WARNING: This story contains adult content
Chapter Three: Is reuniting with Mother the task I must perform?
Chapter Four
I examine my surroundings and realize I’m in a lecture hall. All the students are draped over their desks as if they want to get as close as possible to the lecturer. Who has captured their attention?
Though time has changed her, I would recognize her anywhere. Mother.
Blah, blah, blah. On she drones, but the young minds sucked it up like sweet honey.
Now she’s at the bedside of an elderly woman. Starry-eyed, her patient rests easy in her care.
Accompanying her from one adoring patient to another is a small clutch of students. They hang on her every word.
I follow Mother down a long corridor to her sterile office. There waiting for her is a pile of paperwork. She attacks the mound—document after document.
I didn’t notice it before, but there’s a ring on her finger. How did I overlook it? The diamond is enormous. I guess she’s remarried.
I scan the room and am immediately drawn to a group of photographs decorating a feature wall. There’s one of Mother and her latest victim on their wedding day. It’s a garden shot. The ancient bride and groom have turned to face each other. He towers over her. They look like a couple of sideshow freaks. I wonder if it’s just for the camera, or if they truly mean all they are saying with their eyes.
The other pictures feature three women as they graduate from university, then marry. The final photo is larger than the rest and includes the entire family. The subjects range in age from toddler to senior. Everyone is carefully arranged on a large wooden deck of a summer cabin. Front and center are Mother and the poor old guy. Clearly Mother is now reaping the benefit of another mother’s devotion.
Someone knocks.
“Yes,” Mother calls without looking up from her paperwork.
The door opens a crack, and a youngish woman fills the gap. “Excuse me, Ms. McNamara. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”
Mother beams at the woman. “Of course, I do. Well, hello…”
“I was one of your students,” the woman supplies. “Joy—”
“Of course, Joyce Givings.”
“Bridgeweight.”
“Of course, Joyce Bridgeweight.”
“Well, Lam now.”
“Class of ’99.”
“2007,” Joyce corrects yet again.
It’s clear Mother doesn’t remember this woman.
“Joyce. Please, do come in.”
Firmly, in one hand, Joyce grips a baby carrier.
Mother peeks in. “Who’s this?”
“This is Hannah.”
Mother pats a chubby little hand. “Well, hello, Hannah.”
Baby Hannah responds with a yawn. Apparently, Mother’s charms do have their limits.
“I named her after you.”
“Well, I’m… I’m honoured.”
My visit isn’t over. Mother slips into the leather driver seat of a red convertible Mustang. It’s a cloudless autumn day; she drives with the top down. The car turns onto a long driveway. At the end of this tree-lined lane stands an architect’s masterpiece. The house—should I call it a mansion—dominates the land.
Young elementary-aged children—three boys and four girls—run all over the manicured lawn. The appearance of the car gives their running direction. “Grandma Hannah,” they cheer.
Car parked and vacated, she bends to greet the children, and they run into her arms. There's much smiling and even giggling.
Merrily, the group parades into the house.
“Grandma’s home, Grandma’s home,” the children sing to a gaggle of adults.
One of the adults—the poor, old guy, her new husband—is the first to greet her. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you.” He wears a buttoned-down, baby-blue shirt and beige trousers. His hair is snow-white, and he sports a well-groomed mustache. He draws her close, and they share a kiss.
“Oh, you two are such lovebirds,” one of the younger women coos.
Oh, look! She’s pregnant.
Mother rubs the swollen tummy. “How are you feeling, dear?”
“Oh, much better. Thank you for your advice.”
They share a smile.
Oh, how sweet. I’ve seen enough.
Mother appears to have changed. She’s mellowed, retracted her claws, and no longer sharpens her fangs by gnawing on young flesh. Her life is full, happy, successful. Well, hurray for her. It makes me sick.
There isn’t a scrap of evidence of Dad’s and my existence. No pictures in her office or anywhere in her house. I wonder if she’s ever even uttered our names. Does she even think about us? She didn’t mourn. She moved on.
Sunday, November 16 at approximately 4:40 PM PT
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