Rushed

Denise couldn’t seem to help the fact that she did everything quickly. In the morning, rather than let her coffee cool or take the moment to temper it with milk, she downed the scalding liquid, becoming addicted over time to the burning in the back of her throat. She was the same with booze, easily knocking back three gin and tonics in the time it took her companions, if she had any, to have one, and getting drunk as a result. She spoke quickly and succinctly and even in the bedroom rather than relish the rise of the oncoming pleasure, employed all manners of tricks to get off and then rushing her partner to do the same.

But where her rushing caused the most problems was on the city streets. Her long legs meant she could easily outwalk her fellow denizens and she was quite graceful in weaving in and out and between them, careful to avoid the inner city moms pushing prams at a crawl as they chain-smoked and gossiped in packs. She avoided running into the pocket-sized grannies who walked with canes that reached their temples. But occasionally someone would bump her shoulder or her bag and she would hear them shouting at her to “slow the fuck down”.

From the moment she awoke at 6:00, the day consisted of a series of tasks that had to be completed and ticked off a neatly constructed mental list (writing the list would be a waste of time). While doing one task as quickly and efficiently as possible, she was simultaneously thinking of the next. Get to work, make the copies, do the lesson, prepare for the next. She had tried to linger over a coffee at the break, chatting with colleagues but found the upcoming tasks too distracting. She secretly envied and admonished their lazy but relaxed approach to the days. After fleeing out the door, she had to do the shopping, put in the wash, cut the vegetables, wash the rice, do the dishes, hang the wash, grade the papers. And finally at 10:00, she could unfold herself into the bed and feel the mattress absorb the day.

It was on a particularly crowded Saturday at the mall that she tripped over an unseen small boy and tumbled down the concrete stairs. Stunned, she looked up at the faces peering down at her, angry at the boy because she should be in Tesco by now, basket over arm, strategically zigzagging through the aisles. In the ambulance, rude and impatient from fear and pain, Denise asked the man who was in charge of jabbing and pinching, when she’d be done and could go home.

“This looks like a bad break. You’re going to be with us for a while.”

For the first time in years, Denise called in sick for the next day and was quite miffed when her boss insisted on a full week so she could get a jump start on the healing and learn to use the crutches.

On her first day “off”, she was bored after 36 minutes and decided that she’d finally go to the outdoor café in Sergeant Square, which she’d passed nearly every day of her life for six years. As she hobbled to a small table, two men jumped up from a nearby bench and tried to help her ease into her wobbly metal chair. They smelled of cider and cigarettes but were full of smiles and “there you go loves”. She sipped her coffee to stretch the time and watched the activity in the small square. People stopped on the benches for spontaneous picnics, and an endless parade of homeless and junkies met, bantered, laughed, argued and went on. There was a repeating ballet of men feeding the pigeons and the children chasing them away, and all the while people rushing through the square were oblivious to it all.

Denise eventually finished her coffee and decided to walk to the supermarket for the week’s provisions. Walking at a much slower pace, every few steps she heard muffled words of sympathy and encouragement as people passed her by. She noticed that children were not as empty-headed as she previously thought—everything seemed to fascinate them, which is why they seemed to wander aimlessly but were actually moving from one interesting spot to the next. Old people, too, were not wishy-washy wanderers out for a stroll. There was a hard, gritty determination in their grunts and shuffles.

The groups of friends who always annoyed her by taking up the “whole fucking sidewalk” were clueless about their surroundings because they were so focused on one another, commiserating, giving advice, and making jokes at one another’s expense. She’d never walked down the street with a friend, knowing that the pace of it, the stress of listening and trying to get to Point B as quickly as possible would be a nightmare. Better to kill the two birds of socialising and shutting off her brain while at the pub.

By the third week, she was back to work and feeling quite calm despite the hassles of doors, stairs, and writing on whiteboards. There was more than ever a long list of tasks to be finished but she found she didn’t mind if some were pushed to the next day. Yet she yearned to be free of the monstrosity encasing her leg. When it was finally cut off, the first thing she noticed was how foreign her slightly shrunken leg appeared. She walked outside, arms feeling light without the crutches, center of gravity restored. She stood motionless outside the hospital for so long, someone asked if she needed to go inside.

She could see a long mental list of things she was unable to do for the last two months: clean the fridge, restock the pantry, flip the mattress. But she felt no pull towards them, which unsettled her greatly. Disoriented, she walked slowly west, noticing for the first time it felt, the sky turning pink.

 

 

Swimming Lessons

They’ve been at the deserted lake for hours. It’s a muggy day at the edge of summer with a slight chill in the air when the clouds cover the sun. Little Sister is getting bored with making sandcastles with the single plastic bucket and shovel. She likes digging a moat around the castle but hates the way the green slime keeps getting in the way. She’s trying to get the attention of Big Sister, who keeps looking at the empty gravel road. “Watch this!” She spins, does cartwheels, feels sand land in her hair. She jumps and twirls like a ballerina, but Big Sister won’t stop frowning and biting her nails.

Suddenly they see the dust and hear the crunch-crunch-crunch of an approaching car. Little Sister is scared, thinking of the movie she saw with the Big Kids when Babysitter was snoring in her reclining chair. The teenagers were running in the countryside from a madman in a mask. He kept finding them and stabbing them with a big knife. The boy in the car doesn’t have a mask. He’s wearing a jean jacket and has long hair. The music blaring from the car makes her ears hurt.

Big Sister now looks straight out to the lake. Her face is frozen like when Mom tells her she isn’t living up to her potential, that she’ll be barefoot and pregnant for the rest of her life if she keeps this up.

The boy turns off the car and runs his hand through his hair. He gets out of the car and sits down next to Big Sister and kisses her on the cheek.

“You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Babe. I had stuff to do for my mom.”

“You’re a liar. I know you were with her.”

“Don’t be like this. You know you’re the only one for me. I swear!”

Big Sister gets up and in one fluid motion, takes off her shirt, revealing a hot pink bikini, held together by strings. Little Sister has never seen her Big Sister’s body like this. It is beautiful and terrifying.

Without saying a word, Big Sister dives into the water and begins swimming towards a wooden pier far off in the middle of the lake. Soon, Little Sister can’t see the pink straps, just white arms cutting through the still black water.

The boy watches for a moment and without a word, lights a cigarette and gets into his car. The sound of the wheels spinning on the gravel and the angry music jar the stillness of the lakeside. Little Sister feels like she isn’t in a real place, that it’s a movie and something bad is going to happen.

The dust of the car is gone and she can’t see Big Sister’s arms anymore. She screams her name and begins to shake. She wraps herself in a towel and sits at the edge of the lake. Big Sister has never left her alone, has never ignored her.  They always go on adventures and build couch forts and make plays. And when she is afraid at night, Big Sister always lets her in and they tell secrets until they fall asleep.

The pain in her heart makes her think she is going to die. She is crying so hard she can’t breathe. She buries her head in her hands just like when she watched the movie.

It feels like hours have passed when she hears a splashing sound and Big Sister is crawling towards her, heaving and gasping. Her arms are covered in goosebumps and saliva falls from her mouth in long strings. She clutches Little Sister and her bony arms feel like popsicles and she smells like the slime. She cries when she sees Little Sister’s wet face and red eyes.

“I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have left you. I thought he would follow me. Did he say anything?

“You almost drown-ded! You left me alone. I hate you. I HATE YOU!!!”

Little Sister wants to squeeze herself into a ball or inside one of the many shells that are scattered on the beach and make noise if she holds them to her ear. She wants to be inside the sandcastle protected by the moat. She can’t stop crying.

Big Sister sits and pulls her close to her chest like she has done since she was a baby. They used to sit like that for hours, reading in front of the fireplace. She rocks her and hums and soon she feels calm. Under the towel, their skin begins to warm and there’s a tiny bit of release from the fist clutching her heart.

The car ride is silent save the occasional piece of gravel hitting the car and the steady whoosh of the heater. At dinner Mom knows something is up. But when Big Sister looks at her and crosses her eyes and sticks her finger in her nose, Little Sister forgets the heaviness in her chest and laughs. The laughing is an unexpected treat, like eating Cool-whip from the tub or licking the chocolate off the beaters. She can’t get enough and eventually Mom yells at her to knock it off.

That night Big Sister reads her a book in bed and acts out all the characters with such funny voices, Little Sister can’t get sleepy. But she knows already that she won’t sleep.

“I’m so sorry, Little Sister. I will never do something like that again. I will never leave you. You are my bestest sister. I will never care about a boy more than you.” After a pause, she whispers, “And I will never trust a boy again.”

Later in the dark, the words soothe Little Sister, especially the bestest sister part, but something broke apart from her, like a twig on a tree, and was left on the beach. She hears the words Big Sister said and one phrase bounces around her head. She knows she will have to be careful now. She understands she must never trust again.

The Man Named Ben

Rachel was 10 when she first met a homeless person. It was a muggy Midwestern afternoon that was so hot even the flies hovered ever so slowly in the thick air. But she didn’t notice the heat as she twirled down the street, flanked by her two cousins who never told her to shut up when she started singing or humming. They were 12 and 13 and at that stage when they were trying on the hardened expressions of men. They didn’t make eye contact with anyone they passed but their gait suggested that trouble would ensue if anyone looked twice at the skinny and slightly unkempt girl between them.

Rachel had been sent to live with them when she was 6 and through the hushed mutterings between their mother and grandmother, they figured out Rachel had been living with bad people and had somehow been rescued. She was a quiet, odd girl with permanently stringy hair and a dirty face. She sat at the back of class at school, looking out the window and pinching herself when she started to hum. But because her two cousins who were rough enough to be considered bullies took her on, the other kids ignored her.

She had two qualities that for her cousins, bordered on the supernatural and made her even more valuable to protect. Though she was often oblivious to what was going on around her, she had an uncanny ability to know when something was in distress. Countless times, she had led them blocks away to a small kitten stuck in a fence or sewer grate and she could always spot a tiny chic that had fallen from its nest. Many a robin she nursed back to health but more than a few were laid to rest in a tiny patch of dirt in the backyard, their short lives marked by a single plastic pinwheel.

Her other talent, of slightly more interest to the two young boys, was her ability to steal from the corner shop and never get caught. She would shyly go the counter and buy a pack of grape gum or a pencil or a bag of chips, slowly and carefully counting out the exact change in pennies and nickels and the occasional quarter, meanwhile chocolate bars and magazines were securely tucked in various places under her clothes. It didn’t occur to them until years later that the rather gruff Mr. Schmidt may have known she was stealing and just let it go.

So it was on this hot, steamy day that after going to the shop that Rachel knew they had to go to Herman Park a few blocks away. The boys didn’t mind as the park was small but had a few old and therefore more dangerous slides and even boasted a barrel that you stood inside of and made spin like a hamster wheel.

When they arrived they saw a youngish man sitting on one of the benches, wearing all camouflage, two giant army green bags next to him. He had a huge reddish beard and long, wavy hair. When the boys raced to go into the barrel, Rachel sat down next to the man and offered him candy. He smiled and introduced himself as Ben. He asked her if they were in Albion and she said they were. He then explained that the town was completely different, that they’d moved all the buildings to confuse him.  If he went to the places he knew like the newspaper where his uncle worked, the school where his mom was a teacher, or even the factory where his Dad worked and told everyone what he knew, what was really happening in the war, he’d start a revolution. What he knew would change the world.

“Maybe the buildings are different now but we got a school and a factory. You could still go there.”

“No, they don’t know me so they won’t believe me. And they probably hired actors to pretend they don’t know me or believe me. Like on the Truman Show.”

What Rachel didn’t realize was that Ben and she were in Albion, but Ben was in the wrong Albion. His was miles and miles away in a different state.

When her cousins saw that she was talking to a strange man, they came and told her more sternly than necessary that it was time to go home. They didn’t even look at Ben but looked at one another, slightly scrunching up their noses and trying not to laugh.

That night Rachel begged her aunt to let Ben come and live with them. Her aunt, accustomed to her niece bringing home strays  they had no place for in a two-bedroom house, told her he was homeless and homeless people were sometimes dangerous and crazy.

“But I was homeless and you kept me.”

“You’re family, honey. A little crazy, but that’s ok.” And she gave her a big hug and gently wiped her tears away.

Rachel hatched a plan that involved taking a bus to a town an hour away and stealing a minivan for Ben to live in somewhere out in the country. The cousins were immediately on board and the three discussed the details well past the time the lightning bugs came out and the air cooled.

The next day, Rachel brought Ben a sandwich and chips but wasn’t allowed to stay and chat. On the third day he was gone. Rachel went to the police station, sandwich in hand, and said, "Have you seen the homeless guy named Ben. I need to give him this” They told her not to talk to strangers and to go home. They then proceeded to do their own search of the town.

The boys never stole a van or any other vehicle and the police never found a man wandering their tiny, safe town. And Rachel, instead of twirling in a state of oblivion, never stopped searching the faces of strangers looking for a man name Ben.