by Kathy Fish
It's Thanksgiving and your mother appears and disappears at will. One second ago, she was touching your shoulder, whispering something funny. You think you might grab hold of her, bury your face in the folds of her neck, but you look up and she's gone. It's as if she's a vapor, sprayed from a can. She smells like Dove soap.
She keeps "The Big Book of Cancer Symptoms" on the coffee table. You can't fathom her guests happily leafing through it as she flies off to blend margaritas, yet there it sits, dwarfing ``Rocky Mountain Sunsets: Complete with Poetry,'' the book you gave her.
The book has diagrams you can follow, like a maze, starting with one symptom and then answering a series of questions, weaving your way down the page. Sometimes you're led off to one side where the book tells you, "This is the common cold.'' Or you're led all the way to the bottom of the page where it says "See your doctor immediately" in red letters. The pages are embossed with your mother's fingerprints.
It's Thanksgiving and you always sit next to your brother-in-law, Peter, who is easily the smartest one of the whole bunch, yet nobody listens to him. Undaunted, Peter keeps on talking. He always knows when you're lying, which is often. He's a sort of savant lie detector. You ask him to pass the peas. He asks why you're late. And you say, "long distance phone call from an old friend" and he says, "Bullshit" plucking a hair off your sweater and you say, "You're right! Please pass the buns."
Your mother listens to Deepak Chopra's books on tape. It is a sort of project of hers. You always pronounce his name ChokeRa and she corrects you. Deepak Chopra says you shouldn't think too much about cancer or you will get it.
Well then.
What your mother doesn't know is that you're terrified. You think about it all the time. Cancer cancer cancer. Cancer leg. Cancer arm. You've eaten too many cancer hot dogs and sausages in your life. You've gotten too many cancer sunburns. Cancer throat. Cancer head. Too much cancer sex.
Your thoughts have the power to change the structure of your cells, cancerizing them. You can feel it and it rattles you.
It's Thanksgiving and you are six years old. Your knee socks are pulled up over your kneecaps. Rusty, your Golden Retriever, is under the table and now and then you drop a piece of turkey on the floor for him. What you'd really like is a Tollhouse cookie or some muskmelon, cut into chunks. You think Rusty's distended stomach is from eating too much, though in truth, he hardly eats at all. He won't make it to Christmas and neither will your father. Everyone knows this but you.
You cheated on your husband one month after you were married. Peter knows, but he doesn't judge. Oh how you love Peter!
Peter leans over, says, "How are you, Doll?" and you want to say, "I'm hurting. I can't sleep. All food tastes like old cheese and I'm alarmed" but you tell him you're splendid. And he says, "You're not" and you imagine the word biopsy floating between the two of you, in bubble letters.
The word sounds happy to you, almost drunken. Biopsy is whimsy's first cousin. It is a daisy chain wrapped around the neck of a child. Who could worry over something so pretty?
Today, there are all these people. Your sister, Kate, and Peter. Your uncles who never married, Uncle Fred who served in Nam and Uncle Brian who still pulls quarters out of your ears and the neighbor couple, Martin and Marie, who come every year because they have no family of their own. There is way too much food and the table's crowded and you'd still rather have a cookie or a wiener on a bun or a bowl of oatmeal than the slabs of steaming turkey breast, the outsized mounds of mashed potatoes. You have always hated this meal. You catch yourself leaning down to touch Rusty's head, and this makes you laugh and cry at the same time.
It's Thanksgiving and your mother's house has gone golden and clotted with voices. Your mother waits for you to lean back so she can set down a plate of sweet potato pie. Exasperated, she flutters away, but you catch her wrist, draw her hand to your lips and kiss it, just in time.
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Originally published in Per Contra.
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This is just wonderful, Kathy. Brilliant.
---Too much cancer sex.--
a story there, for sure--
nice job here, k
Thanks for reading, Gary and Marcelle!
Oh, wow. Some beautiful writing here that brings it home without overdoing the drama. Very very nice.
An amazing progression - scene by scene. Great read. Moving story.
Thanks so much, Susan and Sam!
my god my god
indeed the too much cancer sex really got me as did the clotted with voices and about 33 other things
so well done without even for a second feeling overcooked
Oh thank you, David! I've got some reading to do here it looks like....
No, thanks to you...Kathy. I have made it a resolution that next time I want to stop writing forever I am going to tell myself to shut the hell up and read some of your stories.
Oh and I love love Per Contra. This is such a great story for them. The image of reaching for Rusty's head was wonderful as was the final line.
Oh all writers make that declaration at one time or another, David. I knew you'd be back. :)
Thanks again, for the kind words
ha ha, thanks kathy. i think this is my third or fourth time making such a proclamation. my grandpa was right 20 years ago when i didn't listen to him up on Mount Washington. I'm a ninny.
Perfect, start to finish. Perfectly perfect.
Thanks, kindly, John!
I love the tone of this, and the narrator's personality--lighthearted and playfully honest, if only with herself. Such wonderful development.
Thanks for reading and commenting, Cynthia!
I thought I should pick out parts that made this story amazing and realized that's an exercise in futility. This is just shot through with brilliance. Fantastic!
I thought I should pick out parts that made this story amazing and realized that's an exercise in futility. This is just shot through with brilliance. Fantastic!
Thank you Ajay! Much appreciated...
Another spectacular, pitch-perfect story, Kathy. And even a brilliant new word - cancerizing.
So well done!
thanks very much, Jeanne!
You know, I have read these stories before but when I read them again, it's like the first time. I wonder if that is a sign of excellent writing--the emotion always striking you as if for the first time.
I so love this one because it emotes.
"You think you might grab hold of her, bury your face in the folds of her neck, but you look up and she's gone. It's as if she's a vapor, sprayed from a can. She smells like Dove soap."
This comes from such a deep place. It makes the story kind of transcend time. The mother may be there physically, or she may not. She is a vapor. She exists forever.
Just perfect writing, which is nothing new for a Fish story. But this one is special, it overflows with heart. It is my type of story. I just love it.
Oh man, Debbie, I have to remember whenever I'm feeling discouraged about this writing biz, and it's fairly often, to read your reviews of my stories. Thanks so much for the kind words.
i will never understand how you do it, kathy. so absolutely right every time! a perfect example of how, with talent, one can tell a complete story in so few words. cancer as verb (love that) and such a stellar ending. i think i said something once about you being the queen of flash ... would somebody get this woman a crown already?!!!
Oh Lauren, thank you! Much appreciated, crown and all...
The title is perfect. The story, more perfect.
This is beautiful, Kathy. Thanks for posting.
Thanks so much for reading, Lisa and Andrew.
the fish swims expertly into view. the water above her is glass. she has no ceiling. she rises, and rises.
aw, thanks, Donna!
I love this and so admire the writing, am printing it off to study. Am so glad to have found it right now. Happy Holidays. Marie
Oh wow, Marie, thanks so much. Happy Hols to you too!
The imagery in this piece is superb. I love the details throughout. Excellent job!
Thanks very much, TJ!
I know I am late to this party, but this is extraordinary. I love that it is so richly detailed and imagined, yet never once approaches being cluttered or distracting. An inspiration.
Thank you, Tanya, I appreciate the read and the very kind words about the story.
This is magic. It shows the power of words in the hands of a great writer. You don't spare us but you give us everything we need to connect. You are amazing and someone I always look forward to reading. It's a rewarding experience every time.
Darryl, you've made my morning. Thanks very much!
Loved this. Can relate.
Thank you very much, C.M.!
Absolutely beautiful.
Thanks very much, Rose.
that you do this, and all this with second person (which i often bristle against), amazing.
Love the repetition of “It’s Thanksgiving” and all that surrounds it, as well as the way you’ve tied the start and finish together. Well, that and everything else about this story. I’m not sure what it says about me but I feel the most for Rusty… Fave.
Thanks, Kari. This one may be my most "fiddled with" story ever. I've changed it countless times. I think though, this version on Fictionaut is closest to what I wanted (for now, ha).
Love the way this expands from touching her mother's arm at Thanksgiving to the narrator's entire emotional history back to clinging to the mother's arm.
Marco, you did not have to do this! But thank you so much. I'm glad you like my Thanksgiving story as much as I liked yours. Very kind of you, thanks.
Thank you Gary and Diane, for reading and for the stars for this story. Much appreciated.
In time for this year's Thanksgiving: what a wonderful story of dread and fragility and gratitude, too. And I'm glad "you catch her wrist, draw her hand to your lips and kiss it, just in time."
thank you, Beate, I'm so glad you liked this story