It’s another day at the zoo. 

From where Lucia is perched, she can view both the elephants and the macaques. She thinks this apropos, given that the elephants smell of their shit while the macaques make sport of theirs. 

Since the beginning of July, she’s taken to doing her embroidery while sitting on this particular bench. She needs to be around other living souls. Being at home by herself – which once brought her solace – feels too much like imprisonment these days. 

It’s 9:20am, but already too hot and humid for her taste. A peacock walks by and emits his standard-issue broken car alarm shriek as if in protest. “Speak it, brother,” she says in response, as he fans open his impressive feathers. She laughs in delight. “You’re wasting your time on me,” she says to him, retrieving her latest embroidery piece from her bright purple bag. It’s one of her larger works – a complex and abstract piece portraying hands in various sizes and colors (including the signature bright purple that adorns her bag), intricately intertwined with one another. ‘She specializes in hands,’ her daughter once said when showing Lucia’s latest piece at the gallery. Her gallery. Back when she believed in her mother.

‘I can see that,’ the curious but ultimately disinterested viewer had said before walking away.

Lucia leans back and watches the elephants swatting flies with their tails and lumbering in slow motion. She is certain that some of the animals at the zoo know that feeling of being passed over. After all, what sort of person wants to stare at an earth-toned mule deer when the intrigue of a large and showy black and orange striped cat beckons nearby? With this thought, she questions whether her work is nothing more than the embroidery equivalent of an unremarkable brown ungulate. She just as quickly shakes off the ridiculousness of the thought. Still, she’s amazed that after all these years and amid her continued success, that insidious thought still has the gall to stroll out onto center stage and make itself known. 

A monarch butterfly flits by and circles her for a moment before moving on to milkweedier pastures. It makes her smile as she places her plastic bin of floss – meticulously organized and sectioned based on color – and chooses three bobbins in variegated colors. She lays them carefully on the bench. She plans to embroider the detailed rings that will adorn a few fingers on the brightly colored hands.

She stares intently down at her work when she is shaken by what she believes is an auditory hallucination. “That’s pretty,” says a small voice that sounds like her granddaughter, Bella, who is in Vermont. She looks away from the bobbins and is startled to find herself staring into the hairline of a young girl standing in front of her, her mouth gaping open and looking down at Lucia’s work. The girl has a warm copper-colored aura that surrounds her as though she’s been dusted with glittered cinnamon.

“Well, thank you,” says Lucia, taken aback by the precociousness of this child. In the past month, she’s been on this bench at least a dozen times and few children are ever brave enough to make eye contact let alone approach her. But this child smiles at her, pulls herself up onto the bench next to Lucia, and with no preamble whatsoever, tells her that she was recently kicked out of preschool. 

“Ooooooh,” says Lucia, looking around for a parent. “Were ya now?” 

The little girl nods. 

“Well, you must’ve done something awfully naughty to have that happen,” Lucia says, continuing to scan her surroundings for this little girl’s caregiver. She takes a sip of the iced hibiscus tea she brought. It’s cold as it moves down her throat – a sensation that vaguely reminds her of the injections she’d had all those years ago. She shudders a little, even in the heat.

“Maybe,” the little girl says tentatively. “I mean, I keep asking people if what I did was wrong,” she says pensively. She’s wearing a small ring which she twists and turns on her finger. 

“Do you mind if I ask you what you did?” Lucia asks, taking another sip.

“I called my teacher a mother fucker.”

Lucia lets out a gasp, more of a laugh really, that would have sent a spray of hibiscus tea all over her work had she not moved it off to the side.

“And I guess you’re not supposed to say that,” the little girl says. 

Depends on the situation, Lucia thinks, but decides against verbalizing it. “Well, I guess not,” she says. “Not to your preschool teacher, at least.”

The little girl nods, but then tilts her head to the side and squints her eyes as if she’s pondering who, then, would be the appropriate recipient of the moniker.

“So tell me this,” Lucia interrupts her thought before the child can ask. “What’s your name?”

“Montana,” the little girl says. “What’s yours?”

“Lucia.” 

No sooner does she finish saying her name when Lucia hears a man’s voice approaching. “Ech! There you are, Montana!” She looks up to see a young man who is a larger male carbon copy of Montana coming toward them. “I’m so sorry she’s bothering you,” he calls out, throwing his hands up in the air. He sidles up next to Montana and shoots her a glance. It’s hard to read the emotion behind it though. And when he speaks, it’s without rancor. There’s even a taste of compassion. “She just has a very… different way of going about things.”

“No bother at all,” Lucia says. “To be honest, it’s refreshing.” 

“Look what she’s making, daddy,” Montana says, pointing to Lucia’s work. The father frowns for a moment, but then leans over her to take a look. “Wow,” he says, his eyes widening. “That’s really amazing!” 

“Thank you,” she says. His response is nothing new. It’s not that she’s some revolutionary visionary. Of this she is certain. Rather, people see an older woman sitting on a bench with an embroidery hoop and assume she’s stitching a pastel pastoral setting with some sort of syrupy sentiment.

“No, I mean it. YOU are an artist,” he says, acknowledging something that she already knows but seems to think she does not. This is also another common occurrence. Especially among men. “Seriously. You should have that hanging somewhere.”

She smiles warmly. “I intend to.”

“Will you make me something!?” Montana asks. 

Montana’s father laughs. “I think you’ve bothered her enough for today,” he says, holding his hand out to her. Lucia is about to protest, but is surprised to see Montana take his hand so willingly as she jumps off the bench. Even once she’s landed, she doesn’t cease to hold his hand. Instead, she holds it tighter and gives it a kiss.  

“Goodbye, Lucia,” Montana says with a sweet smile, pronouncing her name ‘LOO-cha.’ Lucia notices she’s missing one of her front teeth. 

“It was truly a delight to meet you, Montana,” she says. “And I’ll make you a deal.”

Montana perks up her head and raises her eyebrows. 

“Next time you come to the zoo, I will have something especially for you. Just look for me here,” she says with a wink. 

“I will,” Montana attempts to wink back, but only twists her face into a hilarious expression. This makes Lucia’s heart ache all the more for her sweet Bella. She watches Montana and her dad walk away, still holding hands and swinging their arms in unison. Once they are out of sight, she gently threads her needle and inserts it on the side of the embroidered bright purple finger upon which she wants to place a ring. She has chosen the ring finger and utilizing a chain stitch, she begins to work. The irony of the chain is not lost on her – bound by her old familial demons as much as the animals at the zoo are bound to their exhibits. She sighs and shakes her head. Then she takes a deep breath and thinks about Bella. 

She’s always believed that if two people think of each other at the exact same moment, the atoms will coalesce into invisible forms and connect them. She lets out a long exhale as the floss passes through the cloth with a muted popping sound. She knows full well where things went wrong and her role in it. But knowing is only the beginning of a treacherous journey.

And today, she’s just too tired to start that trip.  

*(modified excerpts from The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese)

Dear Mom and Dad,

How are you?

Mom, I hope you have found some relief from your combination rosacea and ingrown toenail issue. I know you’ve spent the past two weeks naked in an Arizona desert under the spell guidance of your shamanic healer, M.T. Cornhusk. I also know that he believes the two conditions are connected. I fail to see how, but who am I to debate an esteemed and internet-certified sage? I don’t want that on my karmic conscience. 

And Dad, based on our last conversation, I’m curious as to whether you’ve changed your mind about the upcoming election in November. I’m not referring to your insistence that the wearing of two MAGA hats at once – one hanging from each ear – proves that you’re brainwashed a true patriot. While I contend that that would be a fashion faux pas, the bigger mistake is your abiding belief that a treasonous woman-hater should be running the country. But hey, you gotta be you, right? (In our next conversation, I hope you’ll remember that I don’t gotta be you though…)

ANYHOW, I digress. The real reason for this correspondence is to tell you that it’s finally happened.

No. I haven’t abandoned my “pathetic and lonely existence” (Aunt Lucy’s words, not mine) and finally found my Prince Charming whom I will marry in a gloriously hypocritical and all-white display of virginal purity. To be honest, if I were to get married at this point, it would probably be to a woman. Or a guanaco. I love their glassy eyes and what I can only describe as decisive eyelashes. A woman guanaco would be the whole package. Ideal. Let me be clear though, Mom. This is in no way a request for such a creature. With your spiritual advisor currently traipsing somewhere through South America, you may be inclined to ask about such things. Please don’t. 

Also, no need to get excited about the prospect that I’ve finally drifted away from my “meaningless vocational existence.” (Again, that’s from Aunt Lucy. With that sizable gout on her neck and her rabid adoration for the television show COPS that compelled her to buy every episode on Blu-Ray, I think she should really be focusing on her OWN tenuous existence. Don’t you agree?) Anyhow, I am fully aware that being a rehabilitator for wounded animals does not carry with it the prestige of, say, brain surgeon. It also doesn’t carry with it the very real potential for ulcers or other stress-related auto-immune diseases. And while such work may not afford me status (or occasionally rent), it is an activity that has sustained me and filled me with something akin to joy. And no, Dad. It was never concerned me that my line of work may get snatched up by one of those “brown illegals,” as your (un)spiritual adviser FOX News refers to them. Speaking of FOX News, did you know that FOX News can’t be labeled as a news channel in Canada? In 2011, the Canadian Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC) ruled that, under Canadian broadcasting regulations, they didn’t meet the requirements to be considered a “mandatory channel for digital basic service.” Just a fun fact. In case you’re interested in facts. Which you clearly aren’t. 

Okay. Focus. The real reason I’m writing is to tell you that I’m leaving. Probably forever. So I thought you should know.

Given my adoration for Canada (for reasons that go beyond their ability to properly classify things), you might assume that I’m going there. And if it were possible for me to become a frostback, ya betcha sweet patootie I would, ay. Turns out our neighbors to the north aren’t exactly clambering for Americans to relocate there. I know this because I diligently researched it and tried every workaround including but not limited to batting my eyes, bribery, offering copious amounts of beer, and groveling. Apparently, that’s just the sort of boorish American behavior they eschew. And I get it. I was embarrassed for myself. As my parents, you should be too. I don’t blame Canada though. I’d be lying if I said I weren’t sad about their rules. But truth be told, they were my second solution. And only because I was about to give up on my first. 

But that first solution has finally presented itself. 

No, Mom. It is not tied with potions, creams, magic mushrooms, or dances with mythical creatures. And no, Dad. Despite your rather misguided suggestions in the past, it doesn’t involve me serving a life sentence for my involvement in a plot to off the current president. (Yep. Current president. The guy the country actually elected.) But it does involve me leaving forever. Because I’m finally going home.

Calm down! I’m not referring to the kingdom of heaven. Jesus! This isn’t a suicide note! And I haven’t done anything so drastic as find the lord or become a god-fearing Christian. (I just threw up in my mouth a little there.) Nope.

It turns out that the mothership has, at long last, ARRIVED. I’ve been waiting over 50 years for those bastards to come back and get me. You can’t be that surprised though. I mean, look. We all knew it was bound to happen eventually. I’m clearly not from around here. As a child, I had an unusual disdain for sleepover parties, hamburgers, and ice cream. I felt a deep connection with the misfit toys in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. As a teenager, my popularity was inversely measured by my utter repulsion to MTV, drinking, and sex. And while I befriended drinking in my 20s and 30s which led to a tolerance for sex, by my mid-30s, that party was over. I never wanted kids. They’re noisy and expensive and ungrateful. And sometimes they smell. Plus, what earthly reason could I possibly have for making MORE people!? I already find live music and sporting events uncomfortably loud and too crowded. Adding insult to injury, in recent years, the internet and social media have revealed a level of stupidity that went from barely tolerable to “please stick knitting needles into my eyes and ears now so I can go Helen Keller on this shit show.”  

Worst of all, I still hate ice cream. 

So it’s time. I have to go. 

I will say that I wish they’d come back for me sooner though. Because I’ve grown rather attached to both of you, as well as the sibs. My tribal beings say that a cereplex injection into my gorpenflexor (their words, not mine) will wipe away all memories of this place. And while I’m mostly okay with that, it makes me sad to think that I won’t remember the smattering of people and animals who loved me. And the flowers. I love the flowers. But I believe I will be a better Zyphonian for that love. In the meantime, take care of each other on this zany rock. Caring is what kept me sane. And I’ll see if my new tribe can leave some of that cereplex behind. For Aunt Lucy, of course. 

Love to both of you and the sibs too. It’s been real.

Zelda

“She just stood in the doorway and smiled,” Cora explained to her aunt Lily as they walked the old dirt road that ran alongside the train tracks on the south side of town. It was one of those trademark sticky summer days that felt like an endless soak in tepid water. The sky was a wet and murky grey and the cicadas screamed like car alarms. “Kind of like a child.”

Lily nodded as she listened. She was distracted. 

“Or like a patient in the psychiatric ward,” scoffed Brian, Cora’s brother, who was dragging along behind. Cora turned and looked at him over her shoulder. She gave him a nasty look.

“What?! All I’m saying is there’s a fine line between kids and psychiatric patients, ya know?”

Lily furrowed her brow and looked at him quizzically.

“Okay,” Brian stopped and held up his hands. “Get this. So, like, if a child walks down the street laughing hysterically and wearing a bag on his head, he’s not accused of being crazy.”

“He might be though,” Cora responded, knowing full well (but just a split second too late) that engaging with her brother in matters such as these was pointless.

“Yeah, he might be,” he nodded, with one brow cocked. “But that’s not the point. The point is, it’s not the immediate explanation. Fine line,” Brian shrugged. “I think all kids are nuts though so what do I know?”

“But how did she look?” asked Lily, slicing through Brian’s ridicule. “I mean, did she look happy?” she asked with strain in her voice. It was almost as though she hoped the answer was no. “Was she at least healthy?”

Cora and Brian exchanged looks. How to answer that question? Like Lily, they hadn’t seen their cousin Shelby since they were kids. They’d ride bikes together along this very road to go into town to buy frozen slushes and penny candies. Then they’d circle over to see if Farley, the guy who ran the chip wagon, was in town. He would set up his truck over near the park where they’d get one large order and sit at a picnic table, scarfing down those golden fries glistening with salt and soaked with vinegar. Shelby and Cora would team up, as girls were wont to do, against Brian – teasing him and telling him he was adopted. Brian would make fun of Shelby who seemed to always have vinegar dripping down her chin. (He would reserve a far more merciless form of teasing for his sister once they returned home; something he deemed as his birthright as a brother.) 

That was nearly thirty years ago though. 

“Uh, yeah,” Cora stammered.”Sure. I mean, she seemed okay, I guess? Right, Brian?”

Brian pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket and tapped in on his arm. He took one cigarette out, lit it, and took a long drag off of it. Filthy habit, Cora thought. It’s not enough that it killed Mom, her mind began spinning before she put an abrupt end to it. She would not entertain going down that rabbit hole again. 

Brian exhaled out a plume of softly winding smoke that seemed to suspend itself momentarily in the humid air. He looked at Lily. “Yeah. She seemed alright. I mean, ya know…”

They were now walking the long bridge that spanned the Culprit River. As a child, Cora had thought nothing of the name. Culprit. But after Shelby disappeared, the name took on a menacing countenance. (At one point, the town had voted to change the name to Misty. But the motion was blocked by the ‘backward hillbilly pine stump barbarians who populate this hell hole,’ as her father used to say. And yet, her father still lived in this very town. In Cora’s and Brian’s childhood home, no less.) 

Lily stopped at the midpoint of the bridge and shuddered. She hadn’t been on this bridge for 30 years – since the fateful day when all she could hear was the distant sound of country music mixed with static coming from the open door of the car. Their car. The old Blue Nova that she and Zane had been so excited to buy just five years before that. She’d started running to the car, screaming out her daughter’s name with sheer panic in her voice. When she arrived she saw that Zane had left the radio on, tuned to her favorite station. She’d stood there and stared at the open door on the driver’s side, incredulous. Shelby’s favorite blanket sat crumpled on the passenger seat. He’s finally done it, she thought. He’s finally taken his life and taken my baby with him. As she collapsed, the last thing she remembered hearing was Tammy Wynette singing “Stand By Your Man” as though from inside a tin can.

Circumventing the bridge had been more than an inconvenience all those years. Yet, she couldn’t move somewhere else. Once it was determined that Zane and Shelby were not dead, she hoped against all odds that Shelby’s father would come to his senses and bring her back from wherever he had taken her. She’d held on to that blanket like a talisman all those years, kept it by her side, slept with it at night. 

Brian coughed. “Of course, kids are kinda like drunks too,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I mean, if you look at most one-year-olds, they’re staggering around like they’ve had a few too many.” 

“What does that have to do with anything, Brian?” Cora asked, annoyed with her little brother. Her little brother who now towered her by nearly nine inches.

“Just an observation.”

Cora noticed the color had drained from Lily’s face. She knew that Lily was nervous about finally seeing Shelby that afternoon. She regretted she’d had the opportunity to see Shelby before her mother had. But it was purely coincidental. They hadn’t planned it. She gently squeezed Lily’s upper arm. “She’s going to be happy to see you today.”

Lily nodded, but felt a sinking in her stomach. What if Shelby couldn’t forgive her for not protecting her like a mother is supposed to do? For not seeing that Zane was losing it and that her daughter was in danger?    

“I’m sure everything will be okay,” said Cora in as reassuring voice as she could muster. Though she wasn’t as certain as she sounded.

As for Lily, she felt no security in the scheduled meeting with her long lost daughter whatsoever. Because if there was one thing she had learned for certain over the past thirty years, it was that every form of security has a weakness. Systems rely on technology. Security guards are human. 

Even blankets get holes.