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No Regrets

by Julie Lacksonen

By Julie LacksonenPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
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Photo from 123RF

Super spy, Samantha Rigby pursued her target by taking a shortcut across a frozen Russian pond. It was a calculated risk. The sound of cracking ice alerted her to danger. Would her risk pay off? She knew this pond was deep enough to trap her in frigid water if she fell through. She quickly…

“Stanley, come here.”

I sigh, my shoulders slouching. “Coming, mom.” I save my document, shut my laptop, and hasten to mother’s room.

“Stanley, I’m so happy to see you. I had the strangest dream. We were back in Hawaii. Remember our honeymoon?” Her smile is as endearing as it is heartbreaking. She looks at me and says, “Stanley, is that you? When did you shave your beard off?”

I sit on the chair next to her bed. “No, Mom, it’s me, Kevin. I’m your son.” I don’t have the heart to tell her for the hundredth time that her husband, my father, passed away four years ago from a heart attack. So, I tell yet another white lie, which she will soon forget. “Dad will be home after work.”

My mom looks at me, brows wrinkled. “Kevin? When did you get here?”

We have argued several times about the fact that I have been here for over a year, so now I take the easy route, saying simply, “I just got here.”

She can’t remember that I graduated from Kenyon College here in Gambier, Ohio, with a major in Biology and a minor in Anthropology. She isn’t aware that I have left my first job with Sunbeam Pharmaceuticals to take care of her. She has no understanding of what COVID-19 is, and how it has affected people around the world. My sister, Lisa, the mother of my 6-year-old autistic nephew, lost her husband to it. She is home-schooling Nathan and living on unemployment. As she is my only sibling, which leaves me to be our mother’s caregiver.

Is my life easy right now? No. Do I enjoy writing spy stories? Yes and no. Sometimes, they come quickly, and I have fun creating the characters. Sometimes, it’s a struggle, and they seem like ghosts that I can’t quite see. Am I making enough money to live solely on my writing? Definitely not. I’m trying not to eat up too much of our inheritance, which is why I’m doing something I can do from home. Do I have any regrets about these life changes? No way. I would rather spend this time with my mother than have her live in a nursing home around strangers.

My parents had my sister and I later in life. Mom was 35 and Dad was 40 when I was born. Lisa came three years later. The advantage of having older parents is that they are wiser and more financially secure than their younger counterparts. My mom and dad were not perfect. My mom’s cooking wasn’t nearly as good as she thought it was, and my dad watched way too much football, both college and professional. But they took great care of us. Now, it’s my time to return the favor.

I usher Mom to the bathroom, giving her a modicum of privacy, but careful to monitor from the doorway. I learned this lesson a month ago after she used up a whole roll of tissue, repeatedly forgetting she had already wiped. She flushed the clogged toilet multiple times, flooding the floor.

After she’s done, I lead her to the living room and turn on The Price is Right. She can’t follow anything with a plot, but she seems happy enough to watch the colorful people on the game show. I make some scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and slice up two apples.

When I call her to the table, and she sees the plates, she exclaims, “Oh, Stanley, this looks lovely.”

I let the incorrect name slide and changed the subject. “We could both use some exercise, so after breakfast, we’re going to walk over to the river and back.”

“That sounds divine, Stanley. Remember when we used to jog the Kokosing Trail together?”

“Sure, how can I forget?” In truth, I didn’t know my parents used to jog.

As she rambled about jogging trails, my mind went back to my spy book. Should I really kill off my main character and end the series? It would be a good, unexpected twist. I can always start a new series, perhaps a detective series next time.

I snapped back to reality upon hearing my mom comment, “I love tomato juice.” I hadn’t served any.

I called out, “Mom!” and gently took the ketchup bottle from her.

She looked at me quizzically. “Is that you, Kevin? When did you get home?”

I sigh and roll my eyes. Then I say, “I just got here. Let’s go for a walk, Mom.”

“That sounds divine. Did you know that your father and I used to jog? Is he coming along?”

“He’s at work, Mom. Let’s go. I’ll wash dishes later.” I really need some fresh air.

Ohio weather can be fickle, even in the summer, but today is ideal. Some light clouds occasionally shield us from the sun, but when we got to a clearing near the Kokosing River, they move on, and the sun comes shining through. I can’t help putting my arms out and leaning my head back, closing my eyes. I let the warmth wash away the cares of the world.

“Stanley, come cool off with me.” I follow the sound of Mom’s voice. She is standing in the middle of the river in her shoes and underwear. Her housedress is at my feet. Seeing no harm, I kick off my shoes and wade out, grateful I’m wearing shorts instead of pants. We end up splashing each other, laughing like a couple of kids.

Soon, Mom shivers and admits, “I’m starting to get cold. Let’s go home, Stanley.”

“Sure, I’m ready too.” I don’t call her “Mom” because I don’t want to spoil her happy mood. As we walk home, I rest my hand on her shoulder so that I won’t lose her again.

At home, I help her out of her damp clothing and hold up a different housedress for her consideration. She smiles and says, “Oh, Stanley, you just bought that for me on Tuesday.”

She holds up her arms and I slide it down over her slim body. She yawns. I say, “Why don’t you take a nap now? We can have lunch when you wake up.”

“Okay, Stanley. Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say, choking down the emotions that are surfacing.

I gently shut her door and exhale a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I lean against the door for a minute and rub my fingers across my eyelids. Not sure how much more I can take; I rush to my room to change into dry clothes. I get a glass of water in the kitchen, and then go back to my computer. Immersing myself in my work may do me some good. Besides, I’ve got a hero to kill off.

She knew the pond was deep enough to trap her in frigid water. She quickly took another step, hoping to catch up to her target, who is glancing back at her. With a loud crack, her foot thrust through the ice. Her weight widened the hole, immediately making her entire body plunge into the freezing water. She gasped for air just before her head submerged.

Samantha flailed, trying to make it back to the opening she had inadvertently created. Her body was slow to respond, and her drenched winter clothing was weighing her down, but she managed to make it to the surface, filling her lungs with much-needed air. She tried to climb out, but the ice broke every time she got an elbow on it. She tried kicking to propel herself out, but she was running out of energy. She didn’t want to die in a Russian pond, but there was no one to help. She had always known it was risky working alone, and now she was going to pay for it. Her last thought was, “I hope they get that son-of-a…”

I thought I heard something. Maybe it was just something from the road, but I rush to Mom’s room, just to be certain. She wasn’t in her bed. I call, “Mom!” No answer. I keep calling and checking every room in the house. I run outside, looking down Wiggin Street in both directions. I circle the house. There is no sign of her. I panic. When should I call for help? I decide to drive around first, hoping to get lucky.

I pass an Amish buggy and some kids riding bikes. I ask them if they’ve seen a barefoot lady, but the answer is, “No,” from all of them. My eyes are scanning everywhere. As I pass Wiggin Street Elementary School, a thought occurs to me. She used to take us to the school playground. I turn down the side road and spot her swinging. I quickly park and run over.

“Mom! You scared me. You should have told me you were leaving.”

“Kevin? Is that you? When did you get to town?”

I shrug my shoulders and say, “I just got here,” and sit in the swing next to her. I let her continue to swing for a bit. After five minutes, I say, “Let’s go home now, Mom. I’ll fix lunch.”

“Kevin, you’re here? When did you get home?”

“I just got here, Mom. Let’s go eat lunch.”

“Okay. Is your father going to join us?”

“No, Mom, he’s working.”

On the short drive home, I realize that I’m in over my head. I need help. Lisa has given me some phone numbers for support. It’s time to make use of them. At least one which will result in someone coming to give me breaks.

As my mom finally takes her nap, I bring my laptop into her room. I can’t save my mom, but I can save my character. I erase my last work and start back on the pond.

She knew the pond was deep enough to trap her in frigid water. She quickly got down on her stomach to distribute her weight and army-crawled across the pond. Her target was looking back at her, probably hoping she would fall in. She targeted him with her scope, and with a pull of her trigger, she downed him with one shot.

Back at the U.S. headquarters, she received an award and a bonus for a job well done. She was glad that she hadn’t perished alone, trapped in a frozen Russian pond.

family
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About the Creator

Julie Lacksonen

Julie has been a music teacher at a public school in Arizona since 1987. She enjoys writing, reading, walking, swimming, and spending time with family.

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