34
2017
NORTH CAROLINA L I T E R A R Y RE V I E W
COURTESY OF THE ARTIST
what could I do to save her? The house was cold; I was freezing and nervously shaking. “How did you get in the house?” my mother demanded, coming down the stairs in her bare feet and filthy robe. I explained about the basement window as I took the paper cups out of the bag. She planned to have the window repaired right away, she said. She unsteadily approached the table and stirred her coffee with the plastic stick but then left the cup on the table and took a seat on the piano bench, pulling one of her bluish feet up under her. I sat in the wing chair and took one sip of coffee, which was stone cold, but it gave me something to do. I quickly became conscious that the upholstery underneath me was soaking wet and leapt to my feet.
Chaos to String (mixed media, collage on antique paper, 20x12) by Melinda Fine
“I feel like we’re in a Bette Davis and Joan Crawford horror movie,” I blurted. My mother laughed and nodded. “I know what you mean,” she said.
KAREN BALTIMORE, a graphic designer and illustrator, designed this essay as well as the Robert Morgan interview and most of the poetry in this issue. A graduate of Meredith College, she has recently completed the fifth children’s book in a series for the NC Department of Agriculture for their Farm to School program. Examples of this and other work can be found on her website.
I did not have enough skin to keep from flowing out of myself or to keep my mother from flowing in.
Huh? She knew what I meant. She knew the difference. Then why didn’t she do something about it? “I choose to live the way I please,” she continued. “I sleep late if I want, read or watch television whenever I want. I don’t interfere in your life,” she pointed out. “I’m independent. I don’t ask anything of you.” I found her words confusingly true. “Yes, but – ” And so, picking the card she had chosen, I entered her world. “Well, I was worried about you. I just wanted to see if you were all right.” “I’m fine.” When I left, I was glad to have the long drive ahead of me. I had seen the world so thoroughly through my mother’s eyes, suffered so keenly the pain she fended off from experiencing herself, that I was disoriented, doubting from her reactions what I had seen and felt myself. I did not have enough skin to keep from flowing out of myself or to keep my mother from flowing in. Driving north up the Garden State Parkway, it dawned on me that the whole time I had been downstairs with her, I had not held a tissue to my nose. I had gotten used to the smell. n
Read about the artist, MELINDA FINE, on the facing page.