My Mother's Son: Chapter 13
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The world is dark and grey today, even despite the glorious sunshine
beaming
down overhead. The provocative clothing usually worn with sass by the
underlings
in the neighbourhood have been put away, replaced with morbid blacks
and
browns. Everybody is dressing the way I feel, only without the anger.
A young lady passes by as I sit on a bench across from the restaurant where my mother works. She stops momentarily, looks up to the bus routes on the metal plaque on the telephone pole, then sits. Tall and rather busty, I can imagine she has just gotten off work, probably from one of the strip joints that line the streets in this area. Twenty years ago she could have been my mother. She looks towards me, "You don't have an extra cigarette?" I turn away, "I don't smoke." "Do you know when the next bus is coming?" "The 90 should be around soon." "Thanks." I know I should leave it go at that, but her resemblance to my mother draws me to her. I wonder if she has a child too. If she does, I wonder if she loves it, or just pretends like my mother so often did. "Can I ask you a question?" I demand. "Maybe," she answers cautiously. "Do you have a baby?" Her face turns to disgust, "What is that any of your business?" "I was just asking," I retreat, but want so desperately to continue. "You know, I bet you work just around the corner, at Clube Sexe or one of those filth holes." "Excuse me?" she yells, then stands. "You'll regret it," I warn her. "Your child will grow up to hate you." "For your information," she snarls. "I work at a law office downtown. And who the fuck are you to tell me anything? You're nothing but a goddamned junkie." She storms off into towards the metro station. As I watch her cross St-Jacques, I realize that I've done it again. I've judged a book by its cover. I assumed that just because she dresses like a whore, she must be one. I assumed the same thing about my mother once. I assumed it for years until the night I learned about her rape. But just like everything else she's ever told me, even that was a lie. Coming to the bench where I now sit, I was in a state past anger, even past rage. That indescribable place where everything turns to black, and all consciousness is lost. That place where the mind narrows to just one thought, reaping revenge. I had to convince myself that what my mother did was not that bad. I know full well that the lie was despicable, but I had to calm myself to a point where I could function, I had to lie to myself. That's the one thing I hate doing, lying to myself. Score another one for my mother. On top of getting me to believe her fucking lie, she made me break one of my own cardinal rules. I actually lied to myself. I stare across the street into the restaurant. On the assumption that things in my mother's life never change, which is a very safe one, she will be off work today at 3pm. She works every Monday, Wednesday & Friday, just enough to get her out of the house so Gary doesn't beat her for being lazy. I've been told that she's a good waitress, something I refuse to believe. Now more than ever, I am convinced that she does her best work on her back. I am not sure how I will react to seeing my mother. I can't even venture a guess. And to think about it now only wastes anger that I could be using against her. Something is stirring outside the restaurant. The door slowly opens and a leg appears outside, then stalls. Another leg then appears, followed by a body. Looking towards the face, it's my mother. This is the first time I've seen her since the day in the hospital when she stood idol as the nurse injected me full of sleeping medication. She just stood there, watching as the nurse sedated her only child, the child who she went through a "rape" for. I laugh at that thought now. Laughter may not be the appropriate response, but it's the only thing I can do from tearing into a rage and killing everyone in my path. She walks down the street and waits by the crosswalk. If she takes the way home that she usually does, I should be able to cut her off in a small alley a few steps from the apartment building. I spring off the bench and walk down the grassy knoll beside the metro station. I try to move as quickly as I can, though my physical weakness limits me to a slow jog. Crossing the cobblestone street leading past the alley, I hide behind an empty garbage dumpster in wait. The sound of high heels click closer and closer towards me. Dear mother, how predictable can you be? Without a fresh idea in your teased- bleach blond head, you even take the predictable way home from work. Mistake. Big mistake. Click. Click. Click. As the sound nears, I clench my fists in sheer hatred. The sound takes me back to my childhood. Every morning. Click. Click. Click. The sound of her high-heels across the kitchen floor as she threw together some slops for my school lunch. Most days I threw the meal out, opting instead for the crumbs that sympathetic students would offer. The sound passes me. It's now or never. "Mother," I deadpan. "Dear mother." She stops dead. She is as lifeless as a prostitute with a necropheliac, a position she has no doubt been in. She slowly turns, probably hoping that the call was just her imagination. "You're not dreaming, Mother," I bring her back to reality. "This is very much real." As she faces me, her expression turns to fear. It's absolutely priceless. Where's a camera when you need it? "Leave me alone!" she screams. "I'll call the cops." "Why," I smile. "I just wanted to have a friendly little talk with you. Let you in on what's going on. Maybe you could tell me how Gary's doing. Did I scare him last night?" I move towards her, trying to bridge the cap between us. She responds by backing up, trying to keep the bridge wide open. "How did you get out of the hospital?" she asks, moving towards a bench adjacent to the alley. She sits. "I snuck out. Amazing how lax security is there," I smile. "Hey, you wanna see something?" "Please... don't hurt me," she begs. "I'm not going to hurt you," I lie. "But I do have something to show you." I pull up my shirt to reveal the battle zone that is my chest and stomach. She tries to turn away, but a morbid fascination draws her closer. "See what Gary did to me? Yes mother, Gary did this. It was not caused by me falling down the steps, it was cause by Gary kicking me until I passed out," I point towards my chest. "This is where they put the broken ribs back together, this is where I has internal bleeding, and this," I point to my mutilated belly button, "This is where I was once attached to you." She looks towards the ground. "Can't you even look at what he did?" She tries to change the subject, "Where are you staying. You and Gary, last night." "That's not important," I smile, trying not to give into the anger that flows through my veins thick like oil. "I'm happy where I am." "That's good," she stands. "Now you can leave us alone to be happy." "Sit back down," I order. She obeys. "You know, yesterday when I was in the apartment, I immediately went to my room. But my things weren’t there. All of my stuff was in the closet. Are you trying to get rid of me, dear mother?" "That was Gary's idea," she confesses. "I wanted to wait, but he said we could turn it into a nursery for the baby. I thought it was a good idea. Besides, you're not coming back, what’s the point in waiting?" "There was no point," I look towards the sky. "I just hope that baby gets a better chance than I had." "I'm going to raise this baby right." "I certainly hope so. But I guess that means no more whoring around." She looks to me with disgust, "I do not whore myself around." "Yes you do," I inform her. "I know." "Know what?" "I know mother, I know. You see, when my secret money stash was gone, I went looking in your room for the old coins you used to keep stashed. What I found instead was a box of old pictures." "You had no right to go through my stuff!" she snaps. "Stay the hell away from the apartment. I'm going now." I push her back down onto the bench, "I don't think so." She reaches into her purse and pulls out her cell phone. As quickly as she can, she dials 9-1... I grab the phone and throw it to the ground. "You're going to hear me out, even if it kills you." She glares at me, but relaxes back into the bench. "Some of those old pictures were actually quite touching. There was one of us at Mt. Royal, I think. We were having a picnic. You were smiling and I looked happy. That's when I realized that it couldn't have all been bad." "I remember that day," she waxes. "It was so much fun. You, me and grandma. After that we went out to a baseball game. We had so much fun. I only wish everyday could have been like that." "But it wasn't," I contest. "It certainly wasn't." "It wasn't the inferno you make it out to be." "Once mom, I might have believed that, but not anymore. Not after today." "Well what happened? Just get on with it. Gary will be wondering where I am." "Oh fuck Gary," I yell. "Jesus Christ mom, just fuck him." "Just..." she motions with her hands. "Continue." "Well, that wasn't the only picture that caught my attention. So today I took that picture and investigated a bit." "What picture was that," she looks curious. "You know what fucking picture it was," I spit. "You goddamn well know." She looks to the ground, "I don't know what you're talking about." "Don't play the innocence card," I feel the anger building, "I know, mother. I went to Somerled Avenue today and I met the wife of Mr. Joseph Laroche. Does that name ring a bell?" She looks up, tears welling in her eyes, "I can't believe you did that to me." The anger intensifies, "And I can't believe you fucking lied to me! Of anything," I take a breath to calm myself, "you could have lied to me about, this was the one thing, mother. The one thing you shouldn't have lied about." She swallows, "What's done is done. I can't go back and change it." "And that's all you have to say for yourself," I grab her. "Not one once of fucking remorse. You're some mother." She stands, "What do you want from me? An apology? I won‘t apologize." Tears collect in my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of rage. "Why did you lie to me?" I demand. "Why?" she pauses to collect an answer, "I was ashamed of what happened. I had an affair 18 years ago. I was ashamed. Do you understand that?" I clench my fists, "So you put it on me?" my voice is strained. "You put all of your shame on me? What kind of a mother does that?" She turns to walk away. "I want to leave you with something," I yell. "After you told me about your "rape" that night, I nearly killed myself because I was so ashamed that I was the product of the worst night of your life. I nearly killed myself because of a lie. What kind of a mother puts their child through that?" She turns, tears streaming from her face. "What kind of a child puts their mother through this?" She storms off into the apartment building. I lay down and stretch my body out on the bench. I try to calm myself from the anger that threatens to engulf me. I ponder the limits of humans. How much suffering can one human truly withstand? Surely I have reached my limit over the past week. Physically, I have been ground into an indiscernible mess, unable to even carry myself for days. Pain so bad that I nearly passed out, and a few times I did. I have bruises and cuts, scrapes and breaks. I am at the lowest point physically that I have ever been. But physical pain is intangible in a way. One can say it hurts, but a few minutes after the pain has subsided, it is nearly impossible to imagine the pain again without re-inflicting it. But mental pain is different. Instead of healing in a few days or a week, it often drags out for years, sometimes decades. And it never fully leaves. One never forgets it. The thoughts that cause the pain can be buried deep, but at any time, triggered by anything, they can suddenly spring back up, driving deep into the sanity of the victim. I am suffering both right now, the mental and the physical. Sure, my cuts will heal, but what my mother's done to me, that will be with me forever. Every time I think of her, the lie will be there and it will take back me all over again to relive every rotten, sinking moment. Now, I will never be free. |