Olives by Jodi Goforth (Virginia, 21)

Mother orders a martini. It’s her third, but the flight attendant doesn’t know that. Before we
boarded the plane, she downed two in the gaudy airport bar. She crushes the olive between her
teeth, which she never does because she hates olives. So, because she’s eating it, I know what
that means.
          I tap the back of her free hand. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
          She’s dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure those builders needed a
drink every now and again.”
          Around us, everyone is settled in. The engines’ constant low humming is the only sound.
I have the aisle seat, so I can see the bored, empty faces of the other passengers; some read, some
type away on laptop keyboards, and some have headphones in while a film plays on the screens
fixed into the back of the seats. A few just enjoy the view out the window.
          It bothers me how Mother always wants the window seat, but never looks out of it. What
a waste. I crane my neck to see over her clumsy hands—the thin layer of clouds veiling some
rural part of southern Ireland, the sun hanging above us like an ornament, the horizon slicing
through the haze.
          While I’m focused on the view outside, Mother orders another martini. “Less ice this
time,” she tells the flight attendant, who obliges with a curt nod.
          ​I give Mother a look.
          She returns it, and for a moment we’re just staring at each other. “Oh, my god, Millie.
I’m not getting sloshed. Just a couple drinks. Why are you always on my back?”

          Father is always saying that I’m too hard on her, so I try to hold my tongue. But, like
always, I fail: “I shouldn’t have to be on your back. You’re the mother, I’m the child.”
          “Oh, please. You’re not a child.”
          “Y’know what I mean.”
           I close my eyes, but I hear her teeth tear into the olive. As I listen to this, I imagine a tiger
ripping into a lamb that has been separated from its mother. Or a helpless gazelle. Something
vulnerable.
          Mother used to be pretty. For the last ten months, I’ve been away from Dublin, so I’d
almost forgotten how tired she looks now. She wears expensive clothes and attends hair
appointments every eight weeks to try and mask it, much to Father’s dismay, but her under eyes
still sag like wilted flower petals.
          She beckons the flight attendant again. “I said less ice.”
          “I’m sorry, ma’am. Do you want another?” She pauses. “On us?”
          Mother nods and the poor woman goes to fetch it.
          I take a deep breath and close my eyes again.
          “What?” Mother asks. “I’d expect better from first class.”
          “Are you seriously having another?”
          She says nothing, picking her book up off the tray table. She struggles to finger through
the pages. It’s one of those sappy Danielle Steel novels moms are always reading. My brother
Allan would be appalled. I notice how languid her movements are becoming.
          When she still can’t find her page, I take the book from her and find it myself. I undo the
doggy fold and hand it back without looking at her. I don’t know why she bothers with it. She
can’t read in this state.
          The flight attendant returns and asks, tentatively, if Mother would like anything else. I
answer for her. “No, no. Thank you.”
          “Amelia!”
          I snap my head in Mother’s direction, and I feel that my face is all screwed up. I only
ever make this face at her. She is the only person who can summon this anger from me. “You
have other children, y’know. Can’t you just try to be normal?”
          She sits forward, but she slouches slightly. She stares at me—that stare all mothers
master with their children, the look that says, I’m giving you one chance to redeem yourself
before I unleash it all.
          But Mother doesn’t scare me. Not anymore. Not since I left Dublin. We hold this stare
like two medieval jousters before a match. One of us will be impaled. One of us will be
wounded.
          “You don’t talk to me like that, Amelia.” I hate the way she says my name. Actually, I
just hate my name. No one calls me Amelia. No one. Allan certainly never did, even when we
were children. Millie, Millie, you’ve gone to the tilly. Tilly isn’t a real word. I don’t know why he
always said it, this word he made up. To this day he’s never told me what it means to him. I’ve
always thought he just couldn’t think of a word that rhymes with Millie.
          “You’re being ridiculous,” I hiss, my voice low so we don’t cause a scene.
          But scene-causing has always been Mother’s most prized forte. “I haven’t seen you in
months, and this is how you’re speaking to me? You’re always so mean to me!” Then she makes
that face I hate—she uses it on Father all the time. She makes herself look wounded, like she’s
the victim. But really, she’s the tiger.
          Allan was the only immune one.
          A few people have looked up from their mundane tasks, hoping for a bit of drama.
Always leave it to my mother.
          I look away from her.
          Her tone comes out gentler, “Millie . . .”
          I ignore her. But she grabs my open hand and rubs it between her fingers, a rare gesture
of motherly love. “Millie, please.”​
          My tongue circles the inside of my cheek. I look.
          “I’m fine, Millie.” Her face is pitiful.
          I shake my head. “You never eat the olive,” I say. “That’s how I know.”
          Her eyes are glossed over with a bliss only accomplished through inebriation. She seems
to remember, just now, that we are still far, far away from our destination. “Will we make it to
the wake?”
          I feel myself softening. “Yeah, Mama. We’ll make it in time.”




​Jodi Goforth is a senior who studies writing at Liberty University. She writes for her university's newspaper, the Liberty Champion, and is pursuing a career in developmental editing and creative writing. She spends an absurd amount of time drinking iced coffee and imagining instead of actually writing. She appreciates contemplative and psychological themes in literature, drawing inspiration from the works of C.S. Lewis, E. E. Cummings, Margaret Atwood, and Alice Walker.