Linda's House

By Margaret Melva Oldroyd

Linda loved her kids. They never visited. 

Linda’s kitchen was small, but she had her breakfast nook that she loved, and she  was careful to keep everything kosher. The fridge opened the wrong way, so you could never  get it all the way open because the wall stopped it. She hadn’t realized until it was installed  in the house. Her kids were supposed to help her replace the old one, but after they  canceled three times, she ended up going alone. Now she was stuck with a fridge door that  opened into the wall. She probably wouldn’t mind so much if there were scratches on the  sleek stainless-steel door and dents in her wall from grandkids throwing open the door for  juice boxes, but the last time she had seen her grandkids, they weren’t old enough for juice  boxes. Her wall remained pristine. 

Linda wanted a big family. She didn’t like empty space. Or the quiet. She wanted to  be surrounded by laughter to harmonize with her own, to hear footsteps running on the  tiled floor, to wipe away tears. That’s why she had five children. Noa was the oldest. She  had always promised to take care of Linda, so it was surprising she never came to visit. Noa  had never married, never had children, and did not inherit her mother’s need for company.  Instead, she became a nurse, and that was enough. Eliora was next, moved to the States  with her husband and their three children. She had gone to school for teaching but stayed  home now. Aviv was the middle and her only son. He moved to London, did something with  finance, but Linda never understood any of that. The youngest were her twins. Talia and  Tova. They had stayed close to home too, but still, they were too busy with their own  families to visit. 

Linda was resourceful. When the bar of soap got so small—whittled down till it was  impossible to pick up—she would place the splinters in a cup until there were enough to  make a new bar. People didn’t understand the importance of frugality. Noa made sure to keep things Mom’s way. She kept the kitchen organized the same way,  even though it wasn’t technically kosher. She kept the fridge with the door that opened into  the wall because her mom said she liked the color. She saved every scrap of soap in the  cup by the sink. 

Linda lived with her oldest daughter, Noa. As Noa’s eyelids slipped open every  morning, it was anguish to see more of her mother’s memory gone. She talked to her  siblings every day. They called to check on Mom and Noa. It could drive you insane taking  care of a madwoman. And they visited twice a year. Once around Pesach, then again  around Christmas. They didn’t celebrate; it’s just when most of them had work off. 

Linda’s kids never visited her, only five strangers.

By Margaret Melva Oldroyd