Twenty-five

We’re stopped at Nazareth Drive. Johnny Cash’s 25 minutes to go starts on a loop. 

Four people get off but only two join our small pathetic crowd.  

The first is an older woman, not motherly but beyond that. She’s hunched a bit, shoulders pulled up tight and forward, leaving her red sweater taught on broad shoulders. Whether it’s the large overflowing grocery bags in her arms pulling her or the weight of life that has left its permanent mark, I don’t know. Either way she seems just as worn as the rest of us. Scanning her pass is a habit. She barely acknowledges anyone she passes. She seems to belong in the seat she chooses.

The other seems in a better mood, higher spirits, actually making eye contact with the driver and thanking him before looking for a seat. Maybe it’s her age that differs her from the first, or something personal that years past couldn’t take, but there’s life in her eyes. She’s dressed in a yellow and blue colour block jacket and a decrepit bonnet that gives a sweetness to her. She brings along the scent of strong coffee and smoke as she passes. Not cigarette smoke or the kind similar to my Grandfather’s pipe. No, the kind that stings your nostrils and makes you wonder if she’s on fire.

Her eyes catch mine and are matched with a smile, they try to offer up the comfort and hospitality you hear about from cities down here. I smile back, tempted to invite kindness into my day. It’s a short trip, there is no harm in simple conversation, but I change my gaze to my lap in hope that crooked teeth will be the most I know about this woman. She seems to understand and finds her place along the aisle. 

There are nine of us in total, spread around as though we’re scared the other will share their cough or life story. You’d think it was a new environment for all of us, but everyone seems familiar with the bell pull and how to find comfort in the plastic seats that are determined to be imprinted by our spines.

It’s our culture, isn’t it? Isolation by choice, even when surrounded by others. A few have headphones on, adding more distance than the empty seats between us. The others rely on newspapers, books and phones to keep far enough away to pretend we aren’t all carpooling. I am no different, though, Johnny Cash keeps me company on this old city bus.

There’s a small jerk, but my body is used to heeding the motion and barely sways. 

We’re at Galilee Street. 22 minutes to go.

No one leaves this time. Three clammer on. 

His face reads of stress trying to be covered by millennial ego and a trimmed beard. He lifts his chin up in a hello to the driver. One hand is carefully placed on his bag to seem natural and not as though he’s controlled by the fear of theft. 

He’s tall, and thin, but obviously conscious of his build and health. It’d be nice to pretend my detective skills are that strong, but he’s got some god awful looking green drink in his hand and his shirt calls the name of a new trending workout. Maybe it’s a lie, just a quick metabolism and good genes, but he’s eager for the credit of hard work. 

He sits closest to me, probably because there are finite seats on a bus. He gives a small smile as he sits, relaxing his clutch on his bag so he can pull Bukowski from the main flap. It’s a worn book, with the cover taped up the middle as though that will keep it in one piece a little longer. 

“That’s a good one,” I could say, it would just be an excuse to talk, looking for an interest that could be shared beyond literacy. 

“Personal favourite,” he’d boast. It would build to small talk about books, a short contest to see who had read more classics. He’d drone on and I’d nod with a polite smile. We’d laugh and someone would give in; this book was likely the only thing he knew. 

The bus stopping, and my body wanting to move into the pole beside me, pulls my head from the clouds. A surge of thanks shoots through me and pushes me into standing a bit quickly. My hand on the pole beside me steadies my movements enough to move my feet. For a moment I blame the blood rushing from my head for the churn in my stomach, but my mother’s voice “tsks” in my head and a lump the size of an acorn nudges me along.

Perea Road. 19 minutes to go. 

I slide out the front door, stopping instantly when my feet hit concrete. I hadn’t realised it had started to rain, and apparently missed the thunder that was rolling around above. My hair is already sticking to me, bunched against my neck. Blonde blending with pale skin. 

The people waiting do not seem pleased with my delay, grumbling and pushing past me into the shelter of the bus. Everyone seems to be in a gentle jog, or trying to move slow enough that the rain will not spray under their umbrellas. The disdain for rain grows with age, kids try to jump in puddles while their parents desperately try to stay undercover.

There’s a small girl that tugs at her mom’s arm, her hand is stuck up into the air catching the rain. She smiles big, even with the cover of a blue umbrella above them. Rain always seems more magical when you’re a child. 

“Wilhemina!” My mother was the only person to use my full name. It was clever though, the possibility of trouble always had me running full speed to wherever she stood. 

“You’re going to get sick playing out in this weather,” she said as I skipped to the front door, smiling up at the rain. She tried to glare but the slightest bit of jealousy pushed through in a grin. She always wanted to be the parent who dragged me away from stupidity, but it was easy to condone childish actions when she was still a child herself. 

“Put a jacket on, at least. Those school moms are just waiting for a reason to brand me as a poor parent,” she grumbled. She pulled me in to change into dry clothes, and a yellow vinyl coat, that would attempt to wick away the water, before sending me back on my way. It was easy to see her trying to parent like others, but she knew her own roots had grown too long to try and find a new direction.

My mother wrote her own book on parenting. She didn’t believe in the traditional life, she found importance in the vibrancy of imagination. It was all improvisation, her own rules and interpretations. She told stories of monsters that grew in messy rooms or of fairies that relied on the creativity of arts and crafts. She let her small frame participate in games of hide and seek but did not let it hinder her; she could be the tallest in a room because of her ambition and mouth that struggled to stay quiet for long. 

She created stories for our incomplete family filled with ideas of who my father could be. She would point out my light hair compared to her dark and claim a charming prince had properly wooed her. My perfect vision while she needed glasses was proof enough he was a high ranking pilot for the Air Force (eventually she would admit there were a few possibilities from a music festival that had lasted a long weekend).

“Daddy!” The little girl calls, finally escaping her mother’s grasp and running into the rain. She leaps, full of trust, into the arms of a man one storefront ahead of them. The man smiles as he stands in a soaked suit. He catches the girl with ease and greets the woman with a happy kiss. 

They huddle together and collect warmth with proximity. Eventually the girl moves from her father’s arms back to her mother’s and the umbrella mirrors her. It’s a happy scene, one that Hallmark wishes they could capture for some homecoming movie. It’s a happy scene, one that I have dreamt of my whole life. 

They disconnect but stay close. They try to utilise the umbrella but aren’t bothered by the weather. We walk alongside each other but two lanes and ghost cars keep us worlds apart. The little girl keeps her hand near the water but her parents have taken her attention, swinging arms and a slow pace seems to keep a smile on all of their faces. 

We walk together till the road bends in front of us. They seem puzzled, one points left as the other points right. Decisions, decisions. Their destination lies somewhere ahead and yet they stand there looking back and forth. It takes maybe a moment before they laugh, shrug up their shoulders, and turn right. Just like that, the blue umbrella waves farewell into the darkening sky, leaving me and Johnny Cash behind. 

“Excuse me, Miss.” A voice nudges as a body moves past mine. It’s just a blur of yellow, a vinyl hood, and a call back to the day. A call back to the street signs staring me down. 

It’s a left on Judea Drive. 14 minutes to go. 

There isn’t a single body before me. No kids jumping in puddles, or businessmen holding briefcases over their heads. There’s just a road with shops and small houses. It’s a straight shot, maybe a few blocks further, but it’s a decision to continue on. 

“I just don’t see the problem with having options,” Halle stated, her words drowning into another sip of coffee. She had already laid out her opinion, fully digested the conversation, and beat it dead. But it would have been unlike her to leave without the last word. 

“I understand,” I groaned, “I understood you the first ten times you said it.” 

“So you’ve made a decision?” she asked, a heavy eyebrow curling up like a caterpillar on the move. She only needed a moment of hesitation, a single pause, and she knew enough. 

“Well my mom-” I tried.

“You're not your mom,” she cut in. “Timing was different for her. I loved your mom like my own but you were her life, and she wanted nothing more, had nothing to lose. You have more to offer, more to gain, and to prove to the world. Are you really gonna risk it all?”

“Just make an appointment, at least,” she added, her hands lowered her mug to allow her words to fully reach me. “You don’t have to commit to anything right away. It’s only been a year, Willie, I get that you miss her. But you can’t replace her on a whim..” 

She hadn’t jumped on that silence, just let the moment marinate until we were both exhausted. My coffee turned cold in my hands, the mug no longer radiating a comfortable heat. Steam hissed around us, a couple orders rang in the air, and the world continued on. 

The few blocks I had to travel seem to have vanished before me. What was expected to last for a while was only a couple of cold minutes. The rain has eased up but the darkness of the day hasn’t broken. The corner building comes into sight after a few more dragged steps, along with the sight of drenched cardboard and white posters. 

The word crowd would be far too generous for the group standing on the corner. They’re all dishevelled as the rain gets in their way. They huddle in odd clumps with their melted signs in front of their chests. 

It’s a pathetic sight, shivering bodies and blurred words dripping because of cheap markers, but I move no further. Their gazes dart around the area, heads turning and arms thrusting posters into the faces of anyone walking by. 

“We are the voices of the voiceless! Your mother chose life, why shouldn’t you!” A man yells, glaring down at a young couple that weave their way through and to the building just beyond. Into the building the group blocks. The one I need entrance to. 

It’s pathetic, only a few people with their words and beliefs, yet I’m immobile. My mind is blank as a woman watches my movements, daring me to move closer. 

“Why don’t you want to go to the dance again?” My mother asked, seemingly disinterested in my decision. Her hands continued moving around the sewing machine, bunching and flattening the satin fabric with ease, mostly done constructing a dress I asked her to make for me for the big eighth grade dance. 

“Because Jeremy Connors said that only losers and weirdos go to school dances,” I groaned, stomping up right next to her. She turned her eyes just barely towards me, her hair was a dark mess up and on top of her head, proving she was ready to work.

“Well alright,” she hummed, a pin steady between her teeth before she was sliding it into the blue chiffon at her fingertips. “But what does that have to do with you going?” She properly paused her work, her body leaning back into the old oak chair that had seen far better days. Her hands rubbed at her face for a moment, pushing her glasses up before they fell back down onto her pug nose.

“I don’t want to be a loser or a weirdo!” I said throwing my arms into the air, hoping my mother would finally see the point with the added gesture. She nodded for a moment, hands coming together and resting on her abdomen. 

“Do you like this, Jeremy?” she asked. The next few moments were quickly filled with a spew of disgusted sounds and faces as I thought of a response.

“No!” I laughed, shaking my hands and the idea of ever liking someone like Jeremy Connors. My mother smiled at this and nodded once more. 

“So then why do you care what this Jeremy thinks?” It felt like a trick question, like a trap, but it was my mother and she seemed less than in the mood to play games. 

“Well… I mean I don’t,” I said, “but then he’ll think I’m a loser and a weirdo.” 

My mother nodded again, spinning a flat silver ring around her plump middle finger. She looked me over before standing up and moving into the kitchen. There was no question on whether I should follow, I lived to be her shadow. 

“Do you agree with Jeremy, that only losers and weirdos go to these dances?” She said, standing at the fridge and letting the cool air bask over the outdated kitchen. “Because I used to like these dances. Do you think I’m a weirdo?” 

“Sometimes,” I said, but smiled as she stuck her tongue out at me. “But in a good way!” I added, grabbing at her hand. 

“So then sometimes it’s good to be a weirdo?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, just filled up two glasses with lemonade and handed one over to me. 

“Do you believe that only losers and weirdos go to the dances?” she asked again. I took a small sip from my drink, only responding with a shrug of my shoulders. Her eyes looked me over, head gently nodding to buy herself some time to think. 

“If it wouldn’t make you a weirdo, would you want to go to the dance?” She asked, this question seemed far less intimidating to my mid-puberty self-esteem. 

“Yes,” I said, “Halle still wants to go.”

“Well then I say you should ignore whatever it is this Jeremey kid believes and follow what you want to do.” She smiled, before leading me back to her work station and my mostly constructed dress. 

“Do you think it will be fun?” I asked her, leaning onto the arm of the old oak chair. 

“If you stop thinking about what this Jeremy boy thinks, you’ll have a blast,” she said. “Willie, hun, life will be horribly boring if you live by what other people tell you is normal or right. If you want to live a fun and worthwhile life, you know who you need to listen to? Same person who tells us to rebel from this stagnant status quo.” 

The words didn’t fully make sense to me then but they excited me nonetheless. It wasn’t much of a lead up, but the smile building on my mother’s lips was always a good cue.  She laughed a little as I skittered around the dining room table and to the old record player we had saved from the curb. There’s only one small stack of 78’s but the only one that mattered sat happily on top. I tried to move quickly but knew that being careful with our prized possession was far more important than speed. 

“Good ol’ Johnny Cash!” I smiled as the needle fell in place, a low guitar strum built in the room. My mother nodded across the table from me, her hands were already busy, as the sewing machine’s thrum rivalled the music. 

“Good Ol’ Johnny Cash.”. 

“and it chills my spine 11 more minutes to go” Mr. Cash hums in my ears, my eyes fall back onto the group in front of me. The woman still has her eyes on mine, but they don’t test me anymore. All this attention because there is a lump, no bigger than a shelled walnut, weighing me down. 

My chin tips up, my mother laughs in my head, and I move forward. Their words seem quieter than they were before, their own beliefs unimportant to me and thrown into an empty evening sky. 

The whirring of a lazy air conditioner welcomes me. The dampness of my coat and entire being are amplified by a cold room filled with mostly empty chairs. It’s a waiting room like all the others I’ve come across. Chairs line the walls as though a group discussion will commence, or a poorly planned AA meeting. It’s bland in every sense of the word yet the fabric and carpet try hard to pretend they are comforting. 

I move behind a couple that stand before the receptionist, the same pair that had pushed through the posters before me. Small smiles sit on their faces as they pass paperwork back and forth. The woman has her hand gently resting on her stomach, a bump, barely noticeable, pushes up against her shirt. 

“Well congratulations you two,” the receptionist smiles, “take a seat and your name will be called soon.” The couple nods, thanking her and pushing closer together as they move to find a set of seats. 

“Hi, how can I help you today?” The receptionist says, eyes moving up from the computer screen to find me across her small barricade. 

“I have an appointment, I’m just here to check in.” I say pulling an earbud out to hear her more clearly. “The name is Wilhemina Carter.” 

“Alright, one moment please,” she answers. Her gaze drops down to the screen before her, teeth gnaw on chapped lips as though finding my name truly demands such concentration. She’s young, my age roughly, but her mid-twenties face looks tired as bags settle under her eyes. 

“Ms. Carter, alright,” she says. Her chair swivels and puts her body in front of the printer then back to me. A neon pink clipboard quickly pops up in front of my face with a chained pen dangling off its side

“If you could just fill out these forms, front and back. Please make sure to fill them out as accurately as possible. You can bring them into the appointment, so don’t feel rushed. There’s only one person in front of you, so you’ve got about 8 minutes to go.” 

“Okay,” I say, collecting the board and pen. “Thank you,” I add, receiving a smile that seems far too large for such a tired face. 

“Of course, let me know if you need anything else, Ms. Carter,” the receptionist says. 

I find a seat off in the corner, allowing my body to relax into the polyester upholstery. There are seven of us spread around the room, all with our heads down and hands clasped together. There are two couples who lean toward one another, small whispers barely breaking the steady hum of a fan unseen. 

The papers before me offer nothing unique to this clinic. They require my life to be spelled out with as much biological accuracy as could be understood by the common person. A stripping of experiences and habits left to be checkmarks in small boxes.  

25 years old.

White.

Female. 

Blonde.

Allergies - None

Medicine - Birth Control

Vaccines - Up to date 

Family History. 

Family History. 

“Mom let me get it!” I called, trying to get across the room and up to the cabinet before her. My mother just grunted, her arm still trying to reach up to a top shelf the tips of her toes couldn’t even get her to. It took a moment to move beside her, lift my hand, and grab the box of spare tea. 

“I could’ve gotten that honey,” my mother said, the fact that she wasn’t yanking it from my hands substituted as a thank you. 

“You’re not supposed to be stretching that far, you’re barely supposed to be out of bed,” I said to her. “Go sit, I’ll make this and bring it to you.” 

Her movements were slow but it allowed her time to complain on her way back to the couch. It became a habit to keep hot water on the stove. The tea kettle was always on a simmer, whining out a whistle under its breath. I grabbed a fresh mug from the cupboard, the one she had been using could use a clean, and hoped a small debauched cartoon could cheer her up. 

“I thought you said you always wanted to be treated like a Queen,” I said walking back through the hall to the small sunroom. My mother was curled into the loveseat, two blankets completely hiding her away from the small fall breeze. 

“Well maybe a Queen who is allowed to make herself some damn tea,” she grumbled, looking up to me like an insolent child. “I feel more like a useless sack of bones than some royal pain in the ass.” 

“If it makes you feel better, you are definitely a pain in my ass,” I said. I throw a hand to my hip and mock the way she always stood when anything bothered her. 

I got a laugh from this, and not a tired chuckle, but a full belly laugh that only came from my mother. The smile on her face made the day a little brighter, the sun streamed through the room of windows a little stronger. She looked like herself at that moment, small crinkles up next to her eyes and lines framing her smile. Even with the lack of hair on top of her head, or without the curves that used to catch the attention of everyone we walked by, I saw my mother. 

She calmed when the laugh tried to turn into a cough and cleared her throat as I handed her the tea. We sat there for the rest of the afternoon until the sun started to fall and the cool air became a threat rather than a warning for seasons to come. 

I walked my mother over to her room, grateful for single floor ranches, and let her get settled. Nights were a routine for us. I cleaned up most of what was left from the day, put dishes away, and folded extra blankets that stayed in a convenient location. I put leftovers in the fridge and played an involuntary game of Tetris with neighbourhood casseroles. 

I went back to the bedroom with a handful of pills and a fresh cup of tea. My mother was cocooned in old quilts that were as old as me but sat up eager for the comfort tea and medicine would bring her. 

“Willie, honey, will you put on some music?” She asked, her hands balanced the cup as she sunk back into the nest she had accumulated. 

I nodded and moved over to an old record player that had found a new home on my mother’s dresser. There was no point in questioning what my mother would want to listen to, I would only get “the usual” in response. 

My fingers moved through the pile that had properly grown over the years but pulled an all too familiar 78’ from the stack. I climbed into bed beside her as the needle rotated around, searching for the music. She nudged me till I moved into her side, my head falling to her shoulder. A moment later, a small scratch, and a guitar filled the room. 

“Well I won’t back down,” my mother sang into my hair. Her voice was never any good but neither of us cared as Johnny Cash sat with us.

It was a routine, good days and bad days trading until the good days became rarities. My mother fought a good fight her whole life, never letting others’ opinions or attitudes take her down. But in the end even she was proven mortal. 

I let the pen rest on the clipboard, all of it balanced carefully on my legs. My fingers are hesitant, as though I’m invading someone else’s body, and move carefully to rest just above where my belly button sits. The fabric of my shirt is too thick and the small bump tucked too far back, yet I swear I can feel the weight pushing back. 

A door left of the receptionist’s desk opens and a short plump woman in blue scrubs steps out. 

“Wilhemina Carter? We’re ready for you.”