A Chance Encounter

This story is an exploration of the power of apparent coincidence. It explores the restoration that occurs when individuals open themselves up to unexpected circumstances and embrace new perspectives

A Chance Encounter

Meg put her hand to her mouth, leaned out of the the forklift and shouted; 

“Hey Rock, you wanna shoot some pool after work?”

Rocky stood up from the crate and shook his head,“Can’t tonight - maybe tomorrow?” 

“Man, everybody’s bailing on me!” Meg whined.

“I guess that means another boring Friday night at home with the folks.” she added to herself. 

Meg hated Fridays. That meant lasagna night and an extended time with her parents. Another chance for them to remind her that she did indeed inhabit a female body. She slammed the machine into gear and shoved her foot on the accelerator. The lift raced through the yard towards the loading dock where Meg swiveled it hard left - so sharply that a high-pitched screech echoed through the yard. She clambered hard and fast off the forklift and headed to check out for the day. In the locker room she threw her work clothes in and grabbed her “civilian” clothes:  an unvarying functional ensemble of faded jeans and bland nondescript sweatshirts of grey or some other dull color. She entered the bathroom to wash up. In a way she was glad. A night out would have been hampered by her monthly visitor. When finished with that unpleasant chore she washed up once more and headed for the door. Her reflection in the mirror grabbed her attention and she stopped to look. Standing sideways she stared into the mirror at her long, thin, hard, shapeless form. She then twisted her body around to see both sides and back, faced it full on, performed a short, jerky dance then pronounced a verdict; How awkward and ugly I am. Except for the cigarette which frequently dangled from her lips, her pale, thin face was as natural and untainted by technology as the day she was born. Her hair was a lackluster brown, pasted unattractively short and curly against her head. She was aware of how the guys looked at her; with all the excitement they felt toward the sections of sheet metal like the ones she often moved around in the yard. The sound of approaching footsteps intruded on her play with the mirror and  exited out to the hall.   

“Have a good weekend Mr. C.” shouted Meg into the owner's office as she passed down the hall.

The owner of C & M Lumber returned the pleasantry and smiled at the best worker he had ever hired. Meg never complained, worked all overtime whether mandatory or not, never caused any problems; ‘one of the boys.’ Meg walked past the wall near the shift managers office, containing a row of portraits for employees of the month. Meg’s smiling face graced it so regularly that it was jokingly called “The Wall of Meg.”  Meg pushed through the office door into the yard and struck out towards the parking lot.

“Big plans tonight Ragdoll?” teased a voice behind her. 

“Not really, everyone bailed on me so it's just home and tv with the folks.” answered Meg without turning around or stopping her progress. 

“I know it killed your buzz when they didn’t have any overtime, poor thing.” teased her co-worker.

“Live to work and work to live.” replied Meg, continuing her march to the parking lot.
Meg walked quickly to her truck, not because she was excited to get home but by nature. 

She peeled out of the parking lot and headed toward the main drag. She kept glancing in her rear view mirror until the C & M marquee was a tiny yellow dot. It was old enough to be an antique now. She mulled over her life as she drove: it would be the topic at dinner tonight so she may as well ease into it, she thought. Me had accomplished all the goals she could think of: they were humble and few: a good job, a nice place, a reliable truck, decent health and an occasional blow out with the gang at work. She saw no need for change. The problem was that her view was in the minority at home. 

“Give me a hand with the lasagna will you?” Mama called out to the living room. Meg got up from the couch to help her mother set the table and then all three sat down to commence the Friday ritual. Towards dinners end Meg felt something akin to contentment. The evening had been pleasant enough and Meg was beginning to think the conversation would not progress beyond household trivia and updates regarding mama’s voluminous family. Meg pushed away her half-eaten plate and happily nursed a cold beer. Her parents preferred wine. 

The first glimmer of doubt crossed Meg’s contented mood when mama took a second glass of wine. She only did that when she wanted to “talk.” Meg could feel her screwing up for an outburst. Meg glanced over at her father. The wine was having the opposite effect on him. It magnified the bleakness of his upbringing - manifesting itself in stone silence. Meg watched both of them, considering the paradox of this stoic specimen of eastern Germany marrying a Catholic Italian who had planned and dreamed for a minimum of 10 children. But instead of that happy chaos what had her husband given her? A single daughter with no interest whatsoever ever in generating that level of life and disorder. She sensed her parents had argued about the subject that day while she was at work. She began scrambling for an excuse to escape.

Mama fixed a stare on Meg. Her eyes widened and her head shook in disappointment as if she was doing all she could to keep from throwing up her hands in despair. Meg could feel her mother’s eyes peering past her face into a pulsing neon sign pasted on her forehead that broadcast “No grandchildren EVER!” Meg glanced at her father to try and read his mood. He was in one of his I-can’t-be-bothered-as-long-as-you-don’t- burn-down-the-house moods. Hopefully, Meg thought, he will stay out of it tonight. Ok, let’s get this over with, she added to herself, in reference to what was becoming a weekly tradition.

“Did you two have another fight today?” ventured Meg, to ignite the usual discussion so they could get it over with. Mama’s tears began to flow in a Chardonnay-induced torrent. “I look at that calendar on the wall and I just can’t help it! My daughter's clock is running out, foretelling the doomed life of two silly old goats living with a hopeless spinster.” She was beginning pensively and quietly, but this tone couldn’t last under the force of inherited instinct. 

“Everyone told me how beautiful and sweet you were when you were a little girl. And then, when you blossomed into young womanhood, how you could cook!” 

“What of it!” She exclaimed. “She has the life of a recluse! And what's the good of cooking if you don’t eat! 

“Mom, we’ve been over this,’ Meg sighed, rolling her eyes. Her mother continued, ignoring Meg’s remark.

 “Look at our life! A dull chronicle with all the excitement that a furniture store holds for a boy of 12!” she paused to take another sip.

“I’ve done my best! I’ve taught her all the right things. I even had her taking dancing lessons -all we got were obligation dances! - and made any decent boy within reach feel at home. And what do I hear when I eavesdrop? A discussion about the weather or catalytic converters! It would bore a sloth!”

“Mom that’s cheap!”  At that father decided that his two girls squabbling was worse than the house burning down. 

“If you are not going to live a normal life can’t you at least act like a lady sometimes?”

Meg was stung.

“Is this going to be a real discussion or am I just supposed to sit here and listen like when I was 13” she returned hotly.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” her father growled.

“The problem with these “discussions” is that you do not hold to give and take. You smash any divergent points of view like you do when you hunt flies under that swatter.” Meg knew this comment, like anything that came from her own soul, would cause a ruckus, but Meg was done.

The reply shot out like a howitzer; “Hell, you’re not 13 anymore but you may as well be.” It got worse. Heedless words were hurled about and ultimatums given. Mother simply continued to cry into the remains of her lasagna. Meg rarely lost her cool, but tonight tipped her over the edge.

“What you’re really saying is that you wish I had never been born! Why don’t you just hold the funeral ceremony for your ‘dead’ daughter.” Megs voice was heavy with a long-unresolved grievance.

Her mother came to; “Darling what are you talking about! Of course not!”

“No I mean ME! I’m nothing but a continual disappointment - well don’t worry you won’t have to look at disappointment ever again!” Meg stormed out to her truck, ignoring the pleading voice of her mother.  

 

Meg reluctantly quit her job, withdrew her entire bank account, shoved a few necessities into a travel bag and hopped into her truck. As of that evening she would be as dead to her family as if her family were Hassidic Jews finding out their daughter had attended a Billy Graham Crusade. Her flight was not entirely spontaneous. She had been mulling over this possible action for months. She rode aimlessly for two days until she came to some nameless hamlet out in the middle of the Nebraska Plains. She let her truck settle into a parking stall in front of a drug store. While she waited for the vehicle to cool down, she scanned her surroundings. There was no one in sight. Meg rolled down the window and smelled the air. Faint hints of asphalt and dry grass tickled her nose. 

“This’ll suit me just fine,” she said to herself, satisfied that it represented enough expanse between herself and her parents. She put $450 down on a dilapidated skid row flat and unpacked.  She wouldn’t waste time. The practical Meg began the process of reconstructing her life. The next step for the now friend-less and family-less young ‘lady’ was to land a job. She said to herself as she unpacked. No need to cry over things, what was done was done. And a job for Meg was not simply a means to stuff food in her face, but was her very identity itself, it gave her purpose. 

The next bright morning Meg walked purposefully out the door of her apartment right to a phone booth. She flipped through the small town phone book and found “Jiffy Employment Agency,” the only establishment of its kind in town. The next moment found the irrepressible Meg standing in front of the glass doors of the said agency. The sun had just nudged its face atop the flat, unattractive row of business-roofs across the street opposite and fresh, early morning light reflected off the cleaned agency windows.  Meg sighed and changed her position. She did not like waiting and she did not like idleness. To cope with the large slab of unwanted time, she started walking up the street to window-shop for all the things she could not afford. An appliance store came first, the cool lines of machinery, amongst were thoughtfully arranged images of women, gleaming with joy as they romanced Mr. Clean and banished the filth from their chaste and elegant living rooms. This became the first link in a chain. Next her chain-thoughts turned to money, along with a sudden flood of regrets. She began to reflect on how good she had had it at her old job, and finally the fight with her parents which had led to the termination of said job. Finally, the chain was complete when those sour recollections urged  a distracter, and she knew of no better distracter than work, which brought her back to the original reason for finding herself in this self-imposed exile.

So lost in thought was she that she almost failed to notice the car that pulled up to the curb near the agency, and almost missed the chance to observe Sophia for the first time, out of her natural habitat. The sound of the car jerked her happily back to reality and the urgent necessity of standing ready at the front door before the arrival of her future benefactors. Meg knew how to impress, and this was the first step in the dance that would land her a job as choice as the one she had regretfully been forced to quit. She marched pointedly up to block the entrance, and thus stamp her image unforgettably onto the brain of her future employer.  She stopped in front of the Agency sign, just in time to see the employment lady waddle up casually to the locked doors and coldly inform the waiting Meg that it would be an hour before they could take any clients.

“You’ll have to wait outside,” the lady said, avoiding a direct glance. 

Meg’s mouth opened in a budding display of disbelief, but she thought better of it and left the lady to fight with her keys. 

While Meg killed time along the drab length of silent, lonely storefronts, in the pleasant air-conditioned office, the woman had sat down in her swivel chair. She was quite busy but not with work. The quiet hour before the flurry of job-seekers was eaten up by coloring her lips and nails, darkening her lashes and scenting herself until the perfume surrounded her like a layer of atmosphere. Her dress was large and loud, loosely emphasizing her curvaceous form to the world. Her sandals sparkled with  expensive and pretty baubles. A huge chunk of her modest paycheck went towards beautification. She worked only because she had to, and to foot the bill for her various beauty treatments and until she completed her nursing license. For Sophia, despite all outward appearances, had a life’s calling to nurture and care for the sick. Like all the other employees of the agency where she worked, she indulged at length in the ritualistic break-time complaints about work, and eventual rescue by the lottery or some handsome brain-surgeon. In her case, though, she had given up on the brain surgeon in favor of becoming a nurse. She loved people - if they were sick. Here she helped people get jobs but she needed something more. The pitiful souls that came to check on openings or collect a paycheck were like customers coming into place an order. Sometimes she felt like saying’“Today we have a shipping position on Main Street, would you like fries with that?” Too impersonal for the nurturing Sophia.

At the exact stroke of an hour from that moment, the punctual Meg shoved herself through the now unlocked doors and ambled in with all the confidence of the once-and future-employee-of-the-month she was.  

“Good morning, looking for a job,” Meg cheerfully announced. Sophia’s eyes moved up lazily without lifting her head, regarding the intruder with disinterest bordering on disapproval. Without responding she handed a packet of papers to be completed and, after this was done, began mechanically processing her new client through the routine, which was a short process since Meg recorded no interest in clerical work on her application. In what must have been a record, if Jiffy had kept records, Meg was finished with the forms. Annoyed at the unexpected disturbance to her routine, Sophia huffily arose from her comfortable swivel chair and ushered the overly-eager client into a drab side room to watch the state-mandated safety video. That feat accomplished, Meg promptly went up to the counter to Sophia, who was entering data on a computer. Sophia had by now developed a thorough dislike for her. Not that Meg was an exception to the rule; the beings that came begging at the counter elicited little sympathy from her in any case. She immediately transformed them from flesh and souls into information to be filed and organized and data to be entered. She barely concealed her disdain for the charmless hacks who had the foolishness to get themselves unemployed and at her mercy. 

Meg thrust the application at Sophia. 

Sophia gave no sign of acknowledgment, her fingers clacking away at the keyboard.

“I’m done with everything,” Meg said, raising the volume. 

Sophia’s eyes dimmed with irritation.

“Just leave it right there,” she said without looking. Clack, clack, clack.

“Are there any openings? I need a job, like yesterday,” repeated Meg.  Her voice tinged with panic and frustration. Sophia continued to peck fluently at the keys. 

“Just have a seat and we will be with you in a minute,” came the dry response. 

The two mismatched beings were even then nurturing a healthy mutual loathing despite lacking knowledge even of their antagonist’s name. Meg unhappily slumped into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs near the front window. Its back was now hot from the rising sun. She shifted impatiently to the soft music, the clack, clacking of the keyboard and the ticking of the enormous office clock. She observed the timepiece fearfully. Each tick represented a deduction from her dwindling bank account. If you would just look at that application lady!  Meg said to herself. With nothing else to do, Meg mentaly reviewed her application; Education: High School, what else do I need to drive a stinking forklift? Skills: the best forklift driver you’ll ever find, Previous Employment; C & M Lumber company who cried when I left they were so sorry to see me go, Have you ever been fired from a job? No, why would I…”

Her reverie was interrupted by the nasal counter-voice.  

“Here is our card, the best time to call is usually around 3:00 in the afternoon.” Nonplussed, Meg asked if there was to be an interview. The employment lady blandly stated that Meg had already provided all the information needed

  Uninterested in trying to squeeze something out of the robotic lady behind the counter, Meg left to conduct a short tour of her new home.

 

By the end of the week Meg was furious, blaming her continued poverty on the sullen hack on the other side of the counter. It seemed to the ambitious out-of-towner that Sophia did little to recognize her persistent eagerness, bordering on begging. for gainful employment. The unsympathetic office-creature threw only the most menial, dead-end roustabout work at her. In addition, Meg convinced herself that she displayed blatant favoritism towards the fat, greasy regulars who showed up on Friday to collect their paycheck only to blow it on their sordid pleasures. While ignoring Meg, she would rush to the counter and give them the choicest jobs, chatting them up like old friends so much it made Meg risk losing work to vent her frustration.  . 

On a sultry Friday, all beat out by a day in a dusty, smelly warehouse, Meg had come for her week’s pay and as usual was being kept waiting. At the back of the office was a ‘freshening up’ room, one of those frilly affairs that occur in establishments operated entirely by women. It included a full-length mirror. Sophia had disappeared there on one of her countless ‘breaks.’ 

“I may as well ‘freshen up’ too while I’m waiting,” said Meg to herself. 

The mirror was positioned strategically near the entrance to the bathroom and she could not help a glance. She looked into it and spontaneously found herself describing out loud what she saw; “coarse skin, ugly, swelling belly, and legs as fat as a lady in a freak show.”  Her reaction bore no relation to the reality of her shapeless but firm body and clear skin. Sophia, who had been standing right behind her at a small service table fiddling with her cosmetics, widened her eyes upon hearing this. As if compelled by some invisible force, she found herself with equal spontaneity starting a conversation;

“I don’t like the idea of having a mirror in here at all myself.”  Meg was speechless, pondering the fact that she had actually condescended to engage her in conversation beyond the minimal discourse of required grunts. Sophia took her turn at the looking glass and mirrored what Meg had done, described her own beautiful form as a thing of grotesque ugliness. Now it was the turn of Meg’s eyes to widen. Eating habits were next eagerly discussed. Sophia, Meg discovered, also often starved herself on lemons, water, bark, and unprocessed dry barley with watercress.  Because her stomach was too small to handle too much real food, she vomited on occasion. Meg’s own habits bordered on psychosis. She was addicted to extremely dry beef jerky, sucking on solid rocks of ice-lemon that she made herself; she liked the cold and sour combination, freezing cold lettuce, smooth and pure - and beer, of course. They also both ate vegetables, fresh and clean, with potent flavors that tickled and enlivened the taste-buds. 

The discussion, in fact, never really ended, but picked up whenever Meg came for her check or called in for an assignment. The two went on a lengthy journey of mutual discovery and correction of their earlier mutual error of judgement. Additional shared perspectives on misandry, self-loathing, life and work came thick and fast.  Each talk brought forth new revelations and tightened the bond of friendship even further. Both had parents beside themselves over their failure to marry and raise up progeny. Hints and comments here and there revealed very compatible habits of living. Before long they formed a mutual aid society and soon things began to happen. Sophia found a way to dump one of their temps and gave the now-available forklift job to a grateful Meg. Next it seemed only sensible to get an apartment together to share expenses. They chose Sophia’s, which was a brand-new condo located in one of the nicer parts of town. When Meg first saw it she mistook it for a model, it was so sanitized and clean. 

 Meg worked hard and scrimped her money while Sophis plowed through her nursing program and continued to suffer the helpless flow of humanity that came to Jiffy. Life was good, but their vices were bound to register sooner or later, and before long things were on shaky ground. For her part, Sophia was not working out well at the agency and was inches away from the axe. Like all intelligent people with such jobs, she found it a deadly bore. That is partly what drove her to make 35-40 trips a day to the freshening up room. Sophia had never grasped the idea of financial restraint. To console her solitude she had developed expensive tastes. Everything had to be the finest. She had chosen one of the most expensive condos in town and stuffed it full of expensive objects. The hard-bitten Meg could have taken control but was too besotted with the novel experience of having a friend to intervene. And her own habits? What with hundreds plus a month flying out the door on car bills and cigarettes, she was actually keeping back an insignificant amount of money. Neither of them had any family to speak of, Sophia’s family, too, had its problems and had refused all contact except for demands of back rent, etc. They found themselves doing as poorly as they were before they met.     

On a Friday night the two sat on their balcony overlooking the apartment sandlot commiserating. Down below several kids were playing in the sand. Sophia knew they needed to talk things out and so, with typical thoroughness she had prepared something to grease the wheels. She found some beverage with a lively name in dark liquid, hard, bitter to brace them for just such a night. With the melting of mind and body over soft cubes of ice, sweetened with black licorice liqueur, hopefully Meg would open up about her problems. 

 “I wish those kids would shut up," said Meg, “I need to think.”

“I wish you wouldn’t worry so much, things will work out,” encouraged Sophia, pouring more of the beverage into her plastic cup. 

“Like hell it will, nothing works out just all by itself.”

Sophia sighed, “Money is the root of all evil.”  

“That may be, but I’d like to see anybody try and live without it.” 

Sophia turned away and took a long, comforting sip. She blurted out;   

“Say, what about those parents of yours?”

Meg leaned back and cleared her throat.  Her face hardened in disapproval. Sophia braced herself. 

“First of all, I don’t always worry about it, and secondly, gee, there must be a reason why I haven’t spoken to them. I wonder what that is?”

Sophia, emboldened by the enveloping softness of night, spoke up.

“Well I wouldn’t know since you’ve never told me. You’re so secretive about it.”

Meg fixed a hard stare at her, which failed to make a dent in Sophia’s determination.  Seeing she was beat, Meg leaned even further back and let out an exasperated sigh.

“O.K, you asked for it.’ Said Meg, pushing her empty cup towards her companion.  Sophia filled it halfway.  Meg swallowed long and hard. She loudly expressed her satisfaction, crunched up her paper cup and hurled it over the balcony towards the sandlot.  She leaned comfortably back in her chair and related the whole story, to which she attached a brief summing-up;

“So there you have it; my father does not approve of me. Wants me to be a lady, mom wants me to get married, have grandchildren, and be ‘normal.’ I can’t give them what they want  … and … unable to come up with a solution, I gave up. After years of that I just couldn’t take it anymore.” 

“Oh well, nothing we can do about it tonight, give me another shot,” she said, thrusting her arms up toward the sky. 

“I think I’ve never seen so many stars.” Sophia remarked, following Meg’s arms up toward the heavenly blanket of twinkling splendour impossible far above. 

“Maybe you just need to show them what you have to offer.” encouraged Sophia. 

“They don’t see it,” Meg countered.

“I bet you have what it takes. I know you.”

The two stared out into the night beyond the buildings, suddenly wishing it were Monday.  

“What about you and that handsome brain surgeon?” Meg said, with a serious tone..

“I don’t think he’ll find me in this nowheresville.”

“Say, now that you mention it, you do look out of place here. And, while we’re at it, what made you want to be a nurse, you have all the empathy of a hungry shark!” Meg said in a sudden burst of curiosity.

“Oh no, you haven’t seen me in action,” Sophia asserted. She held out her arm as if swatting down Meg’s accusation. “I find it difficult to sympathize with beings healthy enough to work but not wanting to accomplish anything lasting. If you are healthy, make something of your life, if not, well that’s where I come in. I need to care, and comfort and poke and prod and SEE the result of my labor of love. I want to heal. The stiffs that came in day after day remain just that: stiffs, working only for week’s end when they can get blitzed on cheap beer - speaking of which,” Sophia paused to take a sip of quality wine then continued.

“All I ever wanted to do was heal. I started playing doctor - or nurse - at age four. It was cute until my senior year when I announced my intention of turning my childhood play-hobby into an actual career.”

“My parents had other plans - you know; marriage, kids, a mortgage.” They didn’t want to put any money into me if I was just going to be married and taken care of. Believe me I had plenty of offers.When my mom saw my determination to have a nursing career she tried every argument in the book including; ‘Oh my dear, when you have kids you’ll get all the doctoring you could ever want.’ But that’s the thing, I’m too afraid to have kids. - which leads me to the other reason.” Sophia’s voice died softly as she stared through the lattice at the sandlot. Two small shadow-forms could be seen, bending down and scooping up sand with plastic shovels. It was quite late for such young children to be out. Sophia’s eyes grew moist. 

“My brother was in an accident when he was 7 and I was 12. To this day he can’t walk. That’s when I learned I was born to be a nurse. My whole life was poured into him. He needed help with almost everything. But, watching what it did to my parents made me swear I would never bring another life into this world. Instead, I would be the one who makes the ones already here a chance to live a decent life. Is that terrible that I don’t want kids?” Meg’s answer was interrupted by repeated calls shouted out to the two shadows to lay down their shovels and come in for the night. Selective hearing prevented compliance until the voice added a physical threat. The two shadows scurried out of the sand like someone had turned a hose on two cats. 

 Sophia continued, “I could never share this with my parents, but they just keep pushing. So I decided I needed time, time and solitude. I got a map and found this empty looking area with tiny, well-spaced out dots. The only thing else was a thin dark line. Perfect! It was reasonably close, too so here I landed.” After a pause she added, “I hate the heat so the desert was not an option. So, there you have it, that’s my story.” 

After allowing Meg to digest all this, Sophia put on the finishing touch,

“And as for our problems; how about I help you with your problems and you help me with mine?”

“I don’t know how.” Meg said, getting up to go into the house.

“Call them.” Sophia stated matter-of-factly

Meg froze for a moment and then in a voice full of indignation

“Oh no, I’m not the one that needs to apologize.”

“Just think of them, like patients. That’s what I had to do with my parents.”

“Did it work?” queried Meg. 

“Certainly did for me. I began to realize that everyone is sick, not just my little brother. They are just sick in a different way. My parents problems is - I made up my own diagnostic term: insoddisfatitis.”

“Huh?” murmured Meg, who had retaken her seat.

“An inability to adjust to challenge to your expectations”

Meg stared dreamily up at the stars. She let out a gasp of recognition.

“That’s my parents. But how did this help you?”

“It reminds me that I am not the one who is sick. And my unlikely presence in this town is not running away, its part of the treatment. What we needed was space. As far as getting them to recognize their condition - a cure is coming.”

 

“But enough about me - here’s your chance to show your parents who you really are. It won’t be an apology - just - inquire about their health - that’s all.” 

Meg hesitated and then got up to walk into the apartment, “I’ll think about it.”  

Meg never thought she would be visiting home so soon. She fumbled with the lighter and started a cigarette. The pack caved in when she squeezed it. Damn, I don’t really want to stop to stock up on smokes. It had seemed an eternity since she left home but it was only six months. At her departure she had proclaimed, albeit to no one but herself, that only death could have brought her back. It wasn’t death but an event bordering on it. Her innocent call home had brought unwelcome news: dad had suffered a stroke. Mom was doing her best but Meg could tell over the phone that she was struggling. Before leaving town she had told Sophia that she was only going to check on them and would return before Monday. Sophia was all sweet concern and anxiety. 

Meg’s stare fixed on the road. It was a long, grey, spindly string encompassed by an ocean of dead grass that threatened at any moment to consume it. Meg glanced at the endless stretches of sameness as her Daytona rapidly shrank the distance between her and home. She had planned on making the drive a chance to enjoy solitude and escape. Just her, the plains, the hum of her well-cared-for vehicle, the outside air stroking her hair and the Almann Brothers. But it was no good. Her skull hummed with bee-hive energy. Sophia had sparked it, ‘Don’t worry, your mom will make it, she’s Italian. I should know.’ Meg said her full name in her head; Sophia Maiorani. The echo-voice from Sophia continued; ‘Now don't let him go to waste, any nurse worth her salt will be able to work with him. I should know, I am one, or soon will be.’ The words kept tumbling around in her distracted cranium like a super ball. She was having an epiphany, although she did not know the term; forget the past, forget ten years of rejection, forget lasagna night, too many regrets, if her mother couldn’t accept her for who she was then . . .She bit her lip. 

“Screw it.” She said aloud, reaching down to turn the Almann Brothers back on.

Meg’s truck slid heavily onto the driveway of her parents house. She turned the machine off, tumbled out and her gangly form was soon darkening the familiar front door. She glanced at the clutter of religious items guarding the entrance. She could remember when the small beckoning statue of Mary was taller than her.

The door opened. As she ushered in her daughter Mama wasted no time going over directions. Any loud noise or activity would harm his recovery - no noise above a whisper. He needed days and days of blissful, healing peace.

 “The doctor’s orders are giving the house the atmosphere of a tomb. It's so quiet around here I almost miss the fighting.” She complained. She warned Meg not to take dad’s lack of response personally. It wasn’t really him. She had positioned him in his favorite recliner where he spent his days vacantly staring at the television. 

“You know how your father always loved wrestling,” she said.

Dad continued to watch two gaudily dressed men grapple as Meg approached. Mother looked on, forlorn, as if Meg’s appearance was a perfunctory formality. Meg suppressed a gasp. Their stolid Prussian father’s face looked like someone had stretched worn leather over a dry skull. It was colorless, like the life had been drained out of it. It reminded her of those slushies they would get every summer at the ballpark. She would eagerly suck down the cherry until all the color and flavor had been sucked out, leaving behind a useless clump of watered down ice. One particular, hot, bright day jumped into her mind's-eye. Dad was smiling, handing down the luscious confection to her warm, little eager hands. She felt tears welling up but she stifled them. Her feet sank into the old, worn plush carpet as she crept closer. As Meg leaned over him, he stopped watching the screen and looked up at her. A weak but warm smile faintly crept over his face. His eyes lit up. 

“That is the most I’ve gotten out of him in months!” Mother exclaimed, transfixed as if watching an apparition. Her eyes, rarely dry in any case, became wet with tears. 

Meg finished up with Dad, giving him a warm hand-squeeze and a kiss on the forehead.

Meg watched as a golden waterfall of hot liquid splashed into the thin china teacups. 

Meg’s mother seemed determined to keep the conversation light. Meg began fidgeting in her seat. “Oh, well, here goes nothing.”  

“Mom I know this isn’t the best time, but . . .” She began, watching a gob of gooey honey dissolve in her tea. Between sips of chamomile she laid out her list of all that mother didn’t want to hear; Her hurt feelings, anger, the impossible task of forgetting ten years of rejection. But rather than rising in fury, mother’s eyes stayed quietly listening, even betraying a possible glimmer of pleasure. She registered no disapproval, no outburst, no counter-arguments, no “Of all the times to bring this up!” no accusations of selfishness. By the time Meg was done the afternoon light was beginning to soften into the first shades of late afternoon. Meg waited in the silence, her fingers playing with her keys. 

After an eternal pause her mother began.

“You know I never lie to you. I can’t say I wish things weren’t otherwise.” She went on, rehashing her disappointments. But the tone was different, all the meaning and energy was out of it, no language thick and colorful with Mediterranean hyperbole. Mother’s frantic desperation of her dreamed of life’s purpose had mellowed into a softer version. 

“But there are times - remember when we put on that James Brown record and you tried to imitate him - that just killed us!”

Mama shook her head, smiling at the cherished moment.

“Despite it all my dear, there are memories I will never regret.”

Meg covered her mother’s hand in her own.

“No matter what?” Meg pressed her mother's hand onto the clean, white table cloth.

Mom nodded in surrender.

Meg released her keys, sat up and beamed at her mother. 

“Mom, I had a thought.” Meg was herself again.

Meg didn’t tell Sophia anything about her idea when she called to tell her she was on the way back. But when the two were settled on their usual conference place on the patio overlooking the sandlot, Meg shared her plan. 

“My mom needs help. I am going home.”

“Of course,” Sophia managed. “What else could you do?” 

Without missing a beat Meg threw at her the suggestion “Come with me,” and answered the quizzical stare that followed.

“It's a bigger city than this - you will have everything you need. I checked it all out. You just have to transfer all your stuff to the school over there and go like gangbusters. Free rent in exchange for helping with dad. Mom leapt at the idea. It would mean the world to my mom … and me. And this way it wouldn’t be a stranger. Mom would love that. What do you have to lose?”

A discussion of details and pros and cons ensued. Sophia couldn’t for the life of her think of any valid argument against the plan. Everything fit like a puzzle. In fact, the more she thought about it the more a feeling of exhilaration slowly built, settling until her body melted into a warm, golden state of contentment.

The two girls didn’t have to identify themselves. Sophia and Meg’s mother had already bonded over the phone. Mother ushered them in so fast, in fact, that they almost fell onto the carpet. Sophia and mother never really ran through the acquaintance phase. She had learned the broad strokes over the phone anyway, and so the two were now well onto a firm friendship. Meg was almost tempted to feel jealous. But in the coming days, any feelings in that direction were stifled by the miracles this live-in-nurse wrought with her dad. By month’s end dad was out of his chair and marching around the house on his walker. He could even lift a cup to his mouth. Sohia’s abundant life-giving force had found its target. When she was at school, Mama followed her instructions to a tee and Meg was free to reconstruct her utopia. 

“You don’t have to ask twice.” said C & M’s manager when Meg applied for her old job back. Meg had explained the reason for her departure and only five times why a repeat was impossible. 

“You don’t have to explain yourself, stuff happens.” He knew Meg was honest and straightforward. Leaving the office, the happy Meg spied her old antagonist standing under a canopy from the hot sun.

“Ragdoll! You’re back.! I knew you couldn’t stay away from this place!”

“Yeah and too bad for you. Your six month break is over. You leave my forklift in one piece?”

“The place wasn’t the same without you Ragdoll!” he said with a teasing smile.

Meg walzed out to the parking lot. While driving home she worked on a plan for the first week back to work. The basic goal: how to negotiate a few awkwards days of getting it through the thick skulls of her replacements that they needed to step down from the place they had the nerve to occupy in her absence. She relished the thought. But this fled her mind as she turned off the main drag towards the pretty, tree-lined street where the four of them now lived. She whistled a tune she had just caught on the radio.  

As she parked Mama and Sophia waved at her from the front yard. Sophia turned back to her daffodils, but Mama’s look lingered awhile, beaming a smile under her large, white garden hat. Megan smiled back.

Author's Note

Go Gentle.