"Two Wet Feet" by Sarah Law — Our December 2020 Silver Medal Winner

Sarah is our second place winner from the contest posted in our December 2020 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“While we’re still living in it, it can be difficult to read stories set in this Pandemic; but this story, although heartbreaking, feels like a balm. It’s humour and relatability balance the devastation very well. I thought that every line was intentionally crafted and it made for a very enjoyable read.”

“Firmly planted in current world events, this story still managed to surprise and intrigue. Mournful yet witty, the author manages to twist reader’s emotions as the story unfolds. Well done! ”

“A very mature, insightful story. The prose is clean and direct with vivid images throughout. Everyday details bring the narrative to life. I loved the resonance of the final sentence. Excellent story.”

Meet Sarah

Sarah is a reporter for the Gravenhurst Banner newspaper and lives in Muskoka, Ontario. She enjoys writing, running, and playing with her cat, Panda.

Two Wet Feet

the unedited story by Sarah Law

image provided by Ronald Zajac

The worst feeling in the world is when your sock slips below your heel in your boot and you feel the sliminess of the sweat and slush on your soles.

Okay, fine. There are competing worst feelings – like when you try to be a better person by flossing only to have the string come out bloody. Or when you pour expired milk into a bowl of cereal and only realize after the first bite.

When I heard the news about Evalyn, I didn’t feel anything at all.

The first thing I thought of was whether or not she got my Christmas card.

The card wasn’t special. It featured a pair of glittery penguins riding snowboards on the front with a generic font inside saying, “Hope you have snow much fun this holiday season!”

I’d scribbled a couple things below, something about being sorry I couldn’t visit and to have a happy and healthy new year. You know, the usual crap for ‘these unprecedented times’.

I remembered the ink smudged because I rested my hand on the card before letting it dry. Then I wiped my forehead and transferred a black-blue smear onto my temples.

I should’ve sent an e-card like everybody else from this century, but anyone who says it isn’t fun getting something in the mail is lying.

Allan’s the one who told me. He called me on the phone, which he never does, and asked me how I was, which he’s never done.

Then he said he had something to tell me about Evalyn, and I knew straight away that she was dead.

“It happened fast,” said Allan. “She was 76.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“There’s gonna be a ZOOM call next week,” he said.

I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me nodding, and then I asked if it was OK to wear sweatpants to a funeral. He chuckled, and then began coughing up his last cigarette.

“Why the hell not?” he wheezed.

The five stages of grief – according to the first results on Google – are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Some webpages said there are 12 stages, and others said there are four or 9, but that’s too much to remember. And I think it’s all made up, anyway. It’s just a way to give people a sort of checklist, a sense of accomplishment the day they start laughing again, and then the day they start laughing without feeling guilty for experiencing a moment of joy.

Evalyn is – was – our great aunt. She took care of us after school and most weekends ‘til I was 16 and then she moved across the country. Every Sunday, she made us Kraft Dinner in a bowl with ketchup squirts forming a face and cut up hot dog wieners for hair.

She smoked a lot, talked back at talk shows and had a Chihuahua named Cheeto – four times.

All of the Cheetos were buried in her backyard in unmarked graves. And all of them were assholes.

A few days after the phone call, I was standing in line outside the grocery store, fidgeting with my face mask to prevent my glasses from fogging up, when a woman near the front caught my attention.

She was wearing a fluffy pink vest resembling a flamingo’s chest, her hair formed a yellow bowl around her scalp and her white skinny jeans were ripped at the knees. Her face mask matched her handbag, of course.

She was exactly the type of person Evalyn would have despised but also ogled over.

“Where the hell does she think she’s going, the Met Gala?” Evalyn would have said. “Turning the goddamn cleaning aisle into a catwalk?”

I smirked as I pumped out some hand sanitizer and watched half of it drip onto the floor. A trail of Lysol wipes on the ground led to a row of shopping carts, and I ended up grabbing one with a broken back wheel.

“F***,” I said a little too loudly as a family of four brushed past me.

A man wearing pyjama bottoms with the Pillsbury Doughboy printed on them meandered through the produce section in front of me.

“What the hell is that guy’s problem?” Evalyn’s nasally voice rang between my ears. “How long does it take to put on a pair of decent slacks?”

I went back to the store later because I’d forgotten half the stuff on my list, but it was already closed.

“Shit!” I yelled, and kicked the trash can beside the door.

So, I ended up ordering some pasta but only ate a few bites. I poured a glass of ginger ale and waited for it to turn flat, tracing my finger around the bubbly rim. That’s what Evalyn always gave us when we didn’t feel well – except, we usually drank it while it was still fizzy, which often made things worse.

“So, what are you gonna say?” Allan asked over the phone the next day.

“Do I have to say anything?” I sighed as I paced around the apartment, playing with a souvenir keychain in my pocket. “I don’t know what the hell to say. Maybe my internet will conveniently freeze when it’s my turn.”

“Don’t be an ass,” said Allan. “Come on. Share a story or something.”

Allan’s plan was to pull a couple poems off a website and then praise the slideshow our cousin was making. This seemed like a copout to me, but I didn’t feel like arguing with my brother.

What I felt like doing was getting some Gravol.

On my way to the pharmacy, a woman and a boy were jumping from stone to stone in the park. It looked like the goal was not to touch the ground – or roll an ankle in the process.

Were they smiling? Maybe with their eyes. It’s hard to tell these days.

And then I walked through a puddle. The water seeped through the toe of my boot, creating a pool of water that squished with each step.

I’ve never cried harder.