Here, We Sit Aside

Flash Fiction by Jordan Bianchi

Great Lake Review, Fall 2014

Substitute

Charles’ asthma struck yesterday. His little lungs were still weak and filled with mucus. The songs I sing to guide him to sleep each night have fallen short. It’s not the constriction he feels first– it’s the terror. So he does not rest.

Sleep has stayed far from my body. I saw him enter my room before he could tug my sheets.

“My chest hurts.” It scared him to say that out loud. Brave, yes, but utterly helpless.

My husband had been his previous mentor on this issue, their lungs the same. I sat in the chair he would have chosen, watching Charles slurp his cream of carrot soup. Below his nose it was crusty. Each metallic touch on the bowl seemed to last much longer than it should have.

Time and time again, I slipped into believing that I was stronger than his lungs.

The Memories of Taste Buds

Vittoria broke into a cold sweat. I left the room. The war was enlisting her dreams, irrevocably twisting them into nightmares. By the time I returned, she was sitting upright, back against the wall. Barely half awake, she gasped for breaths. Her pillowcases were stained.

I sat on the bed and handed her a plate with a prosciutto sandwich. None of that cheap American stuff; the best from San Daniele. She muttered thanks as audibly as she could. One bite, and she was back.

After seventeen years of marriage, I still hadn’t attained an impact as strong her mother, the one who treated Vittoria to the salty meat when she was young and upset.

Gently, she touched my face, then lay back under the pearl duvet.

I ached in imagining myself as the uneaten crusts, appreciated for their support but excluded from all intimacy.

Assisted

There isn’t enough jelly for my toast, if it even qualifies as toast. The bread is still mostly white. Just a small amount is all I’d need to make it go down smoother. But I don’t want eyes following my strides as I cross the cafeteria to get another packet. At least, not right now.

Wanting to be alone isn’t as terribly rare as most people think. Now, though, I’d prefer to be completely hidden. The occasional pair of eyes wander, finding my own mawkish, bloodshot and tired. They never linger.

Father was alone for years. He was alone three hours ago when I was stuck in traffic and couldn’t say goodbye. Did his nurses give him enough jelly for his toast? Did someone nearby look him in the eyes? Did he have anyone, anyone at all?