by Georgea Jourjouklis
Irene’s wrinkled face soured, rage flooding her frail body. She raised a shaking hand and pointed her finger an inch from her daughter’s nose.
“I’m not going!”
Nancy looked her in the eyes. “Ma, we’re not going through this again. I’m working weekdays and weekends for your meds. Breezy Brooks is a great place—there’d be others helping me look after you.”
Nancy had worked at the old age home for over a decade and with her employee discount she could afford around-the-clock care.
“You’re gonna kick out your own mother?” Irene shouted.
“Ma, I’m not kicking you out—”
“Do you know who the fuck I am?”
“You barely know who the fuck you are!”
The frown on her mother’s face deepened. “I don’t remember everything, but I know who I am. I’m Telekinetica—the best goddamn hero this city’s ever known! Twenty-three years I served them. I got a beautiful plaque hanging in City Hall and a collectors’ card—Class 4 Hero, worth ten grand in poor condition. It’s classic.”
Nancy closed her eyes and rubbed her temples to soothe the pulsing ache. She expected an outburst but there was no time to care for her mother while taking on extra shifts.
“Ma, we’ve been over this. The doc said you’re gonna get worse.”
Irene swatted a dismissive hand. “I don’t believe that new-age bologna. I remember everything.”
“Oh yeah? What’d you have for breakfast this morning?”
Irene’s hands flew up again. “That’s a low blow, Nancy, and you know it! No one remembers stupid shit like that. When I was twenty I didn’t know what I ate for breakfast.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!” Irene yelled. “You know what people do remember?”
She pointed at the gold medal hanging above the fireplace. Its ribbon was striped blue and white, and the word ‘Honours’ was engraved in the golden center. On either side of the medal hung photographs of Irene in her uniform fifty years ago. In the first picture she held up a silver Honda Civic and in the other she was shaking hands with a past mayor, Tim Hopkins.
“In 78’ I stopped six cars and a school bus full of kids from going off the Alport Bridge, and they gave me that medal so no one would forget.”
“That was forty-five years ago, Ma, they’ve already forgotten! The students on that bus have kids of their own—their kids have kids. They don’t remember.”
“You’re a liar!”
Nancy gritted her teeth. “I’m being brutally honest. They got new heroes—young and fit—doing twice as much as the old ones did.”
“That’s bullshit. I know what I know,” Irene grumbled. “They don’t make ‘em like the classics.” She raised her chin proudly. “I’m too famous to go to an old folks home anyway. I won’t catch a break.”
Nancy smirked. “You think they’re gonna be asking for your autograph?”
“You can bet your rear-end they will.”
“Ma, come on, there’s lots of retired heroes there. No one knows the difference.”
“They’re gonna know me!” she shouted. “I got my own collectors’ card—ten thousand big ones. People don’t forget the classics.”
Nancy drummed her fingers on her thighs as she collected her thoughts, trying to ignore her mother’s grumbling.
“Ma, I know it hurts, but your power’s gone. You can barely lift a needle without breaking a sweat.”
Irene closed her eyes and shook her head, as the furniture in the room began vibrating. The ceramic figurines on the mantle rattled, while the table legs tapped against the wooden floors. Irene mumbled curse words under her breath, but then she sank back in her chair to catch her breath. Everything was still.
“See?” Nancy said, “That’s all you got.”
Irene’s cheeks burned red. Then she erupted, “And whose fault is that? I could’ve gone another twenty years if I didn’t get stuck with you!”
Nancy froze. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes but she steadied herself and swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Yeah? Well, now I’m stuck with you.”
Nancy rose from the couch, but as she was heading for the door, she turned back and jutted out a finger.
“You’re going. End of story,” she said, then slammed the door behind her.
…
Irene sank into a dark blue armchair at Breezy Brooks, staring at the blank screen of the television. She spent the last three days alone in her new room, only letting staff in to make her bed and serve her meals. If Nancy had not worked there, she might have gotten away with being a shut-in, but every time her daughter entered the room, she told her to go downstairs and socialize. Irene tried to ignore her, but Nancy nagged her nonstop with the excuse that it was her job.
Since she stayed in her room, most of Irene’s entertainment arose from using her minimal power to manipulate her surroundings. At first, it was fun knocking her spoon off the table, but she could only do it once until a staff member picked it up again. Then she tried drawing the curtains in the morning and closing them in the evening, but it exhausted her.
That led Irene to her final option, messing with the television. With a glance at the remote, Irene clicked the television on and off, over and over. The news anchor could only manage a few words before the screen went black again, but it was enough to know that the segment was about Thunder Punch, the newest hero servicing their city. They played a video of him, only nineteen years old, shaking hands with the mayor after stopping a storm-damaged tree from crushing a house.
Irene clicked the power button again, shutting the television off. She looked over at Nancy, who was tidying the room.
“What do ya think?” she called. “I still got it, huh?”
“Impressive…” her daughter mumbled without looking over. She continued straightening the bed sheets.
Irene’s mouth sank into a wrinkled line. She looked back at the television and stared at her grey reflection.
“I’m only doing this for fun, you know.” She was quiet for a moment. “I lifted a school bus, Nancy. Remember?”
Nancy ignored her.
“The brakes jammed so they shot right off that bridge—seventy kilometers an hour. Fwooosh,” she said, adding the sound effect. “But I saved ‘em.”
“Eat your lunch, Ma.”
Irene glanced at the plastic tray on her side table, which sat untouched, then looked back at her reflection. Her throat tightened.
“Just yesterday, I won a medal, then I blinked and here I am.” She stared blankly, her eyes glossed over. “I only blinked.”
Nancy put a hand on her hip. “You want me to bring your medal from home? We could hang it over your bed.”
Irene shook her head slowly. “They’ll know me without it.”
Nancy sighed. “Look, Ma, you’ve been in your room every day since you got here. They’re playing cards in the lounge. Go meet everyone.”
Irene narrowed her eyes. “Nah, I don’t want all of that attention. I’ll distract them.”
“Ma, the whole world doesn’t revolve around you.”
Her mother’s nose scrunched as she turned back to the television. “It used to,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Uh-huh. I’ll be in the lounge setting things up,” Nancy said. She pushed the tray of chicken and rice closer to her mother and walked out of the room.
Nancy had no time to entertain her nonsense anymore; she had listened to her mother lament the death of her prime since she was old enough to ride a bike. Each session began with a wave of despair, then a few hours of despondence, frustration, and lastly she pointed fingers with Nancy as her scapegoat.
Unlike her mother, Nancy was not afraid to grow old or die. There was nothing she would be remembered for—no medals or honour to her name—no one to mourn her. She lived a quaint life and would die a quaint death.
Nancy entered the main-floor lounge, where large windows let in the sunlight and elderly residents lazed on the worn couches. She saw their faces hundreds of times, but this time, she observed them carefully. Most of them moved slowly if they moved at all.
“Who’s ready for ‘Go Fish’?” Nancy asked, dealing cards around an oak table as the residents quietly gathered.
She eyed a man whom the staff referred to as David, but growing up with a hero as a mother Nancy knew that forty years ago he was The Tornado—shooting through the air like a missile. Now, with one finger outstretched, the old man was spinning a card on the table, hypnotized as it circled.
Across from him was Penelope—Sonic Boom, making little ripples in her IV fluid as she waited for Nancy to finish dealing.
She looked over at the fireplace, where Anil—Pyromania, was making embers flicker and drift to the ashes below; once they touched the sooty ground, they extinguished. She watched each flame go out.
Her mother always said, a classic never dies. At least, no one expected them to.
“Anil, care to join?” Nancy called.
The old man sighed but then nodded. He shakily rose from the brown armchair by the hearth and hobbled over to the table.
“Anyone else?” Nancy asked, shuffling the leftover cards from the deck.
“I’ll join,” someone croaked behind her.
Nancy turned to see a staff member pushing Henry, The Speedster, closer to the table in his wheelchair. Henry’s face sank as his pupils tracked the staff members hastening in and out of the room. He just watched.
Nancy swallowed the lump in her throat. “I guess that’s everyone.” She looked around for her mother but imagined she was in her room sulking. Some things never changed.
“Hey, he looked at my cards!” Penelope—Sonic Boom—yelled.
Nancy snapped her head back to the residents. Penelope pointed an accusing finger at Anil, who was sitting nearby.
“Did not!” Anil barked.
“Liar!”
“Take it back!”
Anil shook with anger. He locked his eyes on one of her cards with so much focus that he broke a sweat. Then one corner of the card caught fire. David, The Tornado, blew a gust of wind from across the table that extinguished the flame, but Penelope was fuming.
“Is that all you got, tough guy?” she taunted, rolling her IV pole with her as she shuffled closer to Anil.
“Everyone, please!” Nancy said. They ignored her.
Penelope’s whole body began to shake as she shot sound waves at Anil, triggering a high frequency like a faint, whining kettle.
“Ah! Dammit!” he cried, turning off his hearing aid.
“You both stop that!” David said, joining the argument. He blew wind at their faces until they yelled at him too.
“Don’t make me come over there!” Henry yelled, wheeling himself over in his chair very slowly. He grunted and huffed with every push.
“Everyone, just settle down!” Nancy said.
They continued arguing, sending sound waves, blowing air, and shooting flickers of fire as the other residents fled the room.
…
A few minutes after Nancy had left, a staff member knocked on Irene’s door and walked in with a smile. Marie was a young woman, newly hired, with a melodic voice and warm eyes that carried no regret. She was much too young for that.
“Good evening, Irene, not much of an appetite?” Marie asked.
Irene’s plate was untouched, but the plastic cup of strawberry Jello was empty. Her spoon was on the ground.
“No,” Irene muttered.
“Are you feeling well?” Marie asked, picking up the spoon.
Irene clenched her teeth as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“What the hell is well anyway?” she snapped. “Old farts like us don’t remember what it’s like to feel well. We say yes so you stop with the damn tests!”
Cursing at staff members was not permitted at Breezy Brooks, but Marie’s temperament kept her quiet and sympathetic.
Irene fell silent, staring at the black television screen.
“Would you like me to turn it on for you?”
“You think I can’t?” Irene grumbled.
Marie watched with a pout. Irene hated that look. Ever since her Dementia diagnosis, Nancy looked at her the same way and inquired if she needed help with simple tasks. People used to ask the impossible of her, and now, they expected nothing.
“I’m better than this,” Irene snapped, slamming her arms down on the sides of her chair. “I’m everything to these people!”
Marie flinched, eyes widening. She turned toward the door, but before she could leave, Irene caught her sleeve.
“Do you know who I am?”
The young lady raised an eyebrow but then smiled softly. “Irene Walker, of course,” she said. Marie collected Irene’s tray and left the room.
There was a long pause before Irene turned back to the television screen, and this time, when she did, she noticed her eye bags, sagging chin, and crow’s feet. It was not grandiose heroics that had weathered her, but time.
Irene saw people often, but day by day, fewer remembered. They looked and saw an old woman. Only collectors wanted her trading card now, not for her story, but for the price tag attached. Nancy called her Ma. To everyone else she was Irene. Maybe she was the last person on Earth who truly knew who she was.
This time, Irene could not bring herself to click the television on, so she just sat there, locking eyes with the stranger in her reflection. She watched the old woman break down in tears.
…
Nancy rushed into the hallway and called for assistance. The fight escalated, and now a cup of prune juice spilled, a pillow was charred, and the Speedster gave up intervening and laid back in his chair to rest.
“Someone help, please! I need help!” Nancy called. She rushed back into the room and looked around at the chaos. “Please, sit down and we’ll sort this out!”
“You heard her,” Irene said from the doorway. “Sit down!”
Nancy turned to see her mother, pushing her walker as she entered the lounge. Irene raised a hand and shook the furniture, rattling every lamp, picture frame, and decorative plate in the room. The residents looked over at her, even Henry, who was startled awake, and at first, they stared in shock.
“My god, it’s her! It’s Telekinetica! I can’t believe it,” Penelope erupted, grinning. “She saved that bus of kids, remember that?”
“It can’t be!” David said.
“It is! It is her!” Anil said. “And the Greenway Landslide back in 76’. It nearly crushed my cousin’s house!”
“And the family trapped on that hot air balloon,” Henry said.
Penelope’s eyes watered. “I wanted to be just like you.”
Irene slowly smiled, then she shot Nancy a smug look. She pushed up on her walker to stand as straight as possible and held her head high.
“That’s right. So, you listen up—stop acting foolish! You’re too dangerous to be throwing your powers around all willy-nilly.”
“You think?” David huffed, taking a seat to catch his breath.
“Of course you are,” Irene said. “You’re The Tornado—in 79’ you single-handedly stopped a windstorm from sweeping away the annual carnival! Imagine the damage you could do to this place.”
David smiled ear to ear. “You remember that?”
“Oh, I know all of you.” Irene gestured to Penelope. “In 81’ your frequencies stopped The Rabid Dogman from eating up the zoo animals. In 83’ there was that flood east of the city and Pyromania evaporated enough water to save the community center.”
Anil laughed. “I did, didn’t I?”
“And The Speedster, the fastest man alive, grabbed two kids out of that burning building before the whole thing exploded!” Irene flung her arms up dramatically. “They’re alive because of you!”
Henry looked up at her from his wheelchair and grinned.
“But look at you now,” Irene scolded. “A bunch of hotheads. Putting the whole city in danger with your petty squabbles. Shame on you!”
The old heroes lowered their eyes.
“We didn’t know we caused such a fuss,” Penelope said.
“Well, now you know,” Irene snapped. “So, let’s just sit down and play cards, all civilized and such.”
Nancy watched as her mother shuffled over to the table and sat down. The others gathered around the table too, still in awe of her. None of them could focus on the game, and soon they bombarded her with questions about her greatest obstacles and achievements.
Other residents gathered back in the lounge once they realized the fight subsided, and they sat nearby to hear Irene’s stories. Nancy leaned against the doorframe, fixated on her mother’s animated expressions and exaggerated hand movements as she guided everyone through her adventures.
One by one, each of the heroes shared their journeys too, receiving gasps and praise and tears as they described their highs and lows.
When it was time for bed, they had not even shared a quarter of the tales they collected from their careers, but they would be in the lounge the next morning, bright and early, awaiting another story.
Nancy accompanied her mother upstairs, and when she laid down in bed, Nancy tucked her in and wished her goodnight. The television was still on, so Nancy reached for the remote that was sitting on the armchair, but then stopped. She slowly retracted her hand and stepped toward the door instead.
“Hey Ma, I gotta run. Do you mind?”
Irene glanced over at the television. “Oh, no problem, you go ahead,” she said, resting back against her pillow as Nancy hurried off.
Irene took a deep breath and closed her eyes as a news anchor chattered about Thunder Punch’s most recent crime-fighting fiasco. The television screen flicked off. The room darkened. And Irene slept with a smile.
About the Author:
Georgea Jourjouklis is a University of Toronto alumnus, a future English teacher, and a queer writer with a primary focus on fantasy, speculative fiction, poetry, and mental health.