American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 70
“Your father would probably have a heart attack if
he saw it.”
“He did.”
She turned back to the window. “I am dying in the
car, and you say bad things. It is an expression.”
“Not if it really happened.”
The light turned green and the car drove through
the intersection.
She put one hand against the glass. A cumulus
cloud drifted in the sky, a large clump melding into
the smaller shapes.
“Let’s just stay silent for the rest of the way,”
he said.
“And you disappear for another month?”
“I’ll make sure you’re okay.”
“The clouds look African. I am certain of it.”
“They’re just blobs.”
“I like the sky. The nature. Do you ever take them
on a safari?”
“No.”
“You know what the documentary said about
African children?”
“That African children are born in Africa?”
“No.”
“Can we not?”
“It said that African children are very playful.
Are they?”
“Who? The Africans?”
“The boys.”
“They’re not African. She’s not African.”
“Well, I do not call myself Ukrainian American.
You have to be proud of who you are.”
“I’m sure Dad was very proud of you. Hold your
nose, Mom.”
“That is all you say.”
“Hold your nose.”
“But you cannot even send a picture.”
He tapped on the wheel and laughed. “Oh don’t
worry about the red color, I’ll say. That’s just your
grandma bleeding out on the seat.”
“I got a phone that is smart, and you never even
sent a picture.”
“Smartphone.”
“I am dying and you make jokes.”
“You’ll be fine. Just blood, right?”
“I am speaking your language. I am trying.”
“Yep. English, a semi-accidental overdose, and an
African documentary will do it. Let’s hug. Come over
for dinner, you can look at my kids’ tribal tattoos and
watch them hunt lions.”
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American River Review
“You are an evil person. There is a devil inside
you.”
“I thought I was a good son.”
“I have changed my mind.”
“What a surprise.”
“The clouds look African. I know it.”
“Just two more stoplights, Mom.”
She rolled down the window all the way. The wind
had no clear direction. Her hair lashed forward and
back and to the sides. She took her hand away from
her face and looked at the clouds. The toy was still in
her lap. “If you bring them, I will not say a word to
her,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then maybe I say whatever you want.”
“I want the hospital to help you.”
“I still have your swing in the yard.”
“So?”
“I made your father keep it.”
“What a saint.”
“They will love it.”
He pushed the gas pedal, and the car went sixty
past a green stoplight. “One more.”
“I will let them swim in the pool. I will take a
picture with her.”
“I have a pool.”
The next stoplight turned green as the car neared.
“I will talk only English. I will cook only what you
cook. I will learn. Just tell me. I will learn.”
“You won’t like them.”
“I will learn.”
They turned into the parking lot. The car stopped.
The seats were stained with streaks of red, but it did
not look like blood. It was much darker.
“I will learn.”
“Hold your nose.”
She pointed her head straight up and covered her
face with both hands. “Like this?”
He climbed out and opened the door for her, then
grabbed her under the arm, and started walking
toward the hospital.
“Just like that, Mom. Perfect.”
