If Wishes Were Candy by Philip Goldberg

If Wishes Were Candy by Philip Goldberg

16 Feb , 2015

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A young woman, having just celebrated her 20th birthday, graced the glossy black and white snapshot; its edges curled slightly. Adorned in a one-piece bathing suit, the young woman excited the eyes. Posed on the beach, sand at her feet, she appeared joyful, confident.The photo felt slick between her bony fingers as she gazed at it through eyes glazed with age. She felt a smile coming. It stalled. Her lips remained straight, thin, dry, as she clutched the photo like life so dear. After some reflective moments, she placed the photo back in the purse pocket, which she had reserved especially for it.

At 83, Marge Collier sagged back in her armchair in the living room. Wistful, she returned to the moment when the picture had been snapped. A moment in time captured. A piece of one’s life preserved for posterity.

Carl had taken it. An early date between them, a prelude to a long life together until his heart had betrayed him. And death had taken him as easily as he had snapped the picture that afternoon so many years ago. But it had been a happy day. One that outshone any pain, any loneliness the loss had bequeathed her.

She focused on the bathing suit. How she had fretted over finding the right one. How she had shopped for days. On a rack at Gimbels, she had found it. Fire engine red with white polka dots and white lace trim, the bathing suit danced before her eyes, hypnotized her. Right off the rack, it felt perfect between her fingers, silky and soft. On her, it looked fabulous, fitting her delightfully, hugging her deliciously, accentuating her curves in a manner that would make any Hollywood publicist proud. Certainly it had kept the smile on Carl’s face that day.

Her husband, the bathing suit, the camera (a boxy Kodak Brownie Hawkeye Bakelite) were long gone. Bittersweet memories. Even her two children, Tommy and Sandy had scattered to different states, each having raised families of their own. The grandchildren now had families, too. The oldest great grandchild, Eliza, entered college in the coming fall.

Marge closed her eyes at the magnitude of it all. Seconds of thoughts. Years of life.

Tommy would arrive soon. His second wife, Ellen, would accompany him. After all, he needed company on the six-hour-plus trip, a second driver to relieve him, a voice to keep him alert. She knew what not having that felt like. She also knew that shortly after their arrival, the movers would show up.

Her fingers edged the clasp of the purse, smooth and cool, itching to unsnap it, to retrieve the photo. Instead she turned stoic. Her eyes steeled over and stared at a bare wall of the living room. Cracks revealed themselves where framed pictures, paintings and a mirror once hanged. Ghostly tracings of these items showed themselves, having been spared the sunlight that had faded the paint on the walls.

She peered around the room. Studied it as if it was a chamber in a museum. The space, she recalled, had once been alive with people, voices, laughter, shouts, tears. Now it accommodated only silence. Moving boxes filled the area packed, stacked and ready to go (accomplished by the movers yesterday).

An urge possessed her, a need to get up. She rose from her chair and felt the strain, the exertion of the muscles in her lower back, her thighs, her calves. A raspy sigh rushed through her lips. Standing still for the moment, she regained her equilibrium before stepping to a hall mirror, off its hooks and leaning against the wall. Glancing, she caught her reflection: short gray hair, a face elegantly lined, a body thinning as if eroded by time. Yet her eyes still held the blue they always had. Striking blue. Cobalt blue. Two orbs that still captured the light as if they were precious gems. At this, at last, she smiled.

A white fog clouded her eyes. A sudden sensation of spinning dizzied her. Her legs wobbled. She thrust a hand against the wall and braced herself. The feeling passed, the fog dispersed, the wobbling ceased. Her balance reclaimed, she stood erect. Relieved. Her pulse strengthened. Her heart slowed. Her mind cleared.

Had she not collapsed again a month ago, she’d be staying here still, in this room, in this house. In her mind, this was the ultimate truth. Of course, if wishes were candy… She recalled the saying from her childhood; something her mother had said whenever she wanted something she could not have. For a moment, she struggled to remember the rest of the adage. She couldn’t. Soon she would forget what she had just called to mind.

She had argued with Tommy, with Sandy. But three fainting spells in less than a year made her protests weak and thin, as faint as her pulse had been when she found herself on the supermarket floor. All those concerned faces focused on her: employees, shoppers, ambulance attendants, nurses. It still unnerved her. And after all she had said, debated, argued, she lowered her head and grew silent, somber like a petulant child embracing remorse.

Turning away from the wall, the mirror, she faced the front window. Early morning light slanted into the room, tangling her in its glow while brightening the hardwood floor. The oak in the front yard stood tall, its leafy branches wide, a giant sentry protecting the house. Some starlings swooped down from the sky and balanced on the tree’s branches, exercising their voices against the dawn’s gentle breeze.

Witnessing the starlings, she recalled when one had flown through the open living room window a few weeks ago and landed on top of her armchair. Her surprise quickly became laughter. Then eeriness overcame her, sparked by something her mother had told her when she was little. Something bad about a bird flying into the house, but she couldn’t recall what it was. Slipped her mind as fast as the bird had entered the house—like some many things over the past decade. Was it an old wives tale? Perhaps. Sensing the urgency of the moment, she flailed her arms, waved her hands and chased the bird out through the open window, slamming it shut with a clack that rang of finality.

She shuddered at the memory. Looked around to gather her bearings. Fifty-nine years she had lived here and that had been the only time a bird had flown into her home. Almost six decades inside these walls. The oak had been here longer. She nodded at the great tree and accepted its gently swaying branches as a nod back.

Turning from the window, she caught a whiff of pine. The strong scent had greeted her when she had stepped into the house for the very first time. The sweet aroma retraced its path through her nostrils and unbridled warmth consumed her. Sometimes when this occurred, her cheek remained dry. More often an accompanying tear found its way to her cheek as it did now. With a hand (was it trembling?), she wiped the moisture away and returned to her chair.

Not long after, Tommy and Ellen arrived. Each leaned over and kissed her on a cheek.

In lieu of a greeting, she said: “I still can live on my own, you know.”

“I get it, Ma,” he replied. His voice tired but weighted with compassion.

Ellen chimed in: “Mom, Comfort Corners is such a wonderful place.”

Marge opened her pocketbook, oblivious to her current daughter in-law’s endorsement.

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Your room there is beautiful. There are lots of activities there, too.”

“More than I need,” she said, cutting him off. “More than I want.”

Silence.

Tommy’s face tightened, reddened. He turned to the stacked boxes, feigned checking the packing, occasionally glancing at his watch as if to speed up the arrival of the movers.

Watching him, Marge said: “Don’t know why you hired movers. Most of it is going to you or going away.”

“We need somebody to move it, Ma.”

She nodded, her head a succession of tight, tiny movements. In her hand, she clutched the photo freed from her wallet. Facing Ellen, she cooed: “Dear, have I shown you this picture?”

Ellen glanced at Tommy, who shrugged as concern blushed his face.

“Yes, Mom, you have. Many times,” she said.

Surprise. Confusion. Marge’s face displayed each. Her eyes flitted about as if seeking confirmation somewhere in the room of her daughter-in-law’s claim. Finally, she muttered: “If you say so, dear. If you say so.”

Ellen broke into a smile, nervous at its edges, before looking away.

The movers came. Boxes were piled into the truck. Furniture followed. A rug flattened and wedged behind the sofa. With everything packed, they slapped shut the truck’s back door, got in the front cab and drove off.

Marge stood in the vacant room. Its emptiness crowded her, smothered her, overwhelmed her. Fifty-nine years she drew in one long breath. She held it one…two…three…four…then slowly released it as if it were her last. Her eyes grew small: two sorrowful slits. She placed a dampening hand in her son’s. Letting him walk her, she left the room small step after small step. She stopped at the front door and breathed in one last whiff of fresh pine. No tear rolled down this time.

She departed the house.

Tommy shut the door with a soft touch. No thwack. No smack. Just a click.

Marge followed him to the car, and with his help entered on the front passenger’s side. Silent and still she sat as Ellen took the back seat and Tommy took the wheel.

She glanced at the house one last time. Some shingles at the roof’s edge needed replacement. The façade cried out for a fresh coat of paint, new windows and a new front door. All, she knew, were no longer her problem. No more.

The car pulled away from the curb, from the house, from her street. She ignored it all, looking straight ahead. Her hand gripped her purse as tight as she held her lips. Tighter.

Hours later, she sat on the edge of her bed in her new room, in her new home. A cozy space, although she hardly noticed. Tommy and Ellen had set up the room and had only left less than an hour ago. She inhaled deeply but all she smelled was lemon-scented disinfectant emanating from the bathroom on her right.

Voices, some laughter, even a song sung off-key pierced her ears from the hall beyond her closed room door. Through the curtained window on her right, daylight dwindled.

Grunting, she rose. Her pocketbook dangled from her arm. Before the room’s dresser, she stopped and placed the bag on the veneer top. She clicked open the pocketbook, removed her wallet and withdrew the photo.

Looking at the snapshot, she heard waves crash, the light-hearted music of a carousel’s calliope, squeals of laughter. The salty sweetness of seawater swam up her nostrils, bathing them, soothing them. Summer sunlight kissed her bathing suit clad skin, which almost shimmered in the photo.

She had stared at Carl, who stood a few yards away; the camera had covered part of his face. The viewfinder fixed to his eye. The lens focused on her.

“Cheese,” he said in a playful voice.

She heard the click. And her smile grew warmer than the summer breeze as she watched him lower the camera. Only his smile now aimed at her.

“Miss Collier, Miss Collier, Miss Collier,” the attendant said, having just entered the room after her knocking went unanswered.

But all Marge heard were the waves crashing like an urgent whisper upon the sand, as she followed Carl to the water.
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