American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 68
Safari
Andrey Shamshurin
The clouds were shapeless and large, only a few patches
of blue in the sky. The day was warm and the air was fresh,
passing through the window slits of the car. The woman sat
in the passenger seat, her chin tilted up, one hand holding
her nose. The man’s hands rested on the wheel. The inside
of the Prius was clean and smelled like pine, with two baby
carriers fastened to the backseat. The man kept just above
the speed limit and drove through downtown, past coffee
shops and little restaurants, and the woman watched the sky
through the clear glass.
“The clouds look darker,” she said.
“Hold your nose.”
“They are changing shape.”
“Uh-huh,”
“I swear they are getting darker.”
“Keep your head tilted, Mom.”
“You like my English? I practiced.”
“Sounds great. The hospital’s close,” he said.
“It is just blood. I feel fine.”
“Still, don’t talk.”
“They probably wrote the dosage wrong,” she said.
“Yeah. Probably.”
They stopped at a light. The edges of the sky were
obscured by tall buildings, their shadows blending into the
sidewalk. The light turned green right away and the car
jerked forward. The woman’s head hit against the seat rest.
“I always said to your father, ‘you have to teach him to
drive. You show and he repeat.”’
“Okay, Mom.”
“‘Children are important,’ I said.”
“Konechno.”
“Talk English. I want to learn,” she said.
“Don’t talk. The blood looks worse.”
“I have not talked to you in so long.”
“We’ll talk later.”
She reached for a wad of napkins stuffed in a cup holder
and wiped her face. “The clouds, do you think they are
changing color?”
“I don’t know.”
“A bit. They are changing a bit.”
“If you say so, Mom.”
“You do not believe me.”
The man didn’t move. “Please don’t talk.”
“I should have sat in the back.” She pointed to the blue
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American River Review
