Mother’s Disguise

Mother was good at keeping things inside; I hadn’t noticed until the last couple of months, when her mouth always remained slightly curved up, and her hands always rested calmly on her lap, as if in a collected embrace. She was a master of disguise, and could make us children feel like fools for ever assuming she was anything short of joyous.

     “How are you feeling, Ma?” My little brother Jackson asked over breakfast--he was the polite sort, the kind of boy you want around when you're sick. 

     “I’m doing well,” Mother answered, her cheeks caving in with dimples. “It’s a beautiful day out.” She motioned to the window. 

     I glanced over, after taking a bite of scrambled eggs. It was a beautiful day, I can confirm; the sun was shining on the window glass in golden rays of bliss, making it warm enough to leave for school without a jacket. But--I wasn’t concerned about the weather.

     “Are you sure you want us to go today?” I wondered, poking the rest of my eggs--losing some motivation. 

     “Of course,” Mother smiled, and she took Jackson’s plate(he had already eagerly finished off his meal similar to how a dog does his dinner) to the sink. “I wouldn’t want you boys missing more lessons--it’s already been three days.”

     I nodded; but, really, I was uncertain if I could handle school again. Being at home for so long had reminded me how much stress education entailed; and how badly I let peers influence my internal life. It had been freeing to lounge around at home in a pair of boxers and an apple juice box always at hand--without worrying about what Sally Gerkwin thought of my hair or composure. 

      Jackson looked slightly concerned as well, and I’ll admit--that morning we both engaged in an abundance of selfishness. 

     “Are you positive you won’t need anyone to make lunch for you?” I arched an eyebrow. “I think we should stay for a couple more days, at least.”

     “I assure you I am doing well, Oliver. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

     “I can ask my teachers to send me worksheets by email,” I said, Jackson looking at me with encouragement all the while. “I’m sure Jackson’s could do the same.” 

     “We wouldn’t want to inconvenience them, would we?” Mother asked, thoughtfully--with a bit of humor in her tone.

     “No, but--”

     “But--I really do think you should be getting to school now, you boys don’t want to be late.”

     I thought about this breakfast while sitting there, waiting with Mother and Jackson for her name to be called. I thought about this and many other things; the dinner when Mother had told us about the appointment, the afternoon Father had called us and asked about her well being… I wanted more than anything to expand my hand to the glass table, a reach away--to grasp hold of one of the National Geographic magazines. But, it would have been rude, and I felt I would be betraying the oath of silence my family and I had suddenly engaged in. 

     Jackson sat, staring at his shoes (dirty, meant to be white but now browned Converse), and Mother, smoothing over her jeans time and time again while glancing at the clock in intervals. I decided to focus my attention on the front desk. A pretty woman sat, somewhat hunched in a chair, filling out some paperwork. I assumed she didn’t like her job; who likes waiting rooms, who likes officiating them? I caught sight of her eyes a couple of times--a nice shade of honey--and attempted to smile. She didn’t engage. 

     It’s moments like these--watching that desk lady--that you think you’ll forget; but eventually, end up remembering quite well. I remember the smooth surface of that glass table, and almost every magazine atop it. I remember the carpet of the place, a dark blue, and how it was stained in a couple places. I remember the Dracaena to the side of me, giving us air to breathe (but not doing a very good job--I also remember suffocating within myself). I remember the ceiling light, and how it was nauseating and so different from the warm color of our living room lamp at home. I remember the way I dressed that day--a buckled down long sleeve navy shirt with black jeans a little too tight for my liking. And I remember how Mother dressed, too; a white blouse with lace trim, tucked into a pair of blue jeans. And of course, Jackson; grey tee-shirt with a picture of a Christmas Elf on it (it wasn’t even Christmas or around Christmas--weird, how Jackson’s mind worked) with grey sweats. Essentially, he looked as if he had dressed for bed, and Mother and I like we had dressed for a dinner party.

     But out of all these things, what I remember most, what I remember without an ounce of effort--are the words. 

     “Tabatha Green.”

      They came, a sudden blast, from a doctor’s assistant who entered the room. “Dr. Jenning is ready for you.”

      And up Mother went, like a strike of lightning, suddenly losing all sense of calmness or harmony. She looked back at us, her eyes frantic, and told us she’d be back soon. 

     Those minutes went by as slowly as time can go, as slowly as any Science test or movie you don’t want to see moves in time. 

     We were stuck in some universe where every second was a minute, and every minute an hour. My head swam with almost every memory of Mother, and I prayed to every God I knew, for those memories to not be all I would have left of her. 

      Jackson was a comfort, as much as an eight year old could be, and I restored to asking him questions about English--the test he was taking the following day was difficult, Mother had left it to me to assist in his studying. 

     “What’s the difference between a simile and a metaphor?”

     “Uh--one of them is better than the other?”

     “What’s an example of a metaphor?” 

     My heart throbbed with every question, and most of the time I didn’t bother to explain an answer or pause to listen to his own. 

Then, all at once--after what felt like two hours but was in reality only half of one, Mother came out, her face red and irritated by tears. I stood up slowly, not being able to find my land legs at first. 

     She pulled Jackson and I into a hug, and led us outside, still silent as could be. I waited. I waited for a long time. I waited until we were pulling out of the parking lot. 

     “What did the doctor say?”

     Jackson and I both watched her stone face in dreadful anticipation. 

     “Two months,” she replied.