My Favourite Muse

by Atabo Mohammed

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Acceptance is hard; very hard, especially when it comes to emotional defeat. And what makes it even worse is, it's a fact! I mean, in all the various stages of grief, acceptance is brilliantly dropped at the end because it's a psych thing; one cannot run away from the feeling even if he doesn't want to express it verbally.

  I sat on the couch in the living room with my palms propped at the back of my head. I really didn't see any use denying the fact that I was behind everything. My thoughts kept going back and forth on how it all started and all that happened between me, mother and Pam over the past few months that led to the present situation. My name is boldly written on it.

  Before I sat down, I checked everywhere in the house for mother but found no trace, no note and no sign of anything unusual that may suggest she's taken out by force. I called her cell phone but no answer; I called her office, she wasn't there. Molly's phone rang with no answer. I didn't call the police station; I wanted it to be my last resort.

  I sat for thirty seconds and then stood up again. Pressure rising; restlessness and impatience all competing fiercely to invade me. I started pacing, it didn't help. I went upstairs to mother's room, sat on her bed and waited. I looked around and felt the strange unfamiliarity of the vicinity.

  I used to find solace in that room when I was a kid. Many times, I used to come running to jump on the bed at her and father. But that was a long time ago; now, I sometimes forget how the decor in the room even looked like.

  I starred at the pictures on the bed side. One of them had a picture of the three of us; me, father and mother. I couldn't remember when it was taken.

  "You were eight months old." She once told me. "Your father had just finished his master’s degree and we were about to come back to Wales." I still don't remember.

  The next one was of my parents, looking young and cheerful, and obviously so in love. The picture depicts mother's happy mode characterised by narrowing her eyes and the appearance of little twitchy marks on either side of her mouth. Dad's smile was half hidden under his thick moustache. He had a somewhat stout face that couldn't be read easily. Sometime I wonder if that sort of look is inclusive among the qualities of being a British Gentleman. I kept looking at his face to see if I could get something more telling about him; none. I left the room.

  Next stop was my room. There's nothing uninteresting there; just bad memories. The paintings were pretty but ceased to be appealing to me. They were not what's important at the moment. Because each one I looked at, triggered a memory of how Pam looked at them just the night before. I remembered her surprise when she saw them at first; then her tears and the questions she asked about each. The questions; all were cool except one: the one that provoked the argument and her subsequent disappearance.

  My anger threatened to come back. I turned away from them and faced my door.

  The flag was there; it reminded me of my sketch Pam had burnt. I walked out of the room, downstairs; and just when I opened the door to head out of the house. I saw mother standing there with a bag of groceries.

  The house was quiet. Not that it's empty; it's because the only two occupants in it were not talking.

  Mother wasn't talking to me. Earlier on, I asked her where she had been and her answer was sarcastic, so I maintained my silence. We were both sitting in the living room, she was reading a book and I was playing video game of car racing.

  "Bradley, that noise is messing up my reading." She said for the first time in a long while, without looking at me.

  I muted the sound and continued playing my game. I wouldn't want to lose concentration; mother was all in my head, her aura alone had provoked a terrible guilty conscience in me compromising my composure. The game was a welcome distraction from the terrible feeling.

  The silence remained; and with both of us engrossed into things that need concentration, it wasn't a bad moment.

  The phone rang rudely. Mother didn't take her head off the book. I looked at her, she didn't look back. She actually looked really strange. Her face revealed lines, strong and solid like those of a human sculpture. And the way she paid no heed to the phone meant there's more trouble yet to come.

  I paused the game and picked the call. It was Pam. Again, the damsel is in distress.

  Her voice was calm. She spoke with a surprising air of composure and control. And there was no any form of weakness in the voice that could suggest illness or sorrow. She spoke slow and straight to the point. She wanted me to meet her at the phone booth, close to the bus stop. That means she was just five minutes walk away from my home. She hung up before I asked what the problem was.

  "Wait a minute... hello... hello... Pam." I was talking to the dialling tone.

  I held on to the receiver in my hand for ten seconds before putting it down. Then I looked at mother, she was on her book. I walked back to the TV, to my game and continued playing.

  Our current situation with mother made me not to even think about going out, let alone going out at that hour.

  I was beaten on the game and so unable to move to the next level. I replayed and was beaten again. And just when I was about to play the last life on that level, mother spoke.

  "And where is she this time?" I told her.

  She didn't speak again. I went back to the game but couldn't play anymore. I realised I was beaten because I lost concentration and composure after hearing Pam's voice. Just that little voice made me forget all that happened between us the previous night and left me longing for her. She was all over my head again. My intention to confront her over her behaviour was smashed and replaced by longing, pity and love. I wanted to see her again, to hug her, to know whether or not she's alright.

  So I remained in that state for a moment, thinking of what to do. I was staring at the bat, fumbling with the joystick with my thumbs, thinking. Surprisingly, the last person I ever expect came to my rescue.

  "So?" I heard mother say. I looked at her and didn't answer. I didn't understand at first. "Aren't you going? You can't just keep a sick girl waiting at the bust stop in the cold."

  Even though she said it with a Tony Tod kind of straight, serious face, I must admit that was the sweetest thing she had ever said to me. I threw down the bat and rushed to the door.

  "Bradley; your coat, its cold out there." She got my coat from the hang and put it around me; I put my hands into the sleeves. And as she buttoned me up, a wave of emotion ascended on my heart.

  Never had I felt so loved and understood like that moment. I know I put her through a lot these few days, yet she showered me with love and understanding.

  I never felt so stupid before. I thanked, hugged and kissed her before leaving.

  "Don't stay too late."

  "I won't."

  Pam was sitting on the bench at the bus stop with folded arms. She looked healthy; her face and lips shone in the lights. I couldn't recognise her at first until I got closer; and for the first time in the little life of our friendship, I saw Pamela Graham with makeup.

  I felt something in my heart when I saw her. I took a few seconds to look at her. "Makeup?" I said. She smiled; I felt that thing in my heart again.

  "Is it bad?" She asked in a weak voice, getting on to her feet.

  "No." I said before she finished the three-word sentence. "It's the first time I'm seeing you in it. At first, I wasn't sure it was you."

  "So what do you think?"

  "I think you look beautiful."

  "I've been beautiful all my life."

  "Yes you have." Then there was a brief moment of speechlessness and tongue-tightness on both of us. We just looked and smiled.

  And then; "Brad," in a whisper.

  "Yes Pam," I said without any better clarity in my voice. And that was when it happened: she kissed me; at the bus stop.

  That was the very first time I had a real kiss.