What would you do if you lost your family, friends and home? Isabella's story is one of resiliency, tenacity and hope, knowing she can only depend on herself. Facing a life of uncertainty at age 15, Isabella was forced to cultivate strength and maturity while striving to survive while following her heart. Her athleticism, intelligence and goodness, overshadowed by a tumultuous childhood marred by dysfunctionality, motivated her to cultivate deep and lasting friendships into adulthood. Despite heartaches and disappointments, Isabella remained steadfast, determined to realize her dreams. Through joyful and tragic circumstances, Isabella stays true to herself. Little did Isabella anticipate that, in the course of striving to fulfill her goals and seeking financial stability, that she would find love and acceptance in unexpected places!
What would you do if you lost your family, friends and home? Isabella's story is one of resiliency, tenacity and hope, knowing she can only depend on herself. Facing a life of uncertainty at age 15, Isabella was forced to cultivate strength and maturity while striving to survive while following her heart. Her athleticism, intelligence and goodness, overshadowed by a tumultuous childhood marred by dysfunctionality, motivated her to cultivate deep and lasting friendships into adulthood. Despite heartaches and disappointments, Isabella remained steadfast, determined to realize her dreams. Through joyful and tragic circumstances, Isabella stays true to herself. Little did Isabella anticipate that, in the course of striving to fulfill her goals and seeking financial stability, that she would find love and acceptance in unexpected places!
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âQuickly! I had to arrange this especially for you. I donât do this favor for everyone. Actually, I have never done this favor, so hurry up. Donât get me in trouble.â
âOkay, Okay. I will hurry.â With that, I forced myself off the chair in the funeral parlor waiting room. I was terrified someone would see me. Someone who knew me. Someone I knew.
I crept slowly to where she was lying. At first, I didnât recognize her. She was so thin. Not at all like the person I hazily remembered. The gaunt-faced woman who never smiled and clearly enjoyed eating. I didnât know what to expect. I had seen many bodies in the morgue when I worked for the eye bank â but this was different. This was laced with anxiety, fear, and dread of the living. Not the dying.
âI sure donât know if you remember me or know me at all âcause I sure donât remember you much. I am sorry I donât know you, but how could you have watched and let it happen?â These words I whispered to myself, the whole while subconsciously hoping she would hear and respond. She was my grandmother. My motherâs mother. I thought maybe visiting her would give me magical insights. It didnât.
âHey, you there. Donât forget to sign the guest book at the front.â
My deep quiet was broken by the manâs voice. I froze instantly. Frozen with fear, I questioned how could I sign the guest book because then they would know I had been here. I couldnât. I wouldnât. I ran out the back of the funeral parlor. The door creaked loudly as it swung shut. Keeping a wild but keen eye on every car approaching the parking lot, I turned the key to my Mustang. It was a few minutes before the funeral home was to open for mourners, and I felt nothing except terror that I may see her coming. I laughed out loud at the thought of her mourning her mother like she even gave a shit. I didnât even know if I would recognize my mother if I did see her, but my instinct told me to flee. I ran to the car. It wasnât until I got on the freeway that I heard an audible breath and realized that it wasnât the wind but my own panicked breathing. No one prepared me for this. All I knew was that that was the last shred of concrete proof I existed. Now that tiny shred of fragile existence was going to be buried, and I feared I may never know myself.
With that thought, I tried to cry. But the twenty-six years of numbness and feelings of worthlessness didnât let me. Instead, I could only think, âIs this how it is? You live in a void with no connections to another, and then you die?â I laughed softly at the thought that there was no soap opera moment bringing clarity to this surreal reality.
I arrived at my evening job. My sneaking into a funeral home between visiting hours and seeing my grandmother now seemed all perfectly normal. I knew I could push through, and the earlier dayâs events would evaporate before my shift was over. I knew it because I practiced pushing my childhood days so far back in my mind on a daily basis. My robotic inner voice kept me moving one step in front of the other. I knew that moving forward and not looking back was the best strategy to live life.
The next morning was sunny and muggy. The humidity was enough to choke a person. Sweat beads started to roll down my forehead within the few minutes it took for me to get to my car. The damn parking lot was always full at the apartments. I hated having to park at the end of the street because I always worried. A single young woman had to be extra careful. Once I arrived, my boss handed me a phone number I didnât recognize and told me it was a family member. I laughed out loud. Clearly, she had the wrong person. No family members ever called, let alone left messages. Why not? I picked up the phone and dialed before starting my shift. After all, no reason to make some poor stranger wait to find out they had the wrong person.
âHello, this is Isabella. I think you have the wrong person. Who am I speaking with?â
A high-pitched woman rapidly and pensively spoke on the phone, explaining my grandmotherâs death. I didnât know this voice. I didnât know this person, but it was made clear I was being invited to some sort of memorial.
âI donât know if I should come.â The element of surprise took me with such aghast that I started becoming nauseated. I was sweating. I could feel the instant panic consume me. The fear again paralyzed me.
âI have to think about this. I donât know you. You say you are my aunt? I donât want to take a chance of seeing her, my mother.â
âDonât be ridiculous. You are Berthaâs granddaughter. Your mother wonât be here. She thinks she is too good to come back to this neighborhood. Besides, I havenât spoken to your mother for over thirty years, and it seems she is hosting her own funeral memorial at a fancy restaurant. I am your aunt, and I am asking you to come. Your grandmother deserves that much.â
It took several days for me to decide exactly why my grandmother âdeserved that muchâ. I barely knew her, and she certainly did nothing in my lifetime that warranted deserving anything from me. In the end, my curiosity won out. It was the day of the memorial. It took all my courage to get in my Mustang Ghia and make the trip. But I was here. Pulling up to my grandmotherâs house seemed strange as it was at least twenty-one years ago since I was last there. It was somewhat like I remembered but seemed so tiny and tired-looking on the outside. The bricks on the rowhouse were worn with so many chipped corners that the sand mixture holding it all together was crumbling.
It occurred to me I knew absolutely nothing about her â my grandmother. The one thing I did remember was a cake. She called it a Jewish Apple Cake. I never knew why it was called that, but it was. It was dense with tons of apples in every bite. When we were all allowed to have one at our house, I remembered how I would sneak downstairs and skillfully lift the thin tin cake pan topper so it wouldnât make a noise. Then I would cut the thinnest piece possible because that would be a crime addressed with beatings and placing my hands over the gas stove burner. Walking into her house â Grandma Berthaâs house â the taste of Jewish Apple Cake was still with me.
The living room looked stale. Dust was on the furniture, and it was clear no one had bothered to clean up in a while. The air had a stagnant smell. Like the whiff of formaldehyde when I opened the cooler used at my job when I used to work at the eye bank. That smell was familiar to me. The smell of death. Jesus, I just wanted to run out the door. My heart was beating a million times a minute, and I felt a panic attack coming on. âBreathe in and out slowly,â I told myself over and over again. The few times I went to this house as a child, I always thought it odd the kitchen was in the basement. This time that thought was one of my first, after which I was assaulted by the wretched smells that accompany old homes where someone just died.
Somehow, I managed to walk down the staircase. That staircase seemed like it was squeezing me and felt more narrow than I remembered. The cocktail chatter of strangers was so deafening that I didnât hear my aunt call my name. I got to the bottom of the steps. As I approached the worn, cracked linoleum landing, a man was sitting in the aged, tweed rocking chair just a few feet from the refrigerator.
Broken bits of memories came back. Who has a chair like that in their kitchen? It is just wrong in every way, I thought. It was the only cloth chair in the kitchen and the tiny, yappy little chihuahua, who I remembered sitting on that chair like it was its throne, was nowhere to be found. Of course, that chihuahua had to have died years ago.
The booming voice of an old man sitting in the chair startled me out of my intense haze of memories. âWho the fuck are you? This is for family! I donât know who you are â get the fuck out â NOW!â
My recoil was so instant. Fear shot through me so uncontrollably I thought I would vomit. The fear was a pain that consumed my body. I could do nothing but stand there. I was frozen. My mind screamed for me to run back up the stairs, but my feet were super-glued to that cracked linoleum. Everyone was staring at me. Their faces were that of horror and confusion. I just stood there feeling helpless â voiceless. I realized my aunt was talking to the stranger in the chair. She was speaking in that loud-like gravely whisper you use in an awkward situation. She started motioning me to come closer to âhimâ while speaking with firmness and urgency.
âDad! Calm down! Sit back down! You are going to hurt yourself.â
My mind was racing. It was difficult comprehending and processing what my aunt was saying. âDad?â This is my grandfather! I thought he was dead before I was born. I never recall any mention of him during the short years of my life living with my mother. This must be a mistake.
âThis is your granddaughter, Isabella. Dad, please keep your voice down,â my aunt urged.
His face was scarred like he had horrible acne in his youthful years. His flat nose was a dead giveaway that he had been a serious alcoholic. Then I noticed the six-pack on the side of the chair, and I felt confident in my assessment of his addiction. Standing there, trying to make sense of this old, belligerent man screaming with insistence for me to leave, was too much. I still couldnât move a muscle. I felt waves of nausea come and go. It was too much. Too much to process. If this was my grandfather â and evidently it was â I had no interest in getting to know him, and it seemed the feeling was mutual.
The man arose again from the chair, this time using a cane. He was a towering, thick-bodied figure which I estimated to be about six-foot-four. His eyes met mine. I stared back at this stranger, still voiceless. He lifted his cane and pointed it at my chest, and said in a very raspy, hoarse but loud voice, âImpossible. You canât be my granddaughter. I only have one grandchild, so get the fuck out!â
Speechless, I stood there, white-faced with hands trembling.
âDad. This IS your grandchild. This is Kathyâs daughter. Kathy has three children. Isabella has a brother and sister.â My aunt insisted.
My now grandfatherâs glare seared through me with such intensity that I felt myself collapse onto the step behind me. Sitting at the bottom of the staircase, he walked two steps toward me and growled, âKathy is dead. This is for family. Get out!â
I donât remember the minutes after. I donât know how I ran back up the steps and out of that house. My hands were trembling behind the wheel. Fear, numbness, nausea, and anger at myself all enveloped my being at once. I saw a rest stop sign and took the exit. I pulled over and threw the gear shifter into park. What just happened? Breathe, just breathe I told myself. In and out. In and out. I have a grandfather? What the fuck I was ashamed of myself that I allowed myself to be reeled in by my aunt. How could I have been so naĂŻve to consider taking seriously anything anyone remotely related to my mother had to say.
The wave of anger changed to disappointment in myself. Why couldnât I speak up? I was not a child but a young woman who had six years of college behind her. I leaned over and vomited outside the car. I felt better. In the dank rest stop lavatory, staring in the dull mirror that was cracked in three places, I saw the mascara-mixed tears streaming down my cheeks. I didnât cry out loud. I was a master at gathering my emotions and moving forward. I would get through this too. There was no one to tell. Hell, even if I did want to tell a friend, I didnât want pity. No, no â this information had been buried for decades, and so it would stay exactly that â buried.
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 [ks1]Please note â Please be sure that Diet Coke is written with a capital âDâ and capital âCâas Diet Coke throughout the paper. I made the mistake of changing it with a find and replace â sorry for that error. Â
"She'll be Right" by Karienyia Slonski is a triumphant story about Isabella, a young 15 year old who goes through a series of life-changing events that ultimately and surprisingly lead to a rather, happy and satisfactory ending.
What I liked about this story is the rawness and realness experienced right from its beginning. These emotions did well by setting the tone for the entire story as the journey with Isabella commenced. What I also enjoyed about "She'll be Right", was the waves of emotions and feelings attached to the story. From feeling sad and enraged at her mother's funeral, to relief and pleasantness as starts her university years, to hopefulness as she makes new friends, sadness all over again as she losses, to new relationships and so on; all these transitions and events make up for a commendable yet exhilarating emotional rollercoaster. One could commend Isabella's character development as well, as we see her going through a lot of trials and tribulations but still maintaining a steadfast and unwavering outlook on life.
While written with what one can say is heightened emotion and feeling, the crudeness of the "She'll be Right", characters might be somewhat in-your-face for without a disclaimer. The emotional yo-yo could also be a slight hindrance and blocking point for the full reading experience and fluidity of the story.
As you read, "She'll be Right" you cannot help but wish for a silver lining for Isabella, you cannot help but wish good things happen to and for her, considering her childhood, losses and pain. This is eventually realized and is the ultimate climax of the story. I wish the the dialogues were trimmed down a bit to more of Isabella's story being explored and expanded. While the vulgarities drove a lot of points home and helped set the characters, there were also one of my personal grievances.
Good effort from the author. I look forward to more of their work, refined and suited for its target.