| flashquake's Third Place for Fiction goes to: Saying Sorry  |
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Okay, I admit it. I was ashamed of you. I admit it, that the way you looked bothered me. Everywhere I went, there you were, making life difficult. I saw the look on their faces. You were my mother. You cared for me, and I was grateful. In a child's way, I loved you. A love born of dependence, embarrassment, pity. Could you help it if you made people stare? Could I help it if my stomach tightened, if my hands went clammy, if the prickles of shame at how you appeared stung me? I never wanted those feelings. I wanted for you to love me and I to love you - no disgrace, no pity. Okay. I know it. You neglected yourself so that I could have - everything. You never had clothes, just stuff from the thrift shop grabbed in a hurry; hats, skirts, those scarves you wore, hoping to disguise poverty. They never disguised anything. There were lines on your face, different from other mothers. And you muttered aloud sometimes, as if the stress of living had become too much for you. I'd wear sackcloth and ashes, if it would do any good. I'd fall to my knees, beg your forgiveness. If you could still see me. I admit I was there that day. Having fun, drinking coke, hanging out with the in-crowd. I wanted to forget the way people laughed. Wanted to be someone else, not the daughter of that weird woman - the centre of your life, the thing you cared about most in the whole world. I could never ask friends home. And so I sat in the café that day. pretending I was not attached to anyone. But you would spoil it, wouldn't you? When you walked by, everyone stared, everyone giggled. "There goes your Mum, Fran," somebody said. I froze. I burned. Shame fought in me against daughterly loyalty. What could I do? What could I possibly do to survive that moment? "Ah, but that's where you're wrong," I said. "That's where you're totally mistaken." "Wrong? She is your Mum. Don't pretend, Fran. She's batty, isn't she? And you'll be the same. Once you're grown up!" They hooted. They jeered. "Yeah, you'll be the same, when you grow up!" "Well, that's not possible," I shouted back at them. "You see, I'm adopted. You don't think my real mother would talk to herself! You don't think my real mother would look like a bag lady. My real mother died, and that woman — that woman..." Just then, you caught sight of me through the café window. Your face brightened. Like the sun coming out on a grey spring morning. You began to wave. You began to call something. But for the first time in my life, I stared right back at you, without even a smile. My eyes met yours. Without love. Without affection. As icy as the iciest wastes of the northern poles. And the worst of it was, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. Except secret joy. No one spoke a word for a minute or two. And then I turned to them, laughing. "You see? She's nothing to do with me. Nothing at all. She's just a woman, who looks after me. For the time being." "You didn't see me, today," you said, when I arrived back at the end of the afternoon. "No. I don't think I did," I replied. But we both knew, didn't we? And now I want to say I never meant to hurt you; I was too much of a child to understand. But all I can do is bring freesias, your favourites, and lay them down where your head would be, and whisper, "Sorry. Sorry." |
© 2001 by Maggie Mountford |