Mother

A young man battles with his conscience, trying to decide whether to move out of his childhood home or not. It makes things much more difficult knowing that his mother is grieving her husband leaving.

Today, I have decided to tell my mother that I am moving out. After many weeks of careful deliberation, I can now confirm that I will tell her over dinner tonight, and depending on how she takes it, I may or may not have my own house by the end of the month.
It isn’t that I don’t love my mother, quite the opposite, I just don’t believe we suit living together now. My father left us seven months ago and she hasn’t been the same since. What once was a house full of life and noise has crumbled and the atmosphere has turned horrid. She avoids me where she can, and we never eat breakfast together any more, as I don’t expect her out of bed until ten at the earliest. The family meals she used to plan with her sister and my cousins feel like a thing of the past, and when anybody calls round to see how she is coping, she closes the curtains and hides in the kitchen, holding a finger up to her lips. I usually hide with her.
Just the other day I called her down for dinner (she usually makes it, but it was getting later and later and I was hungry so I decided to attempt cooking myself) but when she didn't come down I went to see if she was alright, so I knocked on her bedroom door. When she didn't answer, I let myself in and found her sitting on her bed writing a letter. I apologised for walking in and asked her who she was writing to. She wouldn't tell me and she quickly hid the pen and paper under her sheets, but I knew she was writing to my father: a letter that would never reach him, for none of us knew where he had gone.
My father, Mr Darren James, met my mother, Mrs (soon to be Ms) Hannah James at Harold King's primary school in the year 1948 when they were both just seven years old. I cannot count on both hands how many times I have heard this tale, as it was something of a bedtime story as I was growing up.
My father was a teachers pet and loved maths, putting him top of his class. My mother on the other hand, was more of a quiet girl who didn’t enjoy school at all. One day their maths teacher who was a b*****d (apparently) picked on my mother out of the whole class to recite her three times tables. He instructed her to stand up in front of her peers and ‘speak loud, clearly and without fail’. Failure would result in detention and a letter home, informing her parents of her under achievements.
My mother took to her feet and shuffled forward to the teachers desk with her back to the room for a few seconds, before turning around to face the twenty pairs of eyes staring back at her, waiting for her to begin. 'But one pair of eyes stood out among the rest, and they were warm, happy and safe. I knew they would help me out. I knew your father would help me though it, and he did. He mouthed the numbers slowly and without Mr Hitch seeing, so that I did not get a detention, nor a letter home to my parents. He saved me that day, and he may just have also saved my embarrasement from not knowing my tables. I knew he was the one for me even then at seven years old. He was my best friend and he still is... well apart from you, little man.' She would say, before kissing me goodnight and tucking me in.
Thinking about that story now, and the way my mother used to tell it, makes me want to cry. At such a young age they both knew that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, and by God did they give it a good go. But something must have changed in their relationship, because he never would have left her without a good reason. They were solid. Connected on so many levels. There is no explanation for him to leave like he did. I might have understood it if in the weeks prior to him packing his bags I heard rows, or hushed voices as I entered the room; but nothing. Not so much as a sniff of cold air between them.
I think one of the big reasons that I decided it was time to leave is that it breaks my heart to see the strongest woman I know turn into this depressed mess almost overnight. I may be selfish for not staying and keeping her company through this dark time in her life, but I just cannot bare this any longer. I cannot bare to see her like this. Hollow, pale cheeks have replaced her sunny glow, leaving a shell of the person she once was, and I sometimes think if I ever saw my father again, I would kill him for what he has done to her.
I suppose sometimes I just forget that we live together, until I hear her creeping down the stairs at night to sneak herself a swig of whiskey or something similar. She doesn’t know that I know where she stashes her drink. It didn’t take me long to work it out, all it took was a few nights of listening and gauging roughly where she was by how the wooden floor creaked beneath her slippers. Stairs, hallway, living room, fireplace, window… So the following day I checked every drawer in the bureau under the window and eventually found a small bottle of Jack Daniels and a photograph of my father as he looked when they married thirty years ago. The photo was damp, and I’d heard my mother crying the night before.
As I sit here now, in my room, surrounded by posters of s**t bands that I shouldn't still be listening to at twenty years old, I psyche myself up for dinner, dreading how it will sound when I tell her of my plans. I walk to the mirror on my wall, smoothing down my turtle neck collar as I stare at my reflection which had definitely seen better days. You can do it, I think as I lean in a little closer (is that a shaving rash I see by my chin?) You know you can do it.

Throughout the afternoon and into the evening I try to avoid my mother where I can. She paces around the house like a wild animal desperate to find an escape. Shuffling from one room to the next she sometimes stops to stare at her wedding photo on the wall. My father handsome, suited and booted. My mother, beautiful as ever, her dress a hand-me-down from my grandmother. The church in the background is blurred, leaving a clear, crisp outline of the two of them holding onto eachother, their faces beaming with pure happiness. I miss my father, but my mother needs my father, and the desperation to have him back, to hold him again is evident on her face, and has been since the day he walked out.
The cat is sitting on the table as I lay down the knife and forks for dinner. "Shoo," I say and he jumps down, but stays by my feet, waiting for scraps. "You can have some later, Kip." Once I have finished laying the cutlery, I fill up the jug with water and set it down carefully near the center of the table, trying not to step on the cat as I go.
My heart is beating ten to the dozen as I watch my mother dishing up. What will she think of me when I reveal that I'm leaving? I realise (perhaps too late) that I haven't considered exactly how I'm going to tell her. I spent weeks planning in my head and now it has come to the point of no return, I feel like back tracking and not saying anything at all. It isn't that bad here, is it? Perhaps life will get easier for her and living together won't be so bad and-
"Do you want mint sauce with yours?"
I immediately snap back to reality, letting her empty words hang there for a second before noticing that she isn't even facing me when she speaks. She is just standing there, spoon in hand and her eyes to the wall.
Who am I kidding?  "Yeah, please."
Exactly five minutes later we are eating. Kip is back up on the table again. My mother would never have let this happen before my father left, infact the cat wouldn't have even been allowed in the kitchen when she was preparing and eating dinner. She would open the back door and kick him out before shouting after him 'Don't think you are getting any of ours, you've got your own that you haven't touched.'
I stare at my food, my stomach rumbling, but I just can't face it. My fork barely makes a dent in the undercooked potatoes and the meat is off colour. Mum used to be such a talented cook, taking pride in her craft, but now cooking has become a chore. A chore which is done out of neccesity and nothing more.
"Barbara come to the house today," She says, picking up the jug and pouring herself a glass. "But I didn't answer the door."
I pick at my food like a child, my brain is so awash with my own worries that I almost don't hear her.
"Really? I didn't hear her knock... Mum I've been here all day."
She takes a sip of water, a look of confusion on her face. Then she bursts out laughing, spraying little water drops over me. Kip scampers off, almost taking the table cloth with him.
"I meant yesterday," She says, and giggles into her napkin. "Look at me over here, getting all my days mixed up. You must think I'm mad."
I raise one corner of my mouth and nod, but I don't look at her. I can't look at her. It's too painful. Instead I sit and listen. Listen to my mother chuckling away in her own little sad, lonesome bubble... but then silence comes and she carries on eating.
"Mum?" I start, but after waiting several seconds without a reply, I decide to just go for it and tell her now. I have to tell her now. Now is a good a time as any I guess. "I think I am going to look for my own place to live."
There. I said it. And now I wait, wait for it to sink in, wait for all hell to break loose... But it doesn't, and she doesn't say anything. She just nod's and continues to eat without looking up and without protest. That was easier than I thought. My heart has slowed from a hefty gallop to a fast trot and I think perhaps I can tell her more.
"I've been looking in the local paper and I have found three or four houses that I like the sound of. The rent is cheap and two of them have bills included... They are all quite close to here, so if you ever need me I can come straight round." I pause for a second and wait for a reaction. Any reaction would be good, but she continues to ignore me. Either that or she is conjuring up a response. I continue, "I know that you like having me around, but I need to face the fact that I am twenty years old and I have never been on a date and-"
"Don't know why," She says. "It's not like your ugly, son. The girls must be lovin' you."
I almost laugh, but stop myself. My mother has always had a way with words and she seems to come up with the best of the worst lines. I take it as both a compliment and a flag that she isn't entirely against the idea.
"I think the reason I have never had a girlfriend is more to do with the fact that-"
"Well," She cuts in. "I think it's a great idea. Will be nice to have the place to myself, I think."
I smile and lean over the table to grab her hand. "Really? You don't mind at all? I know I don't earn thousands, but my job at the shop will cover my rent and I'll just take on some extra hours for extras."
She places her other hand on top of mine. "If it's what you want, go for it son. Don't let an old silly woman like me stop you. I'm fine, don't worry about me. Your father might be gone but I will get strong again, it'll just take some time that's all."
And in that moment, my familiar, loving, do-anything-for-anyone mother was back, if only for a brief moment. I take a few seconds to take a really good look at her. She is not old in years, but old in the face, and I hadn't noticed it up until now. Her eyes are sunken and shrivelled from months of crying and not keeping up with her ritualistic skin routine. What once was a soft, inviting face has turned harsh and lacks any real colour. Her mouth has not seen lipstick in seven months and the corners are dry, and, as she opens her mouth and breathes out, I am surprised to notice her breath smells and her teeth are yellowing. But I decide not to tell her as it might spoil her good mood.

As I climb into bed and turn off my lamp, I stare up at the ceiling and run over the conversation from dinner. I saw something in my mother tonight, something indicating that she might be coming out of the darkness. I hope I am right.
It is taking a long time to fall asleep tonight, my mind is spinning with too many ideas for my new house. Should I buy brand new furniture, or save money and buy second hand? Deciding on a neutral wallpaper should be one of my first priorities; I can't stand wacky patterns. Or maybe I should just go all out and embrace my inner child and paint the walls myself... I could splash some paint on and it would save a fortune on paying some random guy to hang paper in every room. I wonder which house I will prefer, I think I will phone the landlord of the one two roads away first, and hopefully if I get that one I will still be close to home. Home. Christ, this is still my home and I don't know if I ever will stop calling it that. My childhood home and my new home, that sounds about right.
"Why?"
I open my eyes and sit up. Did I just imagine my mothers voice?
"Why did you leave? How could you do this to me?"
No I wasn't imagining. I can hear her now in her bedroom. She is whispering, but the walls are as thin as paper and I can just about make out her words.
"Oh God, please come back to me. I don't want to be alone."
I cover my mouth and silently cry, letting the tears roll down my knuckles. This is the first time I have cried since my father left. My mothers words cut like a knife, leaving me overwhelmed and I feel helpless to say the least. I ball my fists and knock them lightly against my forehead over and over again. That poor woman. Husband walks out and now her only son is leaving, too. What kind of a person am I? This is not the person I am. I can't leave her like this.
Guilt creeps up from deep within and settles somewhere near my ear. The Angel on my shoulder is telling me to stay and care for my one remaining parent until she has grieved properly for her loss. I like the Angel, her voice is quiet and friendly. She understands my fears and doesn't judge. Her tone tells me it is the right thing to do.
'Don't listen,' the Devil hisses. He is perched on my other shoulder, his claws pierce my skin. 'You have to go. Your life is your own, and your mother is beyond help. If you stay, you will never leave. Do it and you won't regret a second. I promise.'
I do wish he wouldn't creep up on me like that.

Author's Note

I am looking for you lovely people to give me some feedback on my first chapter. I may or may not have an idea where this is going, but what I'm looking for is some criticism. Mainly on writing style (not so much spelling) THANK YOU!

Reviews

[PattiF]

I like your writing style and I like the story. In fact while I'm sitting here, I just realized how tense I am reading about the build up to his telling his Mom. Importantly, I really like the main character cause he actually reminds me of me. I had a very similiar situation in my life. But you can tell what a sweet person he really is and how much he loves his Mom and hates to see her so sad and lost. But it makes my heart ache to see his taking the burden of his Mom on his shoulders and it makes me a little angry at her. I know how terribly hard now it would be for him to leave but I hope he does. In this piece, I have now become emotionally invested in all your characters, even his father who left not only his mother but him as well and he is still thinking only about how his Mom. The story about how they met also showed me right away that his father was his mother's savior from day one and maybe she became too dependent on him which may have been why he left. Having someone that dependent on you will eventually become a burden over time. But now I'm afraid that her son is stepping in and taking on that burden and he shouldn't have to and that's why I feel angry at his Mom and desperate for him. I like your story a lot. You have good writing skill especially in your ability to define your characters in a short period of time and get the reader invested in their lives. That's what will keep them reading further. I know I will. Good job.

[Gee]

Welcome wee puppy to the cafe. Will review poems if you post but having the attention span of a cabbage white butterfly stories are beyond me. I hope you enjoy the place as much as I have over the past 4 years.