Mother Dearest(3)

It had been only a month or two after that he’d met Trisha. Therest was history, and all that. He looked back on it and couldn’t help but smile. Mother had beendead right—Trisha had made him worse. The more he came to realizehow God loved him, the more he knew how he should love Trisha, and hewas more than willing to love he the way he needed to love her. Sixmonths after the revelation was when the ring materialized in hishand after a nice meal. That night he professed love to Trisha, andrealized how much he loved God who had loved him. Mother was right. After…THE NIGHT hours always dragged on the longest, each second strippedaway from him the barrier he had in the day, the barrier against theworry, against the grief. It was in those nighttime hours that hismind did the most wandering, and tried to figure out where she was,what was happening to her, who had her, and what he was going to doto them when he found her. He tried to keep thoughts of extremeviolence to a minimum, but a lot of the time that was just too muchto ask of him; sometimes they seeped through the cracks. Not withoutguilt, he found that he enjoyed them. He enjoyed them a lot. It was really late at night when he usually heard the movementsacross the hall, knowing that they were nothing, but that naggingvoice deep down within mocked him and said that it was her ghost,haunting him as she would for the rest of his miserable life. Hewould never be rid of her; she would follow him wherever he goes. Those were the nights that he resorted to prayer, and after a whileit all subsided, but it was a hard battle to get there. There was alot of road between the worry and the peace. It was a longer, darkerroad at night. It was that kind of night that kept him at the late hours that he wasgrowing used to, if a man can ever get used to that kind of thing.The long dark hours walking the road between the dark and light—theone that everyone had to walk down every now and then, the one thatclaimed lives and saved others. He knew that it was nothing but whatwas necessary in the Divine plan, but sometimes that was easier tosay than to believe. No, most of times it was harder to believe.Especially at night—especially in the dark.

He rested against the pillow, the darkness of his room surroundinghim. He preferred that, the total darkness while he tried to sleep.It helped him fight the monsters inside, no distractions. He often went over the different conversations that he and Trisha hadin the initial stages of their courtship. They were so loose and freewith words then, nothing was help back from topic. They were tryingto get to know each other in the only way they could think of, justtalk about everything. It was those times he realized how much hereally treasured every word that she spoke. He had never realizedthat before, he had never considered how much he delighted inlistening to her talk. A bitter reminder that you don’t realizewhat you have until it’s gone—taken away from you. It was those times that he felt broken inside, like someone had tornsomething out of him and refused to return it.It was those times that he could search for her without end. It was those times he had the violent thoughts. It was those times he could kill. THE PHOTO album lay out on the table in front of him. It was the sametable that he and Trisha had sat on the other side of when he toldMother they were going to get married. When he had asked for herblessing, and she had reluctantly agreed, the same, beat up, lousycoffee table that had been in the living room for as long as he couldremember. The photo album had been as old as the table at least. The wrinkledleather, smelling faintly of deteriorating cardboard and pastemingled with a dash of old perfume, looked older than he was. As faras he knew it was. The sunlight drifted slowly through the windows, dancing between thecurtains, casting a ray here and there on the table before him. Theleather soaked up the light dimly, too old to reflect it and not oldenough to shrivel away from it.

Tom listened for Mother, just a moment, and then carefully pulled thealbum open, taking extreme care due to its age. The pages flopped,like a lazy dog, off to the side, heavy with old photos, a mixture ofmore professional prints and Polaroid’s. A smattering of perfectlyhandwritten captions adorned the pages, a few hear in there inMother’s wonderful, neat script. He saw a couple of Mother when she was young at the front, ones thatwere taken at birthday parties, school events, and different eventssuch as that. Mother was a large child indeed, he had seen the photosbefore many years ago, but looking at them with older eyes, moreunderstanding eyes, he saw that Mother had indeed been a largerperson her whole life, oftentimes dwarfing her peers. In the pictureswere children that he supposed were her friends, but she had nevertalked about really having any friends. Not that he knew of at least.He turned the page. More pictures, when she was a teenager. For beinga larger girl, she had been a very attractive girl, he noticed. Shewas still taller than most, and a little husky, but not fat. She justlooked like a taller version of her other classmates, but not asfrail looking. Another page flopped over. There were several pictures of a party—a wedding—and he spottedhis father among them, just like he had been in the other pictures.That same tall, narrow build. He was with her in most of the shots onthat page, nearby, his arm around her. Mother was smiling in the pictures on that page, the joy on her facewas hard to miss, the hope and expectations of a new wife, thrilledto death to spend the rest of her life with the man she loved and wholoved her. It was something that he had seen before in Trisha. Justbefore she disappeared. I can’t even look at a family album and not see her in it.He thought. How long will this last? The lazy dog flopped again.

More pictures. Tom saw when he was born, a picture in the hospitaland that same joy encapsulated in Mother’s eyes, shining brightly,unashamedly. Therewere a few shots scattered on the page, a few of the usual picturestaken for memories. Christmases, birthdays, Easters, the holidaysthat made up the year all arranged in order, an organized butartistic arrangement. Tom couldn’t help but to smile, as he lookedat the album, pleased to look at the pictures—pleased to remember.He had no real recollection of the events, but he was sure that hehad been there. Inside the scenes, although almost new to him,resonated. He had been there, and he had seen these things. He hadsent eh Christmases, birthdays, Easters, and the joy that shone onMother’s face during these events. He hesitantly flipped the page.The next page was littered with news reports. Scattereddocumentations, clipped from a variety of newspapers. They all hadsimilar headlines, and the subject was the same with all of them. “Man Dies in Fatal Car Wreck” There were a couple of shots of a car, most of it burned to askeletal cinder, the vehicle looked as if it had just passed throughthe underworld. There was no way anyone could have survived awreck of that magnitude, Tom thought, before realizing that itwas the wreck that had killed his father. He still couldn’t quitepiece it there, though. It seemed too far removed—too foreign. “Police Investigate Deadly Car Accident” A shot of a policeman standing, obviously speaking to the reporter,he was by the station. Tom glanced over the report to glean somedetails and saw that there was some suspicion as to the “accidental”nature of the wreck. Some didn’t believe it was a total accident,but that notion didn’t seem to be founded on anything except a fewminor details. The report didn’t say what those details were, andthey were very sure to emphasize that it was probably nothing.

“Car Wreck Victim’s Wife Speaks Out.” There was a picture of Mother, though younger, standing on a streetsomewhere, outside of a building, probably the police department,speaking to the reporter. She looked angry in her eyes; her face wasa sheet of disappointment and cold hatred. There was a quote in thereport. “How could I have ever killed my husband? I loved Ross, whywould I kill him?” He glanced through the report. “The police arejust making a mountain out of a molehill, a few things wrong with thecar and all of the sudden I’m blamed.” I didn’t know this. He thought to himself. Mother nevermentioned the police thinking she had done something. The report went on to name that there were some things wrong with thebrakes in the car, though there had been no mention of that beforethey had begun to look at the car itself. Another matter of suspicionwere the two gas cans without caps that were stowed in the back seatof the car, half filled, they were the perfect bomb. If nothing else,it had been an accelerant, and they were spilled during the crash, asit was supposed. The car went up in flames before anyone knew whathad happened. There were a few in the police department that hadother ideas however. He quickly finished the report and looked at the pictures on theother page, and saw that there were a few more news clippings,something about a trial. His interest suddenly peaked. “Morrison Pleads Not Guilty” was the headline. Tom was stunnedfor a split second by the headline. Not guilty for what? He tried tofocus his attention back onto the paper in front of him. Somethingpulled him back, and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to focus onthe paper right in front of him. “Thomas?” Mother said. He looked at the doorway and saw Mother standing there, wrapped inher bathrobe that was adorned with various Peanuts characters.Snoopy and Woodstock were busy hunting around for sticks orsomething, while Lucy pulled the football away from Charlie Brown.

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