Balance of Fragile Things

by Olivia Chadha

  “No, no, you are a strong young woman. That’s why it is difficult, you see.”

  Isabella turned to face her grandmother.

  “It’s because you are so strong, and there is not much we can do, that you are frustrated, neh? But Izjah, Rome vas not in one day built. We all have lots of work ahead of us, and it depends on our willingness to stick together that we will come out of this. Okay?”

  Isabella smiled. “Yes, okay.”

  “Good. Good. We will stick together now. We will pray for Papa, neh?” Oma rose from the bed and retrieved a small book from her bedside table. She pulled the red silk ribbon that opened to a page, sat down on her own bed, and read.

  “Oma?” Isabella sat up in bed.

  “Mmm?”

  “Are you—I mean, do you believe in God?”

  Oma smiled. “Of course, darlink.”

  “Why?”

  She put her book on her lap. “I have seen too many things that have cleared mine doubt.”

  “But do you think there’s just one god for people of all religions?”

  Oma looked at Isabella, puzzled. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  Isabella took a deep breath. “Does it matter if someone’s Jewish or Christian or Sikh? Aren’t they all praying to the same god?”

  Oma shifted back and forth on her bed. She shook her head. “Jews and Christians and Sikhs are different, Izjah. They all believe different things.”

  “Do you think a person can change their belief, convert to something different?”

  Oma straightened her sweater. Isabella knew she was making her grandmother uncomfortable, but she had to push now. The present circumstances changed what was appropriate and what was taboo. Oma appeared to experience a series of different emotions, from anger to frustration; then finally the furrow in her brow dissipated, and she arrived somewhere near peace. “Mine mother was Jewish. I am…”

  Isabella smiled encouragingly.

  “She died because of it. The SS took her and my father, and they killed them both. I still have her necklace, but that’s all I have of her. They took my husband, too, your Opa. You never met him, but he vas a wonderful man, yes.”

  Isabella sat beside Oma and held her hand. She couldn’t think of anything to say, so she listened.

  “Za soldiers took him. I thought he’d been killed until his letter came. We were living in East Prussia, just left Latvia for za very last time. They drafted him against his will. We were always just one step from—he didn’t want to fight for za Germans. But you did what you had to do, to stay alive.” Oma had tears in her eyes. “We found each other after za war. Za Red Cross found me, brought him there after a year, neh? His foot vas split in two from shrapnel. We started from scratch—lived on a very small farm and worked for our meals.” She smiled.

  “Oh.” Isabella pressed Oma’s hand between hers.

  “There are miracles, you know.”

  Isabella nodded.

  “Darlink, be prepared. This will not be easy.”

  “Mom’s acting like he’s already dead.”

  “Shhh. I will talk mit her. You be strong for your Papa tomorrow, okay?”

  Oma kissed Isabella’s forehead, and the scent of rosewater escorted her to a safe place.

  Oma

  Oma found Maija’s bed empty. The quilt was undisturbed, as it had been for days. She found her sleeping in the closet on a pile of Paul’s shoes. Maija had wrapped herself in Paul’s flannel robe and put a winter hat on her head.

  “Darlink, get up.” Oma’s voice was clear, but Maija did not stir. “This is embarrassing.” Oma bent over, bracing her back with her free hand, and tugged at her daughter’s arm. “Please, mieta.”

  Maija rose like a ghost.

  “Come, we will talk.”

  Oma led her to sit down on the bed.

  “I know how this is awful. I do. What are you blaming yourself for? You didn’t know this would happen, right?”

  “No, of course not.” Maija’s voice was hoarse.

  “Well, what are you doing, acting like all hope is lost? Forget yourself. Think of za children.”

  “He hasn’t moved at all. And here I was just focused on these stupid visions.”

  “And now you’re just focusing on yourself. Again! Zoh selfish, neh?”

  “I could have done something to see this coming. Here I was watching Eleanora, not my family—”

  Oma slapped Maija lightly across her round cheek, which turned her pale complexion flesh-colored again. Then she took off the winter hat, releasing Maija’s disheveled curls, and pressed her face between both her hands.

  “You need to snap out of this self-pity. There’s no other option.” She squeezed and spoke in Latvian. “We are all in this together. Now get showered and dressed and be the mother that your children need right now.”

  Hearing her mother tongue seemed to force Maija to reenter her body. She looked into her mother’s piercing eyes and responded, “I don’t know where I’ve been.”

  “Okay,” Oma said.

  “Ma.” Maija tried to run her hand through her matted hair. “I thought that I was supposed to take care of you. I had a feeling your eyes were really going south. But you’re here for me, us, I mean.”

  “Yes, I am here, darlink.”

  Downstairs, Oma found Harry watching television and organizing his notes. She sat beside him on the love seat. A newscaster was announcing the birth of a new sinkhole that had presented itself along the old factory road in the next town. The man stated that the hole was large enough to swallow a Volkswagen Beetle. When the camera cut to Harry’s bona-fide weather goddess, Tanya, he began to pay closer attention. She stood outside in the rain on the weather deck with her guest and friend, Professor March. In their Channel 9 yellow raingear and Wellingtons, they stood in a puddle up to their shins and discussed the buoyancy of Noah’s Ark. A small wooden model of the Ark—possibly made of toothpicks or cork or plywood; Oma couldn’t tell—bobbed in the puddle.

  Professor March cleared his throat and said, “This is a replica of the Ark. As you can see, it floats quite well here. So it is very probable that it made it through a storm quite like this one.”

  “I think we owe it to our viewers to observe this replica over time to see if it really withstands this storm. It doesn’t look like the rain is going to be letting up anytime soon. In fact, another storm system is coming our way. Whaddya say, Professor?”

  Shortly thereafter, the newest graphic appeared on the channel: a small picture window focused on the smallest Ark in the world, navigating its way through the puddle.

  “What do you think, Harry? You want to bet me?”

  “I am no gambler.” He smiled. “Sure, okay, five rupees.”

  “Five rupees then. I think it will fall over.”

  “I know it will stay afloat.”

  They shook hands. Harry was still basking in the glow of his television darling.

  Maija passed through the living room into the kitchen. “Coffee,” she said, and poured beans into the grinder. As the high-pitched coffee grinder wailed, Oma watched the news continue with a daily run down of not-so-interesting events: the pre-holiday parade in the mall, the opening of a new ice cream store on First Street, and a man in an orange jumpsuit and shackles being marched into an armored vehicle. Harry also watched with interest.

  The television reporter said, “Mr. Bozeman was convicted today of being the leader of a child pornography ring.” The camera cut to a mug shot of Bozeman, his hair receding from his bloated, pale face. “The D.A. said there was enough evidence to put him away for three lifetimes, but that they would settle for one without parole. Bozeman’s neighbors reported they had no idea such a monster lived next door. A terrifying story with a proper ending, I’d say. Back to you, Tanya.”

  Later, on the way downtown, Oma sat in the back seat and glimpsed her daughter’s face in the rearview mirror. She saw that she’d joined the land of the living: Maija was clean, and she’d
covered up the dark circles under her beautiful stormy eyes. She was in mourning; the pain was all too clear. It was understandable. This was the first trial they’d experienced as a family.

  Maija pulled in near the front of the building and put the car in park. “Ma, Papaji, I don’t think I’m up to this. I just need to get to the hospital. Then the pharmacy needs me this afternoon; I’ve used up all my sick days, and if we want to keep our health insurance—”

  “Don’t worry, darlink. We will take za bus home later. There’s no telling how long za meeting might take.”

  Harry offered his arm to Oma, and together they walked up the stairs and entered the building. The woman she assumed was the secretary looked underfed and in desperate need of sunlight. There wasn’t a visitor chair or even a dusty fake ficus. The only furniture that surrounded the thin woman was a desk, a phone, and an old computer.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We’re here to meet mit Mrs. Mooney.”

  “Yes, she’s right over there.” The next office was more of the same, except it smelled like a cinnamon candle and had even less light.

  “I am glad you both came, Mr. Singh, Mrs. Mazur. Please sit.” Mrs. Mooney was as big as a young water buffalo. When she sat in the wood chair, Oma felt miniscule. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Oma thought of all the times poisons had been used to do away with a person in her home country.

  “All right, well, first I have to tell you how sorry I am to hear about Paul. His accident was unfortunate.”

  “It was no accident, Mrs. Mooney,” Harry said.

  “My apologies. I meant attack. And please call me Donna.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Donna.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Tell us about za meeting you scheduled with Paul. We know he was on his way here when it happened.” Oma looked pleadingly at Mrs. Mooney.

  “He first contacted me through a colleague. Bernice said he wanted to speak to someone who handled the construction on Main Street. I don’t specifically handle it; I am on the board for city improvements and such. I agreed to meet with him.”

  “About za hole.”

  “Yes, there is still some debate over whether that hole was manmade or a sinkhole. We are investigating other alleged sinkhole possibilities in the area. With all this rain, anything is possible. There haven’t been many sinkholes upstate—but plenty just miles away in Pennsylvania, so it’s possible. Sinkholes happen when an imbalance occurs under the ground—either through construction, a change in the water table, or an external source.”

  “We’ve had all of the above.”

  “Exactly. The rain has reached record amounts, and then there is the construction in the Heights. A sinkhole was quite a possibility.”

  Oma rolled her eyes.

  “He also said something about results, like water testing results. He sent a sample of the groundwater near the station to a private company, and he said he wanted to show it to me. I never got a chance to see it, so…” She reclined smugly in her office chair.

  Harry pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here is a copy of the results. I would appreciate it if you would study them and have your science people also take a look and let us know what they mean. For Paul.”

  Mrs. Mooney took the envelope and opened it. She looked over the sheet. “We don’t have a science person. But I can ask around, see what I can find.”

  “I would love for you to come to our home for dinner sometime. Perhaps the day after tomorrow? Mini here is an excellent cook.”

  “Mr. Singh, I don’t know if that would be appropriate.”

  “Tea then, perhaps after you speak mit your colleague who can interpret za test?” Oma asked. “We could chat about it over tea?”

  “Tea, okay. That should be fine.”

  “Good.” Oma took one of Donna’s business cards. “I’ll call tomorrow just to see if you’ve found anything. And here’s our number.” She wrote it down for her on a scrap of paper.

  On the Wing

  “Water, water every where,

  Nor any drop to drink.”

  —Coleridge

  Posted on October 30

  A single droplet of water makes little sound. A cloudburst, however, makes a symphony. As I watch the rain falling from the Maple Street Bridge, I bask in the concert building around me. I stand under the cover of a large walnut tree and feel at once safe and terrified that it might collapse under the storm. From this location, I can see the creek below, a tributary to the Coquina. It churns like a vengeful river god. The flotsam and jetsam collect on the bloated banks: severed branches, aluminum cans, and plastic bags. As I watch these pieces cling to the bank, I can’t help thinking that these seemingly insignificant objects of modernity will define us. Is this the Plastic Age?

  Where do butterflies go when it rains? Their delicate wings, constructed of veins and scales, can’t withstand the penetrating raindrop as it propels downward. Their wings can’t fly waterlogged. They are in hiding under leaves, branches, shrubs, and bushes. I wonder where other living things like raccoons, beavers, and skunks are hiding. Are they clinging to grasses and trees? Have they washed away? Or did they already evacuate on their own ark? It is afternoon but already getting dark. The wind is blustering, whispering worrisome things in my ear. The darkness creeps in now, and I feel that this storm will never end.

  The rain falls in sheets, and sometimes it comes at me sideways, drenching my legs. If you watch closely, the millions of droplets make divots in the creek’s surface, even as it rushes past. The last light of the day highlights the falling water, giving it a milky sheen, somehow hopeful and blinding.

  This rain has made the whole town of Cobalt sad. So many people mope about, disconnected and disinterested, as though the clouds shield them from the excitement. I wonder why the rain induces sadness. Are we solar powered? Perhaps it is due to a remnant from our evolutionary past and not being able to hunt or frolic about during a downpour. Perhaps we are inherently sad creatures, sensitive and partial to the opposite of what we have. I am not certain.

  When I close my eyes, I hear a choir building. The leaves shake as the water droplets ricochet against everything like a mad weapon. It roars like an animal closing in on its prey. I take a step out from under the cover of the tree and open my arms wide to the rain, letting it take me as its own. There is something liberating about giving in completely.

  After everything we make—the houses, roads, and walls we build—she still manages us. We can build a tall fence, but the rain still falls. We can roll up our windows and brace ourselves, but the roads are still slick. The world we’ve created, full of creature comforts, warmth, light, and food, is never as strong as her. That’s a fact. There are things we can control and things that were never in our hands in the first place. It’s hardest to define that line. To make it clear and come to terms with it.

  1 COMMENT

  True. I wonder, though, if we can work together? Maybe instead of working against Mother Nature? —BF Girl NY

  Isabella

  The tops of her sneakers were a creamy red, and the laces were white. Red sneakers didn’t match many things, so Isabella decided they matched everything. It was a perfectly logical leap in her mind. Dresses, skirts, jeans, shorts—every outfit in her closet had been paired with these sneakers. After a while her mother had stopped making snide remarks and, Isabella hoped, also saw how they matched everything. They were a type of security blanket. And her first day returning to school after her father’s attack wouldn’t have been possible without them on her feet.

  She kept her eyes focused on the way the laces crossed over and under and through the eyelet holes, and how her jean cuffs fell perfectly to the floor so only the tips of her shoes peeked out shyly. The halls of Cobalt high were segues through a hellish dimension, and if Isabella kept her attention on her feet, she would be able to avoid the piercing glares, ignore the rumor-mongering student
s, and make it to first period unscathed. Of course, the masses wouldn’t allow her to pass so easily because she was marked as different.

  “Hey, hey, you’re Isabella, right? The girl whose dad was attacked?”

  Isabella kept walking, but the body attached to the voice stepped in front of her like a wall of persistence. Regardless of how much she wanted to continue to class, Isabella stopped.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” she said, hoping her response would be enough for her to pass.

  “Do you think it was racial?”

  The girl, Joslyn, was a writer for the school newspaper. She wore, from head to toe, an unflattering shade of brown that matched her long braids.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are rumors that someone did it because they thought your dad was an Arab, not that Arabs should be attacked either, but Sikhs had nothing to do with 9/11, you know?”

  “Haven’t heard anything like that.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Who do you think did it?” She returned the question with ferocity.

  “I think it’s either a race crime or a crackhead. Except nothing was stolen, right? So, unless the crackhead was violent, it wouldn’t make sense. They said the attacker’s weapon was a blunt object, like a large glass bottle or a baseball bat, right?”

  “I have to get to class.”

  “You gotta give me a statement for the paper. It’s your responsibility.” Joslyn had a large gap between her two front teeth that Isabella wanted to widen with her fist.

  Katie, the redhead on the yearbook committee, stepped in front of Joslyn and pulled Isabella to safety. “Um, actually, Izzy promised to give me a statement first. She’ll get to you later.”

  Katie led Isabella down the hall and blocked anyone who made a move toward them. Tewks passed by and waved enthusiastically. People she didn’t even know gave Isabella a nod of recognition or sympathy. It was strange being famous for a tragedy. She wanted to be invisible, and for the first time in her life she longed for the dull walls of her history classroom.