Alicia

When Alicia was four, she had gotten angry with her mother and tried to cross the street by herself, not seeing that a truck was fast approaching. Her mother ran out to grab her and was struck down with a horrific thud. In her dying words, Alicia's mother whispered hoarsely to her daughter, 'This isn't your fault! Don't you ever blame yourself! Promise me, Alicia, promise me! Say you promise!' 'I promise, Mommy!', Alicia had agreed, sobbing.

Of course, Alicia never forgot that moment. Not a month went by that she didn't wake up in the middle of the night at least once from a bad dream. Not even when she went to live with her grandparents, not when she went to the University of Toronto and not when she married (and later divorced) Adam. That was the one constant in her life--the memory of the truck slamming into her mother's abdomen.

By the time she turned twenty-five, she had met with seven different pyschiatrists, had joined (and later abandoned) a fundamentalist Christian group, had been addicted to several varieties of painkillers, and had once been found sobbing uncontrollably in a women's change room.

Now thirty, she is back living in Vancouver and working at a legal firm. She is seeing a man named Alain and things seem to be going well.
'I'm going to visit Mother today,' she says quietly at breakfast.
'You say that as if she's still alive,' Alain says.
'In my heart, she is.'
Alain frowns slightly. 'You're an adult now, Alicia. You have to let this go.' They have been having a similar conversation for the last three months now. Alain is a psychiatrist with an office just off near Cambie and 18th.
Alicia gets up. 'Well, I have to go.'
'Fine.' Alain goes back to his oatmeal with raisins.

At the gravesite, Alicia plants another white rose. Apparently, she is the only one that seems to come here regularly, as there are no other flowers at the gravestone. She pulls out a worn photo of her mother from her wallet. In the picture, her mother is twenty-seven and beaming. She kisses the photo and puts it back into her wallet.

'I can't', she says as Alain reaches out for her in bed.
'We've been seeing each other for a almost a year now,' Alain says gently, though he is breathing fast.
'I know. We will...when the time is right,' Alicia replies.
Alain sighs loudly. 'You keep saying that. The time will never be right.' He gets out of bed. 'I can't see you anymore, Alicia. I'm sorry, but this thing with your mother, it's...it's just out of hand.'
Alicia closes her eyes.

It has been two months since Alicia has stopped seeing Alain. She doesn't even seem to notice. Every Sunday, she still visits her mother's gravesite, though. Her friend, Marnie, says over the phone that 'the best way to honour someone's memory is to go on living a great life'. Alicia hangs up on her.

Walking home from the office one night, she gets the sudden notion to walk over to the street where her mother had been struck down. Alicia hasn't been there since the day of the accident. Her heart is thudding and she can barely breathe as she approaches the intersection. 'Mommy', she whispers. She stands at the corner and watches the traffic. There are a few passerbys but they don't pay any attention to Alicia. 'Mommy,' she whispers again. Finally, an older man notices that Alicia seems dazed. He stops and begins walking slowly toward her but it is too late--she has already walked into the street. The timing is perfect; the blue Dodge van cannot stop in time and Alicia is struck down. The old man runs out in horror. The driver of the van seems defensive as he gets out. 'It's not my fault, she's crazy! She just walked in front of me! You saw it!'

Alicia reaches out and grabs the driver's pant leg. 'Don't blame yourself,' she whispers.The driver pulls his leg away wildly. 'What!? You crazy or something!? He glares out at the crowd that is beginning to gather. 'It was her fault, you saw it!'

The old man is cradling Alicia's head. He can see the life fading out of her eyes. She pulls at his collar. 'It's nobody's fault,' she says quietly and closes her eyes one more time.

'What!? Is she dead!?,' the driver asks wildly.
'She's gone,' the old man intones.
'It wasn't my fault! You saw it!'
'That's what she said.' the old man replies.

Shards of Glass

When Tim was seventeen, he could really kick a football. Many would gather to watch as he would punt in the field after school. He would kick it out to his friend, Mark, who would throw the ball back to him, and he would kick it out again; sometimes for hours he would do this, nearly everyday. Eventually, scouts for Edmonton's professional team noticed and came to monitor his progress. 'This kid's the real deal,' Ed would say. 'Look at the height and distance he's getting.' Ed's partner, Lou, would add, 'He's got class, he just keeps doing it all the time.'

Tim was becoming something of a local hero. He was a barefoot kicker; that is, he prefered not to wear shoes on his kicking foot. Thus, before every game, he walked down the field a few times and meticulously scanned for any signs of broken glass, sharp rocks or any other foreign objects. Usually, he didn't find much and feeling satisfied, he would go to the locker room and go to the shower to pray alone. This had been his habit since he had started playing organized football in Grade 10.

The final game of the high school season arrived one fine Saturday and everyone came out--family, friends, pro scouts, local media and just about everybody from the neighborhood. The game began promptly at 2pm and Tim delivered a beautiful kickoff under a brilliant blue sky. He was smiling; he felt no pressure--he loved the game, he loved kicking footballs, and it didn't matter that there were professional eyes upon him and big money waiting in the wings.

By half-time, his team was leading 20-14 and it was two field goals from Tim that were making the difference (one had been a towering 54-yarder that had made the home crowd gasp and cheer wildly). In the locker room, everyone was slapping him on the back; they seemed to be a team of destiny and would probably win the city high school championship. Even Tim, who never liked to be overconfident, was certain they would win. Again, he went to the shower to pray alone during the break. When he came out, his father called him on the cellphone. 'Son, great news! Ed wants us to meet with the general manager of the Eskimos next week. They're talking signing bonuses and everything!'. Tim said he was glad and said he had to concentrate on the game at hand. His father understood and said, 'Go get 'em, Tiger!'.

When they returned to the field for the second half, Tim had a glow about him. He was looking at all the people he knew in the stands, at the trees in the distance, and the gulls that were wheeling in the sky. He breathed deeply as he prepared for the kickoff. As he came running up, he felt a piercing pain in his heel and fell to the ground; there were shards of glass embedded in his foot and blood seeping from the cuts. He grimaced and rolled onto his side as the trainer ran in from the the sidelines. His teammates watched in horror as Tim clutched at his foot. One player notices that there were bits of broken glass in a small four-foot diameter just at the center line. 'Vaccuum this up!' the ref yelled and a groundskeeper immediately sprang into action.

The trainer told Tim, 'Hey there, you're lucky, it was just three pieces in there and they're all out. They weren't too deep. We can tape it up and you can probably keep playing.''No,' said Tim quietly. Everyone looked at him. The coach could see that the bleeding had already stopped. They were just minor cuts. The groundskeeper had already vaccuumed up the glass and the ref had signalled the game could continue. Even his best friend on the team, the quarterback, Mitch, was surprised. 'Hey Tim, it's just a few little cuts, you can tough it out.'

'No.' said Tim, this time emphatic. He had thoroughly combed the field before the game. He had not found any glass; someone had deliberately placed the glass on the field during the halftime break. Someone had deliberately tried to hurt him--just for a high school game. He looked over at the opposing team's bench. His coach said, 'Tim, I think you can still play, those cuts are...'
'No, Coach, I'm sorry, I'm not playing ever again.' Tim said solemnly. Everyone gaped at him as he stood up and limped off the field and walked back to the school. He didn't respond to the calls for him to come back.

They lost the game by two field goals. The replacement kicker, Blaine (who was really a defensive back that could also kick a bit), missed one from twenty yards out and another from fifteen yards out. The local media and most of the people from school blamed Tim. The meeting with the general manager from the Eskimos never took place. Tim moved to BC and began working as a Safeway stockboy for ten dollars an hour. He never touched a football again and refused to watch the game on TV, something he had done regularly with his father since he was six years old.

The last anybody heard, Tim was still working at the Safeway (he's forty-three now and an assistant manager, I believe). I hear he's fine, except that whenever anybody drops a glass bottle at the store, he goes into a bit of a fit.