I step further into the room, feeling the silence wrap around us. “I brought you some food,” I say, forcing a smile that I know she can’t see.
Her back remains turned, motionless, and it’s only when I sit beside her, that she finally glances over. The first thing I notice is her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes, once so full of light and love, have gone completely dim, the shadows beneath them darker than I remember, like smudges of exhaustion that only seemed to grow angrier.How could I not have done better?
It’s as if a part of my own heart has shattered alongside hers.
All I want to do is hold her, to wrap her in something warm and remind her she isn’t alone, that she will never be alone again. But something about the dead look in her eyes pulls me out of whatever fantasy world I’m currently in. Because looking at her, I can see that nothing I can do will reach her, nothing I can do will bring her back from where she’s drifted.
She is in so much pain, and it hurts my heart to see her like this. A deep ache for the woman who has been such a big part of my life.
And although my mother and I were never so close, I loved her with every bit of myself. Maybe too much. Because the more I loved, the more I hurt, as if my heart was breaking from carrying too much pain.
Love calls for sacrifice.
I brush off whatever guilt is slithering into my heart and force a smile when I hand her the tray with a stack of fluffy pancakes. “I bought your favourite,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. I’ve taken extra care, arranging the chocolate chips in a little smiley face on top of the pancakes. It’s silly, childish even, but it’s all I could think to do.
For a flicker of a moment, her gaze shifts to the plate, and there’s something there—a faint hint of surprise that almost lifts the sadness from her face. It’s a small victory, enough to make me think maybe, just maybe, this might help. But I shut those thoughts down quickly, almost annoyed at myself for hoping. It has never worked, it just ends in disappointment.
I watch her with full intensity as her fingers trace the smiley face on the pancake. Her smile is barely there, fragile, and I latch onto it, even knowing it won’t last.
I swallow, clearing my throat. “Um, I know you didn’t ask, but Naomi, Sam and I were invited to a new school. A really cool one too. But don’t worry, a nice man offered to pay for everything,” I reassure her, and myself.
Her eyes remain on the plate, but I swear I see the shadow of a smile on her lips. “I’m still working of course, but this school will be good for us,” I say.
I decide not to mention that the “nice man” knew our father. She’s already in enough pain.
She finally looks up, meeting my eyes, and her voice is so soft I almost miss it. “Be careful, Mason.”
I’m so stunned to hear her speak, I don’t immediately process what she said. But the moment I do, my heart sinks, a sudden, cold ache spreading through me. She’s looking at me with such seriousness, like she’s truly seeing Mason, not me.
I manage a quiet, “Mum,” but my voice falters. She’s still staring right at me, but it’s like I’m not here at all. She’s gone somewhere I can’t reach.
“It’s not Mason, Mum. It’s me, Adeline,” I say, my voice soft, barely more than a whisper. I wait, holding my breath, hoping for some flicker of recognition in her eyes, for her to finally see me. But there’s nothing. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t even move. I stay there, waiting longer than I probably should, my heart clinging to the hope that maybe, just maybe, she’ll say something. Anything.
It’s funny… I’ve waited so long for her to speak, but when she finally does, it isn’t my name she says. It isn’t me she sees.
It’s him.
Always him.
I decide it’s best for me to keep the rest of my dignity intact. So, swallowing the thick, bitter feeling that’s gathered in my throat, I get up without another word, forcing my feet to carry me out. I feel the sting of tears pressing against the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
And I don’t look back. I don’t dare.
***
“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I mutter under my breath, internally smacking myself in the face as I bolt out the door. I’m late. So late.
Rick is going to chew me up and spit me out. I pray, silently, that today isn’t one of his temper tantrums.
Yikes…
I don’t think I’ve ever run this fast in my life. I practically fly down the street, my worn-out Converse slapping against the pavement. These shoes have more holes than I can count, they’re really on their last legs at this point. In their current state, they really aren’t for running, and I must look like a total lunatic, darting past strangers who shoot me very puzzled looks and stare like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have. Who sprints in shoes like these, anyway? And in the dead of winter?
Something tells me I will suffer deeply when the snow finally starts to fall.
But it’s not like I have any choice. When everything started to fall apart after our dad died, we sold a lot. Including most of our shoes, andallof mine.
Thanks Naomi.
