Winging to Budapest
by Channie Greenberg
Liora’s doll, likewise, had had its face whittled by Jessie. Still, ever the older sister, she had shrugged off that happenstance as no more significant than a mosquito bite.
I couldn’t do that. Sally Foo Foo, Jessie’s next victim, was my favorite doll. So, it was of small surprise that, after I had looked from my headless lovely to my tuna sandwich, I had pulled the school’s fire alarm.
Mom never incorporated the right amount of mayonnaise or concern. When she and Dad appeared before the principal, Mom whined her regrets and then promised to discipline me. Hugs would have been better.
I was always short on hugs. Today, I keep on feeling that dearth. It was too bad that Mom went berserk when she picked me up from my failed stint at Help Build Tomorrow. She went out of control just because I hugged some of the kids at risk; they were male. All the same, boys need hugs. Similarly, young adults who’ve yet to determine their sexual orientation need hugs. Pity that Mom can’t see past her testaments.
Albeit, once, she offered me consolation in the form of assessing me as suffering from Middle Child Syndrome. Possibly, she was right. I indubitably remain affronted that Liora is the light of my mother’s eye, despite my sister’s protest that, when she lived at home, she was a long-suffering Cinderella. Also, I’m outraged that Mom seems to always look the other way when my lone brother misbehaves. Unquestionably, it hurts me that my two older, “progressively developing,” — i.e. “gifted” — siblings appropriated so much of Mom’s resources and that it wasn’t until after Mom’s parent/teacher conference with my kindergarten teacher that Mom pronounced me “smart.” Note: as adults, my sibs continue to steal her reserves.
Therefore, it follows that I’m depressed as well as afflicted with anxiety. I must accrue as many graduate degrees as my older brother and sister have even though my career doesn’t require them. Correspondingly, I identify as gender fluid, not that this distinctiveness has garnered any recognition; “loud and proud” shows every sign of making no difference to Mom. Equally, she doesn’t say that she cares about my recent agnosticism. At least I’ve stumbled upon allies among the members of our extended family who can’t stand her.
And yet my female progenitor refers to me as “the family’s truth teller.” These days, she shrugs as she references my honesty as a strength, not a provocation. Soggy cereal is so frustrating! Even when Mom appreciates my sensitivity, I’m starved.
So, I’m winging to Budapest. I plan to look over the Petöfi Bridge into the Danube and to yield to arrest since pedestrians are not allowed there. When I had an abortion, Mom refused to come to the hospital, claiming that she and Dad were otherwise occupied with a fancy dinner in New York City; they’d waited over a year for their reservation. I wonder if she’d bail me out from a foreign jail.
If I’m still free, I’ll take advantage of the city’s bike-sharing program, MOL Bubi. Perchance, I’ll meet a man or woman and spend the night. Imaginably, I’ll get kidnapped. I wonder if Mom would contact Interpol if she found out.
When I get home from Europe, I’ll once more sleep in my flashy apartment and return to work at the tech firm that pays me more than I deserve for merely editing documents. I’ll go back to bar-hopping with friends; I have more of them than free hours. Truth be told, I’m a great wingman but a poor pursuer.
Maybe, I’ll even call Mom and then visit. I could show her cellphone photos of the City of Spas. She did feign interest, last year, when I shared snaps of the Christina Perri concert I had attended.
Copyright © 2025 by Channie Greenberg
