By Daisy Cashin,
Linda woke up with the summer sun and reached over to her bed’s cold right side. Startled not to find anyone there, she reached for a pack of Parliament cigarettes on her bedside table, then plucked one out with her front teeth. In the table’s drawer, Linda found a pink lighter and touched the flame to the end of the cigarette. She inhaled deeply and dragged her creaky legs off the bed, pressing her toes into the cool, hardwood floor beneath.
On the bedside table, amongst an array of photographs of her grandchildren, an unfinished glass of gas station cabernet sat on top of a copy of Brené Brown’s s Atlas of the Heart. Linda reached for the wine, titled her head back like a heron that had just nabbed a bluegill, and dumped the wine down her gullet. She swallowed hard and let out an audible “Ahh.” Having briefly fabricated the hint of sun-drenched optimism required to open such a book, Linda read the first page again for the hundredth time.
Uninterested, Linda stood and opened a screenless window next to the bed. The birds on the feeder greeted her warmly, and she reciprocated with a grin, wave, and whistle. A cool breeze from the New River at the edge of her yard fanned her smoldering cigarette, and ash fell on her pale, lilac nightgown, adding to an abundant collection of burn holes. Eventually, an ember fell onto the knuckle of her big toe, bitterly forcing her from her perch.
“Daggumit,” she muttered and scooted towards the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Linda started a pot of coffee and poured Lucky Charms into a large, wooden salad bowl. When she went to the refrigerator for milk, she noticed a note on the door that read, “Make oatmeal for breakfast.” Linda ignored the directive, pulled out a week-old jug of whole milk, and splashed some into her Lucky Charms. Meticulously, she ate each marshmallow until only soggy cereal floated in the bowl.
After she finished her Lucky Charms, Linda stood to grab a crusted coffee mug from the sink. Impatiently, she pulled the still brewing pot from the machine and filled her mug as drops of coffee fell onto the heating plate, evaporating like so many memories. Next to the coffee machine, above a pink pill case resting on the linoleum countertop, a note read, “Take pills for Tuesday.” Linda obliged and opened the case but picked out the unconsumed handful of pills from the Wednesday slot, casually tossing them into her mouth and washing them down with a swig of coffee. As she swallowed, the phone rang.
“Mmm, hello?” Linda answered with warm intent but with the cold rattle of a tarped lawnmower.
“Hey, mom. It’s Margaret. Just checking in. Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Margaret?” Linda responded as she cleared her throat.
“Yes, mom. It’s Margaret, your daughter.”
“Oh, duh. I knew that. I was just messing with you. You think I am just out to lunch, don’t you?” Linda chuckled, “And, yes, I just had my Lucky Charms.”
“Lucky Charms? Where did you get Lucky Charms?” Margaret asked, “You need to eat something real for breakfast so your medicine doesn’t tear up your stomach. Please tell me you took your medicine.”
“Yes, I took my medicine. You must think I’m just out to lunch,” Linda insisted.
“Good. Did you get dressed yet? I left a shirt and some pants on your dresser.”
“I haven’t made it that far. I’m afraid I’m just out to lunch. Say, where is everybody?” Linda asked with a politely veiled panic.
“It’s just you there right now, Mom. Remember? We talked about this yesterday. I had to leave yesterday morning, and your son, my brother, Don, will be there tonight. If you need anything today, you just call me, okay?” Margaret reassured her mother.
“That’s right. I knew that. You must think I’m just out to lunch. I am so foggy in the mornings. Remind me again, why is Don coming?”
“Don’s coming in to take you to the neurologist and meet the folks at the retirement community. Remember? We talked about this yesterday.”
“Oh, right. I knew that. Look, I wish y’all wouldn’t go through all that trouble to move me into that fancy place. I’m just fine out here. Plus, all of my things are here.”
“I know, Mom. But it’s not safe for you to be there by yourself anymore. You could fall and hurt yourself, and no one would know.”
“Well, I hate to say it,” Linda said, biting the inside of her cheek and tilting her head at a finch on the windowsill, “but I’d just as soon die out here with the birds watching than die in there around all those old bats.”
“Oh, Mom, please. We talked about it. Remember? Your good friend, Fran Dawson, loves it there and is excited to have a friend there with her. You can take all of your stuff with you. It’ll be just like home.”
“Well,” Linda paused and pushed a quiet tear from her cheek, “It might be like home, but it won’t be home.”
“I know, Mom. I know it’s hard, but it really is for the best. Listen, I’ve got to be getting to work, but I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours. My and Don’s numbers are on that list next to the phone in case you need anything. Do you see it?”
“Yep, I’ve got it right here.”
“Okay, Mom. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Mmm, bye,” Linda said and swallowed hard before hanging up the phone.
Running her hands through her thick, black hair, Linda returned to her bedroom and entered a walk-in closet. On the right were suits, button-down shirts, and dress shoes. On the left were dresses, blouses, and heels. In the middle of the closet was a dresser. On top of the dresser was a pair of folded slacks and a white blouse with a sticky note placed on top that read, “Clothes for today.”
Linda crumpled the note and shoved it into her sock drawer, then ran her hands over a dark, navy suit jacket hanging to her right. She lifted a sleeve and took in its dusty essence, pausing briefly before removing the jacket from its hanger and slinging it over the delicate fabric of her nightgown. Standing in the mirror, she rolled her shoulders and postured proudly and would have remained there longer but for the sugar, caffeine, old milk, and nicotine which had begun to rattle her bowels.
Clutching her stomach, Linda waddled to a bathroom at the corner of her room. Hurriedly, she pulled her gown over her waist and sat on a padded toilet seat stuffed between a tiled wall and a sink. There, she pressed her palms against the wall and the edge of the sink like they were closing in on her and defecated heavily.
Impressed that such an explosion had come from her brittle body, Linda grinned and wiped the sweat from her brow. As she unraveled toilet paper from the wall, she noticed a sticky note above the roll that read, “Remember to wipe,” a command of which she obliged. However, because the author of said note had omitted where Linda was to discard the used toilet paper, she stuck the excrement-caked wad to the tiled wall, using the wet, clay-like fecal matter as an adhesive. Proudly, Linda stood and looked at the toilet paper stuck to the wall like it should have been hung in the National Gallery.
On her way out of the bathroom, Linda sat on the edge of her bed, lit another cigarette, then opened, and closed, Atlas of the Heart again for the hundred and first time. The birds outside fed, danced, and bathed. Linda returned the book to her nightstand and stood to stare at the birds again. There were wrens, robins, and finches. They sang songs that Linda had long forgotten, and that made her weep each morning when she discovered them again. She stayed there, lost in the songs, until an ember fell onto her foot, again painfully forcing her from her perch.
“Daggumit,” she muttered and scooted towards the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Linda poured another cup of coffee, sat at the table, and stared into another bird feeder in the window, just above the sink. A cocky fox squirrel climbed up the feeder and stole himself breakfast. Caught in Linda’s stare, the rodent defiantly stared back at her with its right eye. In response, Linda put her thumbs in her ears, widened her eyes, and stuck out her tongue. The squirrel fled, and Linda followed.
From her back porch, Linda walked to the river’s edge and watched the ripples crawl over the rocks. A great blue heron, the quiet queen of the New, perched on a downed sycamore, stretched its neck and groomed itself. Mimicking the heron, Linda stretched her arms towards the sun and rolled her head between her shoulders.
Suspended in the gentle tension between the pull of the river and the push of the breeze, Linda took a few deep breaths through her nose, then coughed up a rich, yellow lump of tapioca-like phlegm. Having forgotten and disregarded decades of deeply entrenched and arbitrarily applied beliefs—restraints—regarding politeness and ladylikeness, Linda firmed her hands on her hips, rocked them back and forth, then tilted her head back and spat proudly into the river’s edge. The esophageal discharge plunked into the calm water like a plump nightcrawler on a yellow bobber, and water bugs exploded around it.
Upstream, a family of four floated towards Linda in two green canoes. They giggled and splashed and fished. Linda watched with envy. Wonder where they’re going, she thought.
As they floated into earshot, the father, in the canoe closest to the bank where Linda stood, smiled, and waved to Linda, who waved back. “Beautiful place you’ve got there, ma’am,” he hollered across the water.
“Why thank ya,” Linda responded, “Beautiful day for a float. Where are y’all headed?”
“We put in up there just below the dam, and we’re going to float down to the falls,” He responded.
“Oh, that’s just wonderful. Seems like you’ve got a trusty captain there,” Lynn replied, waving to the young girl sitting in the bow of his canoe.
“Yes, ma’am,” the father replied proudly, “You have a nice day, now.”
“Likewise,” Linda said with a smile that receded incrementally in correlation to the growing distance of the disappearing family.
Somewhere between hoping and longing, a finch buzzed by Linda’s face, breaking her focus on the family that was not hers, and pulled her eyes with it. The bird landed on a branch of an overgrown forsythia bush, covering a septic tank on the side of the yard. Next to the bush, on a wooden rack, rested a red Old Towne canoe. Linda walked towards the canoe.
On the canoe, a laminated note, attached with duct tape, read, “For Don only. Do not use.” Linda had never enjoyed being told what to do, especially now that dementia had crept into her brain and swallowed it up like the kudzu crawling up the hills on the side of the highway. She firmed her scowl and picked at the top right corner of the note. Once the corner was free, Linda ripped off the note like a Band-Aid from a scabbed knee.
After removing the note, Linda pulled from the front of the canoe. It was heavy but hollow, and she leaned her hundred-pound frame backward toward the river. The canoe had sunk deeply into the rotting wood, and moss had begun to grow around it, and at first, it did not budge. But once it dislodged, it slid rapidly over the damp moss. Linda fell backward, and the front of the canoe landed on her shins. The rest of the canoe remained perched on the rack.
“Oh, Jesus, daggum, frickin, Christ,” She hollered into the sky, where a red-tailed hawk had begun to circle. Linda pushed off the canoe and rolled out from underneath. She brushed dewy grass from her suit jacket and dirt from her lilac gown with a huff. The brittle skin on her shins began to bruise.
Using the stand, and spite, as leverage, Linda rolled the canoe onto its base, then walked behind it where she pushed it from the rear, using the damp moss as a lubricant against the smooth bottom of the canoe. The boat shot off the wooden stand and bounced into the grass. Spiders and snakes wriggled out of the canoe like memories crawling from Linda’s ears. Unphased by the exodus of the critters, Linda giggled, brushed spiders off the seats, and shooed the blacksnakes away with her bare feet.
With admiration, she inspected the inside of the canoe, pulling from it a wooden oar and a faded, red life vest. Behind the life vest tucked in the boat’s bow, a stubborn blacksnake remained coiled in the corner. Startled, the snake poked its head into the body of the canoe, surveying for an exit. Instinctively, Linda tossed the life vest into the yard and crept behind the bow, behind the snake. Linda crouched quietly, and with fingers as sharp as the hawk’s talons above, she snatched the snake by its neck. With a triumphant coo, Linda lifted the snake into the air and carried it to the woods on the edge of her yard, where she kissed it on its head, then gently tossed it into the brush.
Excitedly, Linda walked back to the canoe. She pulled the mildewy life vest over the suit jacket, plucked the wooden oar from the grass, and returned it to the canoe. Then, from the handle on the bow, Linda lifted the canoe and dragged it down the gentle slope of her yard to the edge of the river.
There, with half of the canoe on the bank and half in the water, Linda took in the river’s power and potential. Her toes sank into the mud, and the corners of her mouth floated through her cheeks toward the corners of her eyes. Across the river, the heron stretched its wings and lifted its feet, preparing for flight. Following its lead, Linda plopped herself in the stern of the canoe, then, using the oar for leverage, Linda scooched the boat into the river.
In the still water, Linda took a few confident paddles and ferried towards the center of the river. Then, facing downstream, Linda rested the oar over her lap and resigned to the current. From the left bank, the heron pushed into the sky, gliding past Linda to another throne somewhere down the river. As it passed, Linda waved and said, “Nice place you’ve got here, Mrs. Bird.”
In the house, the right side of Linda’s bed remained cold, and the phone rang with electric panic. Sensing a vacancy, the birds on the feeder began to sneak through the window into the bedroom, perching on various surfaces. An ornery blue bird landed on Atlas of the Heart and pooped. In the yard, the snakes and spiders went about their day.
On the river, Linda smiled and never forgot how to float.
Daisy Cashin is a writer residing in Brooklyn, New York, by way of Southwest Virginia. When he is not writing, he is cooking breakfast for people to pay his rent. Fans of love and loathing can find his bi-weekly blurbs at ihatethesepeople.substack.com.
