The Bicycle, Mama, and Three Kilos of Apples

The signal cut through my headphones. I glanced over my shoulder even before the sky began to spin, and saw him behind me. Too close. The mask pressed into my cheeks, my mouth went dry and metallic. I gripped the control stick. The ground drifted along the edge of the canopy. My hands were already doing their work, and my head was lagging behind. Between two heartbeats the cockpit smelled of dust from our old yard.

I'm six. The bicycle is too big, my feet barely reach the pedals. Mama runs behind, holding the seat. - Are you holding on? - I'm holding on. Don't look back, Ostapchyk. Look ahead. I'm here. One. Two. Three. I look back. She's already far away. I fall, scrape my knee bloody. - You lied! You let go! Mama crouches down beside me. - I let go. - Why? - You were already riding on your own. She wiped the blood away with the hem of her dress.

I bawled more from hurt feelings than anything. - And what if I fall again when you're not around? - Then you'll get up on your own. - And what if it's a bad one? Mama blew on the scraped knee. - Then first you'll have a cry. I went quiet with surprise. - And then? - And then you'll come to me and show me where it hurts. She lifted the bicycle. - Well then, once more? Back then I was certain I hated those two words.

Memory kept spilling out small things. A split lip at fourteen, and Mama asking only whether all my teeth were still there. The bus stop outside the academy. I'm nearly a grown man, and she's pulling a wool scarf around my neck. - Mama, enough. - Whose neck is it? - Mine. - Then it's yours to keep warm. I took the scarf off on the bus. Years later I learned from a neighbour that Mama stood there every time until the bus was out of sight.

The morning before the flight she called. - Have you eaten? - I have. - What? - Mama... She laughed. Told me about the cat, the neighbour, and the three kilos of apples she'd bought as if I were coming home tomorrow. - Why so many? - They'll keep. Before hanging up, she went quiet. - Ostap. - What? - Just call when you can. - I will. I said it in passing, between other things. Now, up in the sky, that promise weighed more than I did.

The sky came back together with the signal. The threat hadn't gone anywhere. I caught myself realizing that my whole world was now behind me. Fear was back there. Death was back there. And back there too, Mama sat in the kitchen beside three kilograms of apples, waiting for a call that might never come. Through the noise I heard her young voice: "Don't look back, Ostapchyk. Look ahead. I'm here." I moved my eyes to the instruments. Breathed in.

And my hands were obedient again. After that my body knew more than I did. The g-force pressed me into the seat, the edges of my vision went dark. I wasn't thinking about death. I wasn't even thinking about the enemy. I was counting. One. Like beside the bicycle. Two. Mama's hands aren't holding on anymore. Three. Hold on yourself. The plane shuddered. A foreign silhouette flashed past to the side. A few more seconds, clipped voices on the radio.

Then there was no threat anymore. Somewhere behind me there was smoke. I didn't look back. The fear only started shaking me afterward. In the fight my hands had been precise, and now they couldn't lie still on the stick. And I saw Mama in the dust again. One hand holding me. The other wiping the blood from my knee. "And what if you're not around?" Back then her answer hurt me. Now I finally understood what I hadn't at six. The bicycle she let go. Me - never.

I touched the mask and said out loud: - Mama, I'm flying home. After landing I sat in the cockpit for 10 minutes, unable to unclench my fingers. The ground smelled of wet concrete. Someone was talking to me, touched my shoulder. When I finally got to my things, I picked up the phone. There was a message from Mama, sent before the flight. A photo of red apples on the kitchen table. "Got those ones of yours. Don't know if they're any good. You'll come and check."

I stared at the words "you'll come." Then I pressed call. - Hello? - Mama. And nothing more would come out. She heard me trying to breathe in. - Ostapchyk, easy now. One. I breathed in. - Two. Once more. - Three. There you go. I'm here. I closed my eyes. - Remember the bicycle? - How could I forget. You were terribly cross with me then.

- You let me go. - You could already do it on your own. I gulped for air. - Mama, I'm on the ground. A long silence. Her voice trembled: - Good, then. So come home. The apples will go bad otherwise.