Mother Dearest(2)

On the walls of the stairs were a wide variety of photos, differentodds and ends memories that Mother had seen as important when she putthem there a few years ago. There was one at the wedding, with Motherwhen she was young, dressed in white, and Father, who had passed awayyears ago in a car wreck, looking dapper in his suit. Tom had lookedat the picture a million times, and had it down to memory, along withthe picture next to it of he and his father fishing when Tom wasthree, although he had no recollection of the trip, or his of hisfather, really. He walked by with the steaming soup bowl, passing thepictures of baseball games, and Christmases gone by. Up until whenTom was five, his father was present, after that, it was just the twoof them, as it had been for most of his life. Just Mother and Tom. Mother’s room was the master bedroom that took up most of the upperfloor, right to the side of the guest bedroom and Tom’s own room.The guest had long ago become the study, though nobody did anystudying in there. Mother’s door was propped open, and the largebox fan rumbled in the corner, directed at the large, queen-sizedbed, trying to keep Mother cool. He carefully balanced the soup as he went through the doorway, whichwas no half as narrow as the kitchen doorway, and made sure that theiced tea did not decide to dive for it. If it fell on the carpet,poor Mother would probably have a cow. He turned as he walked in the door, and saw Mother was resting on thebed, gazing at the ceiling fan, lost in thought. She looked away assoon as she caught sight of him, and a soft smile came to her face. “Supper.” He announced. “Smells wonderful.” She replied. The first thing most people noticed about Mother was her size. Shewas not the average woman at all, at almost six feet and two hundredand eighty pounds; she was not the hardest to miss in the room. Theold, worn out, sore thumb analogy was hardly sufficient for her.Cruel though it may sound, it was nothing but the truth.

She had never been a small woman at all. She had been a larger childeven, maturing physically faster than the other kids around her,dwarfing most of her class. It had made a lot of things harder forher, but she had managed through it. She always found a way. “I made it all fresh. Some chicken, carrots, peas—the works.”Tom set the tray down on the bed, and Mother turned around to glancedown in the bowl.“I smell garlic.” She said. He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together, “Just a pinch.” An approving flicker in her eyes, “You know how I like it.” “You taught me.” “Seems like I did a good job.” A warm smile cut her face in half,and the crooked, never straightened teeth shone through. Mother didhave one thing to her credit, perfectly white teeth—though slightlycrooked, they were extremely white. Overall, her smile was verypleasant. At least that’s what Tom had always thought. “That you did. I gave it a taste, and it is very good.” She looked up from the soup at him, in sheepish appreciation. “Thankyou Thomas.” She had always called him that, never “Tom” always“Thomas”. “Not a problem.” He said. “It is a problem,” she countered, “it should be memaking you supper. Not the other way around.” “You’re sick, Mother. You can’t help that.” “I know.” She sighed. “I just still don’t like it.” “You’ve taken care of me the past twenty one years, I think I cantake care of you for a few weeks.”

“It’s strange how things like that turn out, isn’t it? Funny.”“Yes, it is, Mother. Eat your soup, you’ll get feeling better inno time. You just have to have some soup.” She nodded. “Okay, son.” She picked up the bowl and set it on herlap, and leaned over it very carefully. Tom looked across the room, keeping an eye for anything that mightneed to be done, he knew that Mother hated things being messy and itwould put her at ease if he were to help her out. “What are you looking at?” She asked. He answered. “Nothing.” There, he spotted a stray sock that had somehow landed itself in thedoorway of the closet and was halfway behind the door, and halfwayout in the floor, leading straight into the bedroom. Mother, who wasaddicted to order, would never have let that slip normally, but hesupposed the sickness had more effect on her than he had originallythought. He began to head for the sock. “What are you doing?” She queried. He moved for the sock, about to crouch down. “Oh, don’t bother with that.” She said. There was a trace ofsomething in her voice, he wasn’t sure what it was, and he reachedfor the sock and prepared to turn around and see what it was, when heheard a rough choking sound. Tom turned around to see her holding her throat and breaking into acoughing fit. The spoon fell from her hand and landed with a bittersplash into the soup. Her face turned a bright cherry, and her eyeshad begun to bulge. Tom moved for her immediately and left the sock behind. Once hereached her side at the bed she stopped coughing and began to heavein large breaths, pulling in air from all around and squeezing itinto her lungs.

“I’m okay.” She finally managed. “You sure?” “Yeah, just swallowed a piece of chicken wrong. It’s fine,Thomas.” She flapped with her hand, ushering him away. “I guess I should have cut them smaller.” He said, looking at thesoup with a solid bolt of guilt shooting through him. “No, no. I’m fine, just wasn’t being careful.” She looked ather tea a moment. “Could you get me a glass of water, just toswallow all of this down with, dear?” Tom nodded. “Sure thing, Mother.” “You’re a good son, Thomas.” She said, casting a small glanceat the sock, but not saying a word about it. Tom didn’t say a word in response. “A real good son. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He was leaving the room and managed, “I’ll get your glass ofwater.” YOUR MOTHER doesn’t like me much, does she?” Those were some ofthe first words that Trisha said to him, as he was about drive herhome, a mere few weeks before her disappearance. The lights were dim along the road, illuminating her angelic face,heart shaped and framed by flowing brown leather hair. Her almondeyes glowed like twin moons in the dim light, and stared deep intoyour soul when you looked at them just right. —It’s not that.

—Then what is it?—She’s my Mom, and you’re the one who’s going to marry mehow did you expect her to feel? She’s a little apprehensive, butshe’ll adjust to you, just give it time.—What does being your mother have to do with anything? —She’s been the only woman in my life for twenty-one years,you showing up was a big adjustment. The car had ridden along the deep black roads, interrupted by blockyyellow lines around the edges and dots that flared up the center ofthe long stretch. He could still remember the way it looked in thedark, and the way she looked in the nighttime. —You never had a girlfriend?A beat. —Never? —No. It had never come up in conversation before then, and he had neverbothered to bring it up. He wasn’t sure why, it just felt like asubject that he needed to stay off of. It might have been a bit ofpride mixed with embarrassment, but he wasn’t sure, he never reallycould be. It might have been Mother; all that time it might have beenher. —You never mentioned that before.—Never came up.—I guess that’s true. Don’t worry though, that’s reallykind of neat.He paused. —Why do you say that?She smiled, that sweet, shameless smile. The one that he knew camefrom deep down inside of her, stemming from her soul. He knew becausewhen he thought of her he smiled like that—he knew how it felt.

—It means I’m the first.That delighted her, and it was good enough for him. He knew that she was the first, she was the first girl he had everloved that way before. He had formed a few small crushes over theyears, but nothing serious—nothing like Trisha. Sappy and patheticas it was, he was a hopeless romantic, and had gone head over heelsand all that jazz the moment he saw her. Trisha was the first personthat had ever made him feel that way. —The only thing is how we met.—Church?He nodded. She laughed, a small chuckle, one that she tried to hold back but wasunsuccessful. —Would she have preferred a bar?He laughed. She laughed with him. —Mother’s not a big fan of church. —But she lets you go?—I’m free to make my choices. If I want religion, I can haveit. —But she’s not into it?—Not in the least. I think she’s afraid you’ll make meworse. It had all started when some friends from work had invited him. Atiny church set on a street corner, he didn’t know what a Baptistwas supposed to be, but by the end of the night it didn’t matter.That was when he started searching, searching deep down inside forthat thing that he knew that he would not find there. The thing heneeded most. Or was it the Person he needed most?

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