into the facility within 72 hours. Normally it is 48 hours, but you have an extra day because of the New Year’s holiday.”

The idea of my mother moving into a long-term care facility was something I didn’t allow myself to think about. I didn’t want to hope. Was it possible that this journey of caring for my mother might soon end? Was someone throwing me a lifeline, and I just needed to grab hold of it? Could I grasp hope and not let it slip through my fingers?

It had only been two weeks since the case manager visited my mother to assess if it was safe for her to continue living independently. The regional health authority would decide if my mother qualified for a ‘subsidized bed’ in a long-term care facility. A decision that was weighted heavily on how many authorized services my mother was currently using. Any assistance I contracted privately to support my mother didn’t count. “I only gather the information and present it to the assessment team,” the case manager told me. “Every care facility in your immediate area has a six to nine-month waitlist. So don’t expect your mother to move soon if she is approved.”

What did live independently really mean? The only reason my mother had been able to live alone in her apartment over the last several years was because of me. She had fallen five times in less than four months, and each time I found her lying on the floor, not knowing how to call for help. When she stopped bathing, I arranged for someone to assist her. When she could no longer make sense of microwave instructions to reheat prepared meals, I hired someone to purchase groceries and prepare meals for her. Afraid of falling again, she had become reluctant to leave her apartment.

Fingers deformed by arthritis made it difficult for her to remove medications from the pharmacy-sealed blister packs. Yellow and red pills were found among the forks and spoons in the kitchen drawer, and a zip-lock sandwich bag containing a handful of pills sat near the toaster. Evidence of what had been lost and retrieved over time.

Each square on my mother’s large calendar contained the names of people who came to help her each day. Confusion set in each time she looked at it or when someone showed up to help her. “Why are you here?” she asked. “I don’t need any help.”

#

As the woman on the phone continued to speak, I heard her voice, but I couldn’t respond.

Frustration and anger had taken their toll. Trying to manage the needs of my aging mother was crushing me. As hours turned into days and days into months, I felt fragile. Feeling myself slowly breaking apart, I wondered if I would be lost in the shattering. Self-preservation was screaming at me. Responding to these needs had become a way of life for me, and I didn’t know how to be any different. And now I was slowly losing myself.

Anger bubbled just beneath the surface of my self-control. With a force and energy of its own, anger surfaced at will. I wanted to live my life, not my mother’s. She no longer knew how to keep herself safe, and I was anxious about what might happen when I couldn’t be with her. I was afraid of losing her, and at the same time, I wanted her gone. Fear and anger wrestled inside of me, each fighting to take control.

#

Only a few seconds had passed as images from the last year flashed through my mind. I slipped back into the present, aware of the rain on the windshield and the woman on the phone.

“Yes, we will take the room,” I heard myself say as numbness spread through my body. Fog descended over the streets as I drove home.


Gail Purdy is an emerging writer and multi-disciplinary visual artist living on the west coast of British Columbia. She is the runner up recipient of the 2021 International Amy MacRae Memorial Award for Memoir. Her story “The Parking Lot” was part of the 2021 Amy Award Anthology.

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