Mother

A Story by Penny Lane

And there he was…going, going.

And then, there he wasn’t….Gone.

It all started with the tiny bag in the sock drawer, those little leaves. Looking so innocent she left it there, put the fresh-smelling socks, rolled into neat little balls, on top. Just a stage, a stage she thought.

And then it was the next tiny bag, in the pocket; she found it in the dirty laundry. Housed in that pocket with a handful of pennies and a dime, was the bag, the pure whiteness gleaming back at her; What’re you going to do now? A stage, this too would pass.

And then there were the bruises. Black eye, broken jaw. These she took care of, brought him to the doctor, talked to the principal. Was there a history? No, no. We recommend taking further action, therapy…No, no. He was a good boy, he was her boy.

And then the arrest. The fines, the phone calls. The camp out in Colorado, the silence of the house, the nights of wondering. Did he bring his winter jacket? Did they supply those things? In the morning, it was in the closet. With his hat, gloves…everything of him still here, what did he have there? Where was home, if it was all left behind?

But then he was back, and then…

And then all over again. More tiny bags, a broken mirror. Outbursts. What’re you going to do now? What are YOU going to do?

And then…

There she was. And there he was. “Billy…Billy, please,” Try. She tried, he didn’t try, had he ever? Had she…

His hand, coarse and callused, rose up. With a flash it had passed by, swirling her neck on its hinge, when she turned the hand was by his side again, calluses hidden. Eyes wide. Her hand, small and soft, went to the sting. Feeling the pulsing. Moving her tongue, checking if her heart was really there, in her cheek. She couldn’t feel it in her chest anymore.

And then it was all over. The boy’s father took him, took him away, but not for himself. The boy was going somewhere else, somewhere that was not home. The car was pulling away, but she needed, had to…

She took the jacket, the gloves, and the hat from the closet, running to the car. What’re you going to do NOW? But it was driving away, it was going, going, she couldn’t reach it…couldn’t reach him.

Gone.

Back into the house. Dropped his things on the floor. The stinging remained, had never left. It spread throughout her body, to her toes, and she pulsed, pulsed all over, until she felt as if her heart would explode out of her skin, just one beating heart, until it grew and grew and then the walls would crack and break, explode, and there would be no more home.