Mary Ellis-Fischer

Mary Ellis-Fischer

Mary Ellis-Fischer was not particularly strong.  She was not particularly smart, nor was she especially funny. She liked to think of herself as a romantic, though she had no practical experience with romance.  She had a high school diploma, but had never been to college; she suspected that she would not have been accepted, though she’d never had enough money to apply.  Mary Ellis-Fischer possessed only one thing of value; his name was Ian, and she was hell bent on keeping him.

This was not the first time they had tried to give him to someone else.  When her boy was just a toddler, they had assessed his environment, turning up less than desirable results.  The mother barely had the means to support herself, they had reported, it was no environment for a child.  A foster mother was scrounged up, and an initial introduction arranged for the following week.  When, upon meeting the foster-woman, the child spat in her face and ran crying to his mother, Mary Ellis-Fischer did not disguise her delight.  It was decided, then, that the child would be most successful with his mother.  Unfortunately, circumstances were different this time around.

“They’ll be ready for you in a few minutes, Mrs. Fischer.”

Mary Ellis-Fischer looked up from her People magazine.  “Ms. Ellis,” she corrected.   She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and prepared to be summoned.  She craned her neck, trying to glance the building’s big brown front door.  She knew he would not be walking through this entrance but she couldn’t help herself.  She yearned to see him one last time before he was no longer hers.

She had met this new woman on a number of occasions.  They had gotten along, even enjoyed each other’s company, until Mary had recognized the implications of this other woman’s presence.  The woman cared about Ian, she had promised, she would take good care of him.  But no one could care for her son like his mother could, Mary had insisted. This time, Ian had only frowned and removed himself from the conversation.

Mary Ellis-Fischer shifted uncomfortably in her overtly formal attire.  Her family would be arriving soon.  There weren’t many of them, and they rarely got along, but she would be glad for the support today.  The grand courthouse clock struck noon, and around her officials rushed to their places.

“Are you ready, Ms. Ellis?”  She swiveled her head around once more, hoping in vain for the chance to offer her boy some final sentiments.  Do as the woman says, wash behind your ears, be a good boy.  She sighed and looked up at her escort.  “The sooner we start, the sooner it’ll be over,” the man encouraged, overlooking the gravity of these last, precious moments of motherhood.  Mary gathered her things and rose from her seat, though she was in no hurry to complete the affair.  She steadied herself on the young man’s arm, but before they could pull open the courtroom doors, a frantic groomsman pushed through them.

“He can’t find the ring,” the man proclaimed in a hushed panic.

“What?” Mary said, startled out of her glum fog.

“He’s freaking out, he lost the ring,” the man repeated.

Mary released her escort and pushed her way into the courtroom, startling ill-prepared guests and a sleepy organ player. There he was, her boy, her Ian.  He stood at the end of the aisle in a sleek tuxedo with a navy blue vest.  He wore an anguished frown when he looked up at his mother, but Mary Ellis-Fischer could not help but think her boy looked very handsome anyway.  She sauntered alone down the white satin lane, sporting her once familiar “super mom” glow.

“What happened?” Mary said as she reached her son at the altar.

“I don’t know,” Ian hissed, shaking with distress, “I swear I put it in my pocket this morning but now it’s not there.”  He revealed his empty pants pockets to accent his despair.

Mary put a firm hand on her son’s alarmingly tall shoulder, demanding his attention.  “Ian,” she said, slow and firm, “breathe.”  He sighed, but took a deep breath as instructed.  “Have you checked your back pockets?” Mary said.

“Of course.”  Ian rolled his eyes.

“How about your chest pocket?” Mary motioned to the small rectangle below his collar.

Ian hesitated, before slowly, almost begrudgingly, sliding a tiny gold ring from the pocket in question. He blushed.  “Oh,” he said, “right.”  Mary smiled victoriously.  She patted Ian’s cheek lightly as she’d done when he was a child, and adjusted his tie.  He rolled his eyes but did not object.  Mary then returned to the top of the aisle, found her escort, and waited for her cue.

 Mary Ellis-Fischer walked methodically down the aisle, in rhythm with the organ.  Ian tapped his finger in time with the song, a habit he’d picked up from his mother.  This time when Mary reached the altar, she gave her boy a polite, dignified kiss and took her seat in the front row. The grand double doors swung open once more to reveal that new, other woman, dove-eyed in her billowing white gown.  Mary looked to her son, expecting to see the humbling affection of a groom in his bride’s presence.  But before Ian looked to Matilda, he caught his mother’s eye.  He put his hand over his heart, tapped his chest pocket, and winked.  No one can care for a son like his mother can, Mary thought with a smile, watching her boy turn to face his bride.