Literary Short Fiction/Collection
Date Published: May 2020
Publisher: Unsolicited Press
What do you do when the hand that life deals you isn’t the one you wanted? In Peripheral Visions and Other Stories, the characters choose to play the best game they can with the cards they’ve received. For some, it’s making the most of the circumstances in which they find themselves, even if it’s not the life they planned. For others, it’s following an unconventional path—not the easiest course or the one that others would take, but the one that’s right for them. But they never lose hope that life will get better if they can just hold on.
Excerpt from
“Remember Mama” in Peripheral Visions and
Other Stories
“Maggie,
where’s my tea?”
Maggie set down the dishcloth and moved to answer her
mother’s call. The rest of the china, like so many other tasks half-completed,
would have to wait.
“You
had your tea already, Mama. Remember? I brought you a cup of tea and you
finished it and said you didn’t want any more.”
But the old woman shook her head obstinately.
“No, I
didn’t. You never brought it. I’ve been waiting for hours” the now-familiar note
of self-pity creeping into her voice, “and you never brought it to me.”
Maggie smothered a sigh. There was no point in arguing
with her mother. She could show her the cup she drank from and her mother still
wouldn’t remember.
Couldn’t, Maggie corrected herself. Her mother couldn’t
remember. She had to keep reminding herself of that fact or the frustration
would soon grow too strong to handle.
“Where
is—where is—” Her mother struggled for a name and then gave up. “Where did he go?”
“Paul”—the
name emphasized just a bit, “had
to go away on a business trip. To California. I told you all about it, Mama.
Remember?”
Paul, who had shown infinite patience and tenderness
with his mother-in-law. He pretended everything was normal and persisted in
carrying on one-sided conversations with her about the weather, current events,
upcoming plans for the weekend.
But lately, her mother couldn’t even remember his name.
“Oh,
yes, now I remember.” But her mother’s voice held no conviction. “It just slipped my mind for a moment.” She
looked at her daughter, obviously hoping that the excuse would be accepted.
Maggie nodded her head, joining her mother in the
delusion. “Mama’s poor memory”—how often she and
her father had teased her mother about her inability to recall names, dates,
places. It had been humorous once, but no longer. Now it was a tragic reality.
After Maggie’s
father had died, her mother had become distracted and forgetful, and initially
Maggie put much of the blame on grief. But even sorrow, she was finally forced to
admit, couldn’t wreak such havoc on a person’s mental abilities. Even grief
couldn’t keep you from recalling where you lived, where you were going, whether
or not you’d eaten or slept or changed your clothes. Only sickness could do
that.
Remembering this, Maggie asked with more patience, “Do you want another cup of tea
now, Mama?” as she straightened the soft throw across her mother’s narrow,
blue-veined feet. Maggie recalled watching her mother knit the soft mix of blue
and cream and orchid yarns during the long nights in the hospital, the clicking
sound of the needles a counterpoint to the noise of the respirator that filled
her father’s lungs with air.
Someday, she would think, she would have to ask her
mother to show her how to knit like that.
But there was never a free moment to learn. And now, her
mother couldn’t even tie her own shoes.
“No,
I’m not thirsty anymore. But I am hungry, Maggie. How soon is dinner?”
“Not
for a long time, Mama. We just had lunch.” Her mother frowned, and Maggie knew
she didn’t recall the omelet filled with cheese and herbs that her daughter had
carefully prepared just half an hour ago. She went on quickly.
“I
thought I’d make a roast for dinner, with new potatoes and green beans with
dill. Would you like that for dinner, Mama?” knowing the question was pointless
even as it was asked. No matter what her mother’s initial response was, she was
certain to change her mind by the time the food was ready. But Maggie had to
keep the fiction alive that her mother’s opinions and desires counted for
something, as inconsistent as they were.
Her mother was silent for a moment, considering, and
then shook her head. “I don’t
like beans—they’ve got strings. Why can’t we have carrots instead?”
Maggie
smiled. “Okay, Mama,
I’ll make carrots. Carrots in honey sauce, like you used to do. Why don’t you
take a little rest now while I finish washing the dishes?” and she stroked her
mother’s hair as the old woman obediently closed her eyes.
Slipping her fingers through the fine white strands,
Maggie gazed with love and pity at her mother’s face. With her eyes closed, her
mother could be like any other old woman, just growing a bit more forgetful as
years passed. Sometimes, Maggie could almost convince herself that this
particular fantasy was real.
But then her mother would open her eyes to gaze blankly
at her surroundings. The confusion that had been hidden behind those paper-thin
lids would be painful to see, as Maggie watched her mother struggle to recall
some recognizable pattern from the fading fabric of memory.
About the Author
Nancy Christie is the award-winning author of Peripheral Visions and Other Stories Rut-Busting Book for Authors, Rut-Busting Book for Writers, Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories and The Gifts Of Change. Her short stories and essays have appeared in numerous print and online publications. A member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors, and the Florida Writers Association, Christie teaches writing workshops at conferences, libraries and schools. She is also the founder of the annual “Celebrate Short Fiction” Day.
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