Victoria...ous by Ivanka Fear

Alien. To me. Like the creature from that movie, perhaps destined for space, an otherworldly reptilian-crossed-with-amphibious skin sheathes a fluid element. The shape of water has no fixed address; a single molecule spouts a V.

As does she. Her body splayed out on the rock, an offering to the mountain she has conquered, Tora smiles.

Her social media photo exaggerates. The smiley sports a victory hand emoji.

A warrior’s armour—helmet, boots, gauntlets—adorns her middle-aged body. Much like the motorcycle gear she adopted two years ago, the black leather and laces against the red Ducati.

Your latest fashion, Tora. So cool, the zippered legs. On trend, the snug, laced, dark bodysuit. Meanwhile, worry laces my days. Fear darkens my life. Anxiety zippers me in a cocoon.

Tora laughs, her teeth like a tiger’s, poised to sink into life. Arms stretched out in flight. Still soaring high. The upside down V of her leg, knee pointing to the sky. Victory. The only thing we have in common is the need for oxygen. Risk infuses Tora with life-giving blood while it sucks the breath out of me like a vacuum.

I click ‘Like’ on her post, notice all the ‘Love’, and go for the heart instead. What to comment? It’s all been said by others. Telling her she’s reckless will go against popular opinion. My fingers do the thinking for me, stamping away my mother-like concern, and I click Send.

You’re killing it, Tora! Look at you fly!

Vicky wasn’t born like this. Once, she was grounded. Like me. But Victoria spread her wings. Mine were clipped at an early age.

  My cell rings. Tora has read my comment. Her voice is strong over the phone. “It was such a high. I wish you’d join me one of these times. You really need to live more.”

“I do. Live.” My whimper belies the truth of the words.

“I’m going for a ride. I’ll pop in for a visit later.”

Sure, Vicky, head out on the road and dart between vehicles at the speed of lightning. An image invades my brain—Tora’s Ducati roaring past my Equinox last summer on the way to the cottage. She had insisted on taking her bike so we could have fun ripping around the trails up north. After watching her near-death experience as she careened around highway traffic like it was an obstacle course, I refused to get anywhere near the passenger seat of the Ducati.

“What took you so long?” she had asked when I pulled up behind her on the gravel driveway of the cottage.

“I wanted to get here alive.”

We’ve always taken different paths in life. Tora on the elevator, me on the stairs, huffing and puffing. Tora at the top of the CN tower, me below, gazing up. Tora climbing to the castle on the cliff, me taking the car. Tora on the gondola up to the mountain top in Banff, me waiting at the base, straining to see the summit.

“Be careful,” I say now, my hand gripping my cell.

“It’s just a bike ride. I’m thinking of trying skydiving next,” she chuckles. “Care to join me?”

As if. It’s all alien to me, this need to conquer. “Do you have some sort of death wish?”

Tora puffs a huge sigh into my ear, like a teenager exasperated with a parent, before hanging up.

Some day, I too, will fly. But not today.

Today, I stand, thankful I simply survived. Tomorrow, I will spread my wings.

***

The sun beams down brightening the lawn as I sit on my covered porch immersed in the current novel I’m writing; the words on my screen are fiction, stemming from the imagined life I’ve led.

Tora flies in on her Ducati, her raucous arrival disturbing my passivity, the savage rawness of her beast so close it scares the life out of me. “Come on, I’ll take you for a spin.”

“Not today. Next time. I promise, Vicky.” I whisper the words to the wind as I’ve done a hundred times before.

Victoria perches on the pillion seat, victorious, helmet tucked between her legs, posing like a conqueror, arms raised in a V, long silver hair flowing free in the breeze.

And the warrior’s words pierce my heart. “Take the driver’s seat, Ms. Fear.”

Is she taunting me? I shake my head. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”

She reaches out, a spare helmet materializing in her hand. “I’ll teach you.”

“At my age? No, thanks.”

“It’s never too late. To live. Live like you’re dying.”

My twin sister eases her goddess body from the Ducati and positions the helmet on my head, adjusts the straps, and the buckle clicks, closing me in. My hands fly to my head, a primal fear of the alien object suffocating, its weight pulling me under a shapeless panic that spills into my lungs.

“Breathe, Angeline, just breathe.” Tora positions my hands over the chin straps, traces my fingers over the nylon V positioned under my ears.

But there is no air.

“I’m right here with you. You can do this. Take a deep breath.” Vicky’s words are familiar, taking me back to our ten-year-old selves when she pulled my head above the surface as I gasped for life, the shape of water entombing me in the rectangular backyard pool. Vicky always could breathe underwater.

In and out. Breathe. 

My fingers run over the Ducati’s driver’s seat.

“I’ll have your back,” Tora says. “You can do this. We’ll take it slow. Baby steps. Time to leave the nest.”

Maybe.

Maybe it’s time to grow back my wings.

And soar.

Ivanka Fear is a Slovenian-born Canadian author. She earned her B.A. and B.Ed. in English and French at Western University. Her poetry and short stories appear in various literary journals. Ivanka is the author of the Blue Water Mystery and Jake and Mallory Thriller series. www.ivankafear.com