Pot Plants and Self-Help Books

It is here in a lamplit living room, surrounded by pot plants and self-help books, where we meet our protagonist, Marta. She sits in a cloud of cigarette smoke, ashing it every few tokes in a red metal tray painted with gold elephants. Her daughter brought it back from Thailand—another toke of her cigarette—and, as always, had thought of her. Thank goodness someone does, otherwise she might go mad; no amount of pot plants and self-help books can compensate for a child’s love. They do, however, silence the scream of solitude for a while.

She grew that Chinese evergreen from a seed, she raised that monstera for three years, and she was delighted when her baby photos climbed from their pots, their long, green arms reaching for the ground; this is the refuge she’s made for herself, as advised by one of her scruffy and dog-eared books that champions creating an environment conducive to healing.

Marta hovers on the edge of the couch, her elbows on her knees, leaning towards the television; the cigarette sits upright and obedient between her fingers as she makes two fists. The thud of the tennis ball pervades the living room—the rally beating like a heart—and yes! the applause shakes the silence, shakes the speakers on the TV cabinet. Marta’s cigarette crumples slightly, peering out from her closed fist, and her eyes sparkle beneath the white light of the television, her heart thumps. This Alcazar is just a kid, really; he’s just a kid, our kid. I mean, Marta was born here, too. And if Carlitos can do it, that means any of them could have done it. Could have. She shudders at the thought, at the phrasing.

There’s so much promise in youth, and it’s as palpable as the glass Marta raises to her lips, the beer that cools her throat; the promise of youth is as tangible as the Chinese evergreen leaves bobbing beneath the fan. This promise makes us believe in the fruition of dreams, and yet it reminds us that we gave up on our own; it reminds us of our own eroded hope, our own eroding youth, and the universal excuse: we never stood a chance in this tempest we call life. But then we see a nobody like us become a somebody; and it is then, when that nobody plucks themselves from obscurity, that we know we’ve lied to ourselves.

Another kiss of beer, a stain of lipstick on the cup’s lip.

Marta forgives herself for all the things she hasn’t done, for all the things she hasn’t become. Motherhood, after all, is the biggest accomplishment of her life: all twenty-five years of it.

“Mum.”

Marta pauses the television as her son comes trudging down the hallway.

“Where are your car keys? I’m taking Nora home.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Petrol.”

“They’re in my bag,” she says, nodding towards the dining table.

Alex rummages through his mother’s bag and finds the jangle of keys.

“Hi,” says Nora, emerging from the hallway. She waves at Marta with a timid enthusiasm.

“Hello,” says Marta, smiling.

Nora doesn’t usually see Marta leant over like this, elbows on her knees. It isn’t her usual posture: a leg draped over the other, a languid agility, a catlike sway in her wrists, shoulders, hips. She looks to the television for an explanation: a static Alcaraz holding up his racket.

“You’re watching the tennis!” says Nora, grinning.

“The kid’s only twenty,” says Marta.

“I know!”

“We’ve got to go,” says Alex. He’s already by the door, waiting with a mask of patience that contradicts his words.

“Bye,” says Nora, with a smile and a shrug.

“Get home safely.”

The door closes behind them, and Marta takes another pull of her cigarette, another sip of beer. She thinks she likes Nora; she’s always smiling, and giggles trickle out from the bedroom from time to time. To Marta’s surprise, so too does her son’s laughter. He doesn’t laugh around her, not anymore, not for a long time; and all her attempts at joviality are either met with a curled lip and derision, incomprehension, or at best indifference. She feels that she’s slowly been conditioned out of her humour, out of her happiness. Does Nora even know her son?

There have been a few times where Nora hasn’t understood one of her jokes—I’m sorry, I didn’t get that—and Alex has laughed, neither do I! Nora smiles apologetically and says it’s due to the language barrier; and when Marta explains, she understands, while her very own son shakes his head.

Alex is a lot like his father, Marta thinks, who also belittled her when in company, and now that hijo de puta was taking her to cou—She shakes off the thought, and inhales deeply. What you think is what you feel, says one of her books.

She ashes her cigarette in the red tray and stares into the golden elephants, their curled trunks. Her daughter likes Nora, too; she’d seen a happiness there, a playfulness.

Marta sees more. She can’t remember when it was exactly—an afternoon lunch, perhaps—when she saw a familiar sparkle in her eyes, that promise of youth. You gave up on your dreams, said Nora, but your dreams never gave up on you. They keep popping up, don’t they? And we repress them. Her conviction was palpable, as palpable as the glass Marta raises to her lips, the beer that cools her throat; the promise of youth that she saw in Nora was as tangible as the Chinese evergreen leaves bobbing beneath the fan. Nora, she feels, is a lot like her, and not at all like her son.

***

A key turns in the door, and Alex enters the lamplit living room with a familiar scowl. He trudges towards the dining table, drops Marta’s keys back in her bag, and enters the kitchen.

She hears the fridge open, and the clank of cans; she hears the thump of a cabinet door, the crackling of plastic.

“Don’t drink too much,” she calls, pausing the television.

Alex emerges from the kitchen, a six-pack of beer and a bag of chips cradled in his arms.

“You’re a hypocrite and an alcoholic,” he snaps, before shaking his head and storming off. There’s something safe about his mother’s unconditional love, about taking her for granted and punishing her for all the things she hasn’t done right.

Marta hears his bedroom door close, hears the click and fizzle of a can being opened. She glances around the room, her refuge, the photos hanging from their pots; and she knows, as surely as she knows the void, that no amount of pot plants and self-help books can compensate for a child’s love; nor can they silence the solitude that screams a little louder in her son’s presence.

She presses play, but she can’t see the rackets or the court, she can’t hear the applause, she can’t feel the promise.

Another kiss of beer.

She knows Alex will continue punishing her for the rest of her life. She’s the reason he’s like this, he says, and instead of doing anything to change his life, he chooses to dwell in his victimhood. There’s no sparkle there, no promise of youth; just the dull, empty eyes of her darling son. And it is here in a lamplit living room, surrounded by pot plants and self-help books, where we leave our protagonist to her thoughts.