Mother Dearest

by Michael Wright

done that.

  Because I’m angry, he thought.

  Mother was saying something up the stairs to him, but he didn’t have the resolve to pay attention to what she was saying, all he could hear was the dull buzz of rage at the base of his skull, the one that leaked into his mind and caused him to go into a blur.

  The anger coursed through him hot and cold at the same time. There was an anger focused on Mother that was built on what she had said about Trisha, and an anger that was focused on him for the way he acted. They met each other and didn’t make matters better, but slowly built up, damming up inside, threatening to burst.

  In his room he stared at the wall, not bothering to kick his other shoe off. As he stared he slowly remembered what he had said to her a long time ago. He had told her that he’d never leave her. Never. She had agreed, said they were always meant to be together, and they always would be—no matter what.

  Then came Trisha, and they would no longer be together.

  The promise was broken.

  But fate always kept promises.

  After…

  THE HOUSE was quiet when he got home from work.

  Tom slid the key out of the deadbolt with a harsh metallic hiss. He carefully shut the door to make the least amount of noise as possible, thought his car probably had already announced his arrival, loud as it was opening and closing the door. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of Mother being asleep then. Quickly, he deposited his work boots by the door.

  The floor groaned underneath him, and he tried to be as quiet as he could as he slipped into the kitchen.

  Hunger stormed in his stomach. He needed to grab something to eat, the thought of a sandwich the most appealing option available to him.

  The kitchen light was off and the only illumination in the room was a sickly blue of the afternoon creeping through the window. The grinning reflection of the window on the pots and pans mingled with that of his own as he roamed the kitchen, in search of food.

  He didn’t bother to turn the light on and went straight for the fridge, the hulking white box that had stood guard of the far doorway in the kitchen since he had been about nine years old.

  When Tom reached the fridge, he glanced briefly at the list of numbers that was always there, listing the phone numbers that would contact every emergency service in the county, and every relative that they kept any level of contact with. He noticed it because it was askew for some reason. Curved away from the door as if someone moving by the fridge, perhaps just brushing the list with their arm had knocked it to the side.

  It hadn’t been that way when he left for work.

  He reached into the fridge and pulled out a pile of bologna and a pack of pre-sliced cheese. He never took his eyes off of the crooked list.

  When the door to the fridge closed, the list fluttered upwards, like the wing of a bird ready for flight, then ever so gently descended, resting against the fridge.

  He set the bologna and cheese down on the counter and reached to straighten the list. In a moment it was just how he had left it. But who had moved it?

  Mother. That was the only explanation. She must have come down for a soda or something and knocked the list but didn’t set it straight. It was out of character for her, she always kept things straight and neat, but sick as she was he could understand. She must have just not been paying attention.

  Tom grabbed the bread out of the cabinet and set it down on the counter, pulling open the tiny twist-tie that held it shut. He selected two slices and carefully slipped them in the toaster. The rest of the loaf went into the cabinet again, taking up its place with some of the other easy shelf-storage items.

  He turned away to go and get a plate, leaving the bologna and cheese standing guard over the toaster.

  “Ow!” He felt his foot shoot up defensively before he even spoke the words. He looked down and saw a trickle of crimson through his sock.

  What in the world?

  He looked down at the floor and saw a single block of glass, not big enough to really be easily noticed, but just big enough and sharp enough to pierce his sock and his foot. He looked at his foot once more and saw that it was still oozing more than a fair amount of blood. The sock was no longer a simple white, but a mixture between deep crimson and sickly pink.

  He set his foot down carefully, and reached down to pick up the glass, taking care not to cut his fingers on it as well. The shard came up easily, and didn’t nick his fingers as he lifted it from its spot on the floor.

  Tom brought it close to his face and took a look at it, trying to figure out where it had come from. He didn’t remember breaking anything…

  He glanced at the windows around him, a sudden, potent fear coming over him.

  They were all locked. Nobody had broken in.

  It was silly to think that, perhaps, but he had watched reports of people breaking in and the owners of the house not even noticing that something was amiss until much later.

  He set the glass shard on the counter and looked back down at his foot.

  It was bleeding onto the floor.

  He walked to another cabinet, and quickly pulled out some peroxide and a bandage. He hoped that it would work for that part of his foot. It might not do much good, but it probably would manage the bleeding.

  He hobbled over to a stool, being careful not to knock the glass shard off of the counter again.

  The toaster exploded and the edges of the toasted bread peeked out from the twin nostril-like slits on the top of the toaster.

  Tom took a napkin from the counter and popped open the peroxide, spilling only a little bit onto the napkin. He lifted his foot to his knee and then jabbed the napkin onto it. The cold napkin stung for only the briefest of seconds, he pulled it away after only a moment, pleased that it had not needed any real cleansing. After that, he quickly applied the bandage.

  It was then he noticed the large chef’s knife lying on the counter. The long, shining blade reflected his actions in a cruel, mocking manner.

  He glanced at it, slightly puzzled, and then turned back to his foot, and made sure that the bandage was secure.

  The knife lay there, staring at him. Mocking him.

  He looked at the glass shard on the counter and at the knife only a foot or so from his elbow. Part of him wanted to know why the stuff was there, but the other part said that it was foolish to worry about such things.

  The toast waited patiently in the toaster, and the bologna and cheese guarded them carefully until he arrived to assemble a brief sandwich.

  He wondered about the knife and glass shard the whole time he ate.

  HOW ARE we doing tonight, Mother?” He asked as he entered the room slowly, bearing another bowl of soup, and a glass of iced tea, just what she had requested not all that long ago.

  “Doing fine, dear.” She said.

  He set the soup down in front of her; the steam rose above the bowl in curling trails, disappearing into the air and filling the room with the rich fragrance of fresh vegetables and poultry.

  She looked down at it and gave a passing, pleased smile. One that was becoming more and more rare out of her, he wondered if it was her sickness—but he had a few other ideas as well.

  Not time yet. He thought. He knew better than to reveal things to her so quickly, she would get too defensive and he would never find out what he wanted to know.

  She looked up at him before taking the spoon and pooling some of the precious broth into the pitted center, letting it gently was into the metal curve, then gently brought it to her mouth. Two fat lips sucked it in quickly, and the spoon left her mouth. She glanced at the soup and back at Tom. Mother was pleased.

  The gentle aroma of the soup rode the waves of air and filled the room, Tom tried not to be distracted by it and focused his attention on her. Watching her face, waiting for that moment when he could slip his foot in the door of her mind and figure out why she had done what she did.

  A quick look at the h
allways helped him keep casual, and he turned back to her quickly, “Good?” He asked.

  She nodded.

  Mother was pleased, very pleased indeed.

  “What did you put in it?” She asked.

  He replied, “The usual. I added a little extra pepper this time, just to change the flavor a little.”

  “It tastes good.”

  “Clears up your sinuses. The pepper, that is.”

  Another smile. Then it was gone.

  He waited another moment, standing against the bed frame, leaning with one hand on the mattress, trying to act as casual as he could, though he had several questions blazing in his mind, trying to break free like hornets from a disturbed mess. The feeling of the pressure was unbearable. He could hardly think for the questions and the way they burned within—but he knew he had to. He had to keep a clear head.

  “So what did you do today?” He tried, hoping to draw her out.

  Mother shrugged, swallowing her soup with a wet, sloppy gulp. He could hear the soup sluicing down her throat as she breathed, trying to speak. “Nothing.” She finally said.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  He glanced at her tray, in particular her hand. It shook for the briefest of moments, or was it a trick of the eye? He wasn’t sure.

  “What happened to your foot?” She asked suddenly.

  He looked down and saw that the bandage was clearly visible from the bed, large and stained with blood. He supposed that it looked like a twisted parody of the Japanese flag in a way, but only in parody.

  “Cut it on a piece of glass.”

  Concern clouded her features. “At work? They really should be more careful around there, what they allow to be just left out…”

  “No, Mother. I cut it in the kitchen.”

  She stared at him.

  “There was a shard of glass in the kitchen floor, I didn’t see it and stepped on it. Did you break a plate or bowl in there?”

  Mother nodded. “I dropped a glass when I went down there earlier in the day. I was quite dizzy feeling, I’m not sure if I got it all cleaned up, I thought I did…are you all right?”

  He didn’t ask about the knife or the list. “Yes, I’m fine. How long were you downstairs?”

  A shrug. “Just a few minutes, I only wanted a quick soda. You know how I get those orange soda cravings every now and then.” Another smile, this one with a haunting artificial quality.

  Tom figured he might as well ask. “Did you go in the living room by chance?”

  A pause.

  Hesitation.

  “No, I didn’t. Well…I’m not sure…it was all so foggy, why, dear?”

  He shrugged. “No reason. I was just looking at the photo album and was wondering if you had been looking at it is all.”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “There was…”

  A lot missing, what do you think I am, stupid?

  “…some stuff out of order. I was just wondering if maybe you’d moved some things around.” He didn’t say what he wanted to say, he could have really unloaded on her and asked her why she had hidden those newspaper articles from him. He could have asked her why she had never really told him about all of that stuff in those articles and why she was so desperate to hide it. Was she afraid it would make him think less of her? What was in the past was past, when she went around trying to hide things and be deceitful; he began to wonder if she was really the woman he thought she was. It wasn’t like her to hide something like that; it bothered him that she had tried to hide it so quickly.

  You’re good, Mother, but not that good.

  “Oh,” she said, “Is that all? I used to change things around in that a lot, but I haven’t touched it in years. That’s why I was so curious about you looking at it the other day, you never really showed and interest in it.”

  Maybe that was a good thing.

  Maybe that was a bad thing.

  “Yeah, that’s all. I was just curious. I must be remembering it wrong.” He painted on a fake smile of his own, trying not to ham it up too much, otherwise she would realize that he was faking and that he suspected far more than that.

  She looked at him and gave a brief, fake smile of her own. She seemed not to suspect, and he really hope that she didn’t know. He hoped she didn’t find out that he suspected she was hiding something.

  He wouldn’t be able to find the rest if she did.

  Before…

  THE CHURCH lawn smelled of fresh cut grass and settled dew after the morning service when Tom and Trish stood and watched some kids watching a frog hop around, the boys delighted and the girls disgusted. It was about as classic as it got, watching them.

  —I’ve never had a fight with Mother before, Trish. I’m not sure what to think.

  Trish looked at him, her almond-brown eyes examined him for a moment, sizing him up and taking his mind apart. She did that a lot when they were talking seriously, analyzing him, doing that mind-reading thing of hers.

  —Why did you fight?

  He hesitated.

  —It was about me, wasn’t it?

  —Kinda…well, mostly. It had to do with something I said ages ago.

  Her white dress danced in the breeze, her brown-leather hair slowly shifted as the small wind caressed it, and her eyes were warm and open, but still examining. He wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow he knew she knew what he was thinking. Maybe that’s why they got along so well.

  —She called you a tramp and said you were stealing me…there were some other words exchanged.

  —What did you tell her?

  —Hmm?

  —The thing you said ages ago: what was it?

  He looked at the children playing for a moment. The delight that etched their faces as the watched the strange, squinting green creature with scaly skin. The boys were fascinated with it; the glee at finding a frog in such impeccable shape in their reach was astounding and wonderful. The girls, though slightly repulsed by it, were also mesmerized and filled with wonder at watching the thing hop and move, even though their inborn femininity told them it was that they would best avoid, in their church clothes no less—but not a one dared move. They didn’t dare, they were too pleased, and would stall just to make the moment last.

  —It was a promise I made as a little kid. I said ‘we’ll always be together’. She asked, ‘always?’ and I said: ‘always’. She thinks I’m breaking my promise by marrying you.

  Trisha looked at him a moment and cocked her head to the side.

  —But you’re not abandoning her. You’re still going to be in town, and we’ll have her over a bunch, that way she isn’t lonely any. Why does she think I’m…stealing you from her?

  He sighed.

  —Because Mother isn’t ready for me to grow up yet.

  She paused. Then nodded. Her eyes shone with that happy light that came when she was telling a joke or a funny story—but this was neither a joke nor a funny story. It was bitter reality, and it wasn’t a laughing matter.

  —I think that’s just the way parents are. It’s a wish of theirs; they don’t want us to grow up. Ask them, it’s true. But we can’t exactly control it.

  He looked at her.

  She took his hand.

  —And it’s not worth fighting over. It’s life, and it’s not something we need to waste a bunch of time fussing about. Enjoy it while it’s happening, it won’t last forever.

  He nodded, and glanced back at the kids, wondering if they even had a clue that they would have these kinds of moments, wondering what lay ahead, enjoying life with the one they loved.

  Tom knew that they would.

  After…

  THE STUDY was possessed by the strange hum of silence. He wasn’t sure how that made sense, but silence carried with it a sound of it’s own, or it produced one at least, in the back of the mind. The dull drone in his head continued as he slowly sorted through the papers, stealing
a quick peek over his shoulder to be sure that he wasn’t being watched.

  Silent tomes lined the bookshelves behind him, each one peering over at him, watching his every move. Their pages were filled with words, but not a one that would reveal what he was doing. If he was able to be careful and stealthy then he could keep what he was doing a total secret.

  Tom carefully pulled open another drawer; again, as the last one, it was filled with folders and envelopes that had been closed for a very long time, and mostly for a good reason. Some he thought was just some junk that Mother was holding on to, others he knew she had a reason for holding on to. He had yet to find what he was looking for, however.

  If she were going to hide those newspaper articles then she would have to hide them in the study that would be the only logical place that Mother would hide them. If she tried to hide them in her room then there was a good chance he would see them, so she wouldn’t hide them there.

  Not unless she’s stashing them in the closet. He thought, grinning to himself.

  Mother was an organization addict, she had to have everything put away in a very specific place, and kept only certain items in certain places. Maybe she was kind of OCD about it, but it worked to Tom’s advantage in the end. If she were to hide something, it would be with the other papers, it wouldn’t be with clothes.

  Folders scattered as he pulled them out of the drawer, trying to keep them in a kind of order that would make it easy to put them back the way they were. He looked into them as he brought them up, looking for that sign of an old newspaper clipping. That was all he was after.

  There was a bump it the next room.

  He froze.

  A moment passed, the silence droned in the background as the tiny clock in his mind ticked away, counting each dear second.

  Tom resumed working through the folders. It was nothing, nothing at all.

  The sloppy edges of the folders rubbed against his fingers, as he pulled them out, surveying their contents. Some were thin and near empty, while others were bellied and filled to capacity with possibly hundreds of pages stuffed into them.

  The envelopes ranged in size as well; from actually empty envelopes that didn’t seem to serve any purpose, and envelopes that bulged with content.

  He didn’t understand in the least how she could have all of them and keep them organized in any fashion, but that was Mother, she knew what she was doing even if nobody else did.

  Which might be a good thing sometimes. He thought. Then paused and shook his head, knowing the thought was unfounded.

  He went all the way to the bottom of the drawer, where a cardboard box lay, and deep down in the depths.

  Then again, it might not be.

  Mother wasn’t the kind of person who hid those boxes deep down in a drawer, keeping them from other people, but here was the box right in front of him, plain as the desk in front of him.

  He reached down and pulled the box out with both hands, carefully pulling it up. The cardboard squealed against the metal slides of the drawer as it started to slowly saw through the material.

  What are you hiding, Mother? He wondered as he set the box on the desk in front of him, checking behind him to make sure that nobody but the books were watching him.

  He was clear.

  The box was