Flash: Non-Stick

You must be happy to visit your grandma?

Well. No. She tried to kill me.

She tried to kill you?

Yes. She cooked me a spring roll on a non-stick frying pan last night.

The girl wrapped herself tighter in her towel, still wet from the pool, fidgeting on the lounge chair as she explained the dangers of modern frying pans in precise detail to the neighboring sunbather. She and her mom were ten hours from New York, three days into a visit that had started with her grandfather’s funeral.

Her mom sat nearby, rummaging through the depths of a canvas bag, anxious, absorbed in her own quiet emergency. She said nothing, just kept searching. Like something vital had gone missing.

But it was the penny-sized scratch on the girl’s knee, softened by pool water, that demanded her full attention.

The possibility of sepsis. Muttering.

She also almost killed me when I was a baby. She dropped a glass and let me sit near the broken pieces. I could’ve bled all over the floor. Could you imagine?

He sat on a recliner by the pool, legs stretched out, watching his own daughter play with a gaggle of kids at the far end. Earlier, he’d tried introducing the neighboring visitors to the group; a reprise for the tired-looking mom, friends for the daughter. But they hadn’t gelled. Some kids just don’t.

So the girl had drifted back toward him, bored of her mother. Her voice floated in the air as she played alone near the edge of the water, recounting her recent encounter with a bear and how she’d ended up in Hawaii.

I saw it right there, behind that bush. It growled. I had tried to steal its baby, I think. You’re not supposed to do that. That’s why they attack. On TV they said you should play dead, but I don’t know. I had a friend named Irvin who died of internal bleeding. I’m not sure what that means exactly, but it’s not good.

He nodded, like someone trying to keep up with a dream. Or just being polite.

There are no bears in Hawaii, he said, gently.

Maybe. Maybe it escaped from the zoo. I know what I saw.

The mom suddenly called out — she had found the Neosporin at last, hidden deep in the folds of her infinite bag. She applied it generously to the scratch, her face a mix of relief and quiet urgency.

The girl watched her, mimicking the flicker of emotions in her mom’s face; temporary relief layered with future worry.

Do you think I’ll live?

She’d asked the same thing at the funeral. Again, when the car broke down in Manoa while they waited for triple AAA. And that morning, a spider in the bathroom launched her into the same spell.

Do you think I’ll live?

A kind of incantation. Not a question, not really.

She told him how her grandfather used to sit poolside like him, with a radio too quiet to hear, peeling grapes one by one. She’d take them in both hands, whispering thank you.

At the funeral, she said nothing. Her grandmother wept, but it looked more like relief than grief.

Later, she burned the spring roll on the pan. Too much oil. Too hot. A dark spot on the plate. The girl bit into it anyway.

What happened to Irvin?

The girl shrugged. He was my friend in a dream. I don’t think he was real. But the bleeding was.

I see.

She squinted toward the trees. Next time, I’ll bring pepper spray. For the bear.

He almost laughed. Okay. Bring two. In case I forget mine.

The girl nodded solemnly. And snacks. Bears like snacks. I shouldn’t bring snacks to the pool. That could attract them.

With her knee now patched, she unwound the towel. Free to play again, she skipped once, then again, then flopped into the shallow end of the pool.

No running!

// Zero Strike