Katie Grierson (19)
Never-Ending List of Phobias
After my dad’s heart attack, my mom took me and my brother to a doctor’s office to have our hearts tested. I was young and hearts were still shapes and not organs, neon pink and red and flimsy like the construction paper I made art with. I didn’t know what he was looking for, didn’t know if he would find glued macaroni noodles inside. The doctor smeared a clear jelly on me and held something cold to my chest; I thought of my heart as broken, ripped in half like a rejected Valentine. The doctor’s eyes remained focused on a blinking screen behind my head; he mentioned briefly that I should add more salt to my diet. I blinked.
My friends make fun of the way I eat the cafeteria pasta. Three packets of salt. Ripped open. A mountain of white-flecked salvation over penne and red sauce. That’s so unhealthy. Some part of me agrees. Another blinks.
*
We were out on the road because my brother had a date. She had red hair and they were meeting at her house. I sat in the backseat of my mom’s Ford Escape until he disappeared into the black of the doorway, and then jumped into the passenger seat. My mom stopped at McDonald’s. She got a Diet Coke. I had a book in my hands. Blue cover. Halfway done. A boy with blond hair was plotting, was falling in love, was—
Mom’s hands on the wheel, twisting. Swerve to the right. Breathe in.
The car slammed into the light pole; my eyes closed.
*
A fear of heights is called acrophobia, which is disappointing; it sounds less like being afraid of heights and much more like a fear of being an acrobat. I am afraid of being an acrobat and I’m afraid of railings that aren’t high enough, of double-storied houses with open windows, of chairs that wobble when you place your weight on them, turbulence on planes, highways that curve in the sky, rooftops, people who aren’t afraid of rooftops, stairs that let you peek between the steps. Afraid of the moving bridge between the two playground towers at Heritage Park, rippling under shaky feet and unsure knees.
*
Las Vegas streets are magic. When you think of Vegas, it’s the rise and shimmer of the hotels, the showgirls, the grand fountain against a desert backdrop. But if you come to Vegas, you should come in the night and find what it really is. The streets—dirty and dusty—decorated in greens and reds and blues that play between the yellow and white lines on the road, the black asphalt deep as the sky. The valley at night looks more like a reflection; the white lights are stars in the dark.
I only know the streets as a passenger; I never got my license.
*
To test if you’ve had a stroke, you should do the following things: smile. Raise your hands above your head. Speak. If when you smile, it comes out lopsided and half of your face is numb, call 911. If you can’t raise both hands, call 911. If your speech comes out garbled and broken, call 911. When I feel dizzy or nauseous or have a faint headache, I test myself. Smile, check mirror. Raise hands, raise again. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. I read once that a lady fell, hit her head on a sidewalk, she said she was fine and wasn’t. Strokes, said the story, are dangerous and quiet; I learned the signs fast.
*
In 2011, new street lights were installed around Vegas. They were yellow and blinked; they meant to yield; it was day and my mom and I sat at a red light, another driver—a faceless lady I assumed had red hair—blinked between the flashes. Or sneezed. Or hadn’t known what the valley decided in the hot summers of 2011 when heat rose from the asphalt-like waves, because as our light beamed green, she charged forward. My mom, who loves the phrase defensive driving, told me afterwards that she knew we were going to be hit. That avoidance was the only option. Fiercely, she pulled the wheel to the right. Her Diet Coke went off like a grenade. It splattered the pages of my blue book like blood or glitter on construction paper. In another world, the blond-haired boy had settled in his bed for the night, setting his glasses to the side; my body was thrown forward and the book ruined as it flew out of my hands; I closed my eyes and didn’t see the airbags expand. They smelled like rubber. Mom’s foot released from the gas; we sailed smoothly into a light pole. The front of the car bent around it, the engine's last words a deep groan. The light pole toppled over and knocked down a residential wall.
The windshield broke into a million spider-webs.
I opened my eyes. The airbag had already deflated, looking like a pillow case. I got out of the car, worried about myself, worried about my mom, ran to her door, didn’t know how to open the door, thought something terrible about never opening that door and my mom never finishing her Diet Coke—when her door swung open. Are you okay? I think there was a police car, I think the other driver said I’m sorry, I think I left the book in the car. I sat because I was getting dizzy; I didn’t check
for a stroke because I wasn’t afraid of that yet. We went to the hospital--just in case—and I messaged the boy I had a crush on, my head swimming like a goldfish, long tail wrapping around its bowl, a journey of incomplete circles, muttering, muttering what if, what if. I held my mom’s hand. I think my dad picked up my brother from his girlfriend’s house.
*
I’m afraid of strokes, of the quiet things you never see coming. Of the dark, which climbs on my skin and makes fools of my eyes. Of taking my charger out of my wall and electrocuting myself, cutting my fingers instead of jalapeños, cracking my neck wrong and breaking open a vein. Of drinking too much water. Of not drinking enough. Of my dad’s heart disease. Of driving. Of blinking yellow lights and women with red hair. I accumulate more phobias, like salt piles and melts into pasta.
Katie Grierson believes in aliens. She is a 2020 YoungArts Finalist in Novel-Writing, was named a Presidential Scholar in the Arts Semifinalist, and is an alumni of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program. Besides being prose editor for Lumiere Review and Bitter Fruit Review, she also overuses the em dash and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quaterly, and The Redlands Review, among others.
Never-Ending List of Phobias
After my dad’s heart attack, my mom took me and my brother to a doctor’s office to have our hearts tested. I was young and hearts were still shapes and not organs, neon pink and red and flimsy like the construction paper I made art with. I didn’t know what he was looking for, didn’t know if he would find glued macaroni noodles inside. The doctor smeared a clear jelly on me and held something cold to my chest; I thought of my heart as broken, ripped in half like a rejected Valentine. The doctor’s eyes remained focused on a blinking screen behind my head; he mentioned briefly that I should add more salt to my diet. I blinked.
My friends make fun of the way I eat the cafeteria pasta. Three packets of salt. Ripped open. A mountain of white-flecked salvation over penne and red sauce. That’s so unhealthy. Some part of me agrees. Another blinks.
*
We were out on the road because my brother had a date. She had red hair and they were meeting at her house. I sat in the backseat of my mom’s Ford Escape until he disappeared into the black of the doorway, and then jumped into the passenger seat. My mom stopped at McDonald’s. She got a Diet Coke. I had a book in my hands. Blue cover. Halfway done. A boy with blond hair was plotting, was falling in love, was—
Mom’s hands on the wheel, twisting. Swerve to the right. Breathe in.
The car slammed into the light pole; my eyes closed.
*
A fear of heights is called acrophobia, which is disappointing; it sounds less like being afraid of heights and much more like a fear of being an acrobat. I am afraid of being an acrobat and I’m afraid of railings that aren’t high enough, of double-storied houses with open windows, of chairs that wobble when you place your weight on them, turbulence on planes, highways that curve in the sky, rooftops, people who aren’t afraid of rooftops, stairs that let you peek between the steps. Afraid of the moving bridge between the two playground towers at Heritage Park, rippling under shaky feet and unsure knees.
*
Las Vegas streets are magic. When you think of Vegas, it’s the rise and shimmer of the hotels, the showgirls, the grand fountain against a desert backdrop. But if you come to Vegas, you should come in the night and find what it really is. The streets—dirty and dusty—decorated in greens and reds and blues that play between the yellow and white lines on the road, the black asphalt deep as the sky. The valley at night looks more like a reflection; the white lights are stars in the dark.
I only know the streets as a passenger; I never got my license.
*
To test if you’ve had a stroke, you should do the following things: smile. Raise your hands above your head. Speak. If when you smile, it comes out lopsided and half of your face is numb, call 911. If you can’t raise both hands, call 911. If your speech comes out garbled and broken, call 911. When I feel dizzy or nauseous or have a faint headache, I test myself. Smile, check mirror. Raise hands, raise again. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. I read once that a lady fell, hit her head on a sidewalk, she said she was fine and wasn’t. Strokes, said the story, are dangerous and quiet; I learned the signs fast.
*
In 2011, new street lights were installed around Vegas. They were yellow and blinked; they meant to yield; it was day and my mom and I sat at a red light, another driver—a faceless lady I assumed had red hair—blinked between the flashes. Or sneezed. Or hadn’t known what the valley decided in the hot summers of 2011 when heat rose from the asphalt-like waves, because as our light beamed green, she charged forward. My mom, who loves the phrase defensive driving, told me afterwards that she knew we were going to be hit. That avoidance was the only option. Fiercely, she pulled the wheel to the right. Her Diet Coke went off like a grenade. It splattered the pages of my blue book like blood or glitter on construction paper. In another world, the blond-haired boy had settled in his bed for the night, setting his glasses to the side; my body was thrown forward and the book ruined as it flew out of my hands; I closed my eyes and didn’t see the airbags expand. They smelled like rubber. Mom’s foot released from the gas; we sailed smoothly into a light pole. The front of the car bent around it, the engine's last words a deep groan. The light pole toppled over and knocked down a residential wall.
The windshield broke into a million spider-webs.
I opened my eyes. The airbag had already deflated, looking like a pillow case. I got out of the car, worried about myself, worried about my mom, ran to her door, didn’t know how to open the door, thought something terrible about never opening that door and my mom never finishing her Diet Coke—when her door swung open. Are you okay? I think there was a police car, I think the other driver said I’m sorry, I think I left the book in the car. I sat because I was getting dizzy; I didn’t check
for a stroke because I wasn’t afraid of that yet. We went to the hospital--just in case—and I messaged the boy I had a crush on, my head swimming like a goldfish, long tail wrapping around its bowl, a journey of incomplete circles, muttering, muttering what if, what if. I held my mom’s hand. I think my dad picked up my brother from his girlfriend’s house.
*
I’m afraid of strokes, of the quiet things you never see coming. Of the dark, which climbs on my skin and makes fools of my eyes. Of taking my charger out of my wall and electrocuting myself, cutting my fingers instead of jalapeños, cracking my neck wrong and breaking open a vein. Of drinking too much water. Of not drinking enough. Of my dad’s heart disease. Of driving. Of blinking yellow lights and women with red hair. I accumulate more phobias, like salt piles and melts into pasta.
Katie Grierson believes in aliens. She is a 2020 YoungArts Finalist in Novel-Writing, was named a Presidential Scholar in the Arts Semifinalist, and is an alumni of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program. Besides being prose editor for Lumiere Review and Bitter Fruit Review, she also overuses the em dash and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dishsoap Quaterly, and The Redlands Review, among others.