"Forsaken" by Natalia Hrycay — Our December 2020 Bronze Medal Winner

Natalia is our third place winner from the contest posted in our December 2020 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“This story is deeply anchored to the image prompt yet still flies on its own. Sparingly, yet profound, this protagonist jumps from the page into our minds and hearts. Congratulations!”

“Very strong characterization. We feel Maddie’s despair for both the past and the inevitable future. A heartfelt story.”

Meet Natalia

Natalia currently lives in Montreal with her husband and two children. Her earliest childhood memories were the vibrant Ukrainian fairy tales her grandmother recounted at bedtime. Her love of stories quickly turned into a love of the written word. Natalia pursued her interest in human language and graduated with an M.Sc. in Speech-Language Pathology from McGill University. She is currently working on her first fiction novel inspired by her family’s history during and after WWII.

Forsaken

the unedited story by Natalia Hrycay

image provided by Ronald Zajac

The reflection of her smile startles her as she pulls the door open to the stairway. She covers her nose with her hand and takes a deep breath. His scent permeates the gloves she wears; the smell of pine and refuge. He offered them to her as they walked the wooded trail just south of town. She told him she wasn’t cold, but he insisted. Took each hand and slipped them on, like a father would do for a child. She climbs the steps two at a time to her second floor apartment. The aura of gloom enfolds her before she even slips her key in the lock. She has come to recognize the sounds; the rasp of boxes being pulled, the shuffle of items being packed.

Why did she think this time would be different?

“Mon ange,” maman says as she sees her standing in the doorway, “Maddie, I’ve found the perfect place for us!”

Again. Another move.

A fresh beginning for maman. The dread of starting over for Maddie.

She feels the blood pulsating in her temples and can’t bring herself to pretend this time.

She can’t slip to maman’s side and help wrap the chipped cups in newspapers, stack books into milk crates, fold clothes into small squares and tuck them into the old Samsonite suitcase.

“Maybe we should wait until the school year finishes?” Maddie tries, cringing at the sound of pleading in the words that slip off her tongue.

The dish crashes to the ground at once and ceramic pieces shatter. It’s the small Japanese bowl maman bought at a garage sale when they lived in North Bay, the one they fill with soya sauce and a drop of wasabi when they make sushi.

“Madeleine!” she shouts in that familiar voice, “Don’t make this difficult.”

She doesn’t flinch, neither from the smashing of the dish, nor the roar of maman’s voice. She is now like those mice they talked about in her biology class, her lack of response - habituation. She changes the pattern. Refusing to crouch down to pick up the broken pieces, she drifts past maman to her bedroom and gently closes the door, crushing the urge to slam it with all the desperation mounting within her. That would only make it worse; the shouting, the shattering, the crying. She should have seen it coming, now as she thinks back to the last few weeks the signs were apparent, vivid even. She just didn’t want to believe it. She made the mistake of opening herself up to someone in this town, to liking someone, trusting someone. How could she not? When she first met him by the pond, and he told her his name was Pierre she sat dumbfounded, her sketching pad on her lap, her HB pencil slipping from her fingers. Papa’s name. She hadn’t heard it spoken in 3 years, ever since the police knocked on their door and told them a car crash had taken him away. The beginning of maman’s unraveling.

Pierre picked up the pencil, sat down on the grass beside her and casually said, “That’s a great one,” as he peeked at her drawing, as if they were lifelong friends. It became their place; where they shared their thoughts, their hopes, where she first felt the touch of his hand, tasted the softness of his lips. How could she possibly have found a Pierre living in southern Alberta? She took it as a sign. He was the first to know about her trail west and the series of inhabited cities along the way since leaving Montreal. He was the first she told about maman’s colourful highs and desperate lows. The first to understand the two separate time spans of her short existence: before papa’s death and after papa’s death. Pierre, on whose shoulders she had climbed to escape the sadness that surrounded her.

She will be lost without him, but she lacks the courage to grow the wings she needs to fly over the mountains of loss and pain maman has built over the years. To do so would mean to abandon her. Deep inside she knows the time will come, but the time is not now.

An empty box sits on her bed. She has learned to pack little, has mastered the skill of swift flights. Her clothes, sketchpad, wooden jewelry box. She looks over to the mason jar on her night table. The dried hydrangeas within stand askance. Only a handful of florets still clutch to the stem. He had picked them for her at the brink of autumn, had tucked the bloom behind her ear. The memory creates a tightness in her chest. The seed of sadness is already planted within her, the grief of leaving him already beginning to grow. She wonders how to pack the flowers, how to transport them safely.

Another move west, another town, another apartment, another school. Perhaps only the Pacific ocean will stop maman from packing up again and again.

A week later, as their blue Toyota pulls out of the driveway, she tries to be numb like the other times they’ve moved. To feign indifference will not come easily as images of Pierre appear on the sidewalk, at the corner bus stop, on the crosswalk. She can’t take these with her, they will only heighten the hurdles already stacked in her path. She must let him go.

Maman is cheerful today. She cranks the volume and sings along in her carefree manner. Maddie pushes the button on the armrest and feels the pull of the wind as the window rolls down. As she stares ahead at the wet street through the windshield on this dreary early spring day, she lifts her hand to the open space, uncurls her fingers, and feels the hydrangeas flutter from her palm to the world she is leaving behind.