"Mrs. Welmarsh's Parlor

“Ezekiel, Ezekiel, get in here! I need you right now! It’s an emergency!” a voice shrieked, tearing Izzy out of his dreams. 

He bolted upright, unruly hair matted to the side of his head, and at once the calm sleep brought him dissipated like smoke in a breeze. He scrambled off of his bed and dug through his clothes for something decent to wear while she screamed and shouted at him. He knew that she didn’t mean to be cruel, that she was only being stern to help him, but he could not help the way his body racked with fear as her volume grew louder and louder. 

“Ezekiel, you hoggish boy! Laying around while I’m in pain! While your mother is in agony you are lazing about! Is my ailment not enough to concern you?” she howled from behind her bedroom door. 

Izzy did not try to shout back as he wrestled a shirt over his head. All he could do was find his pants and socks and get to her as fast as he could. 

When he stood in front of her door, tall and foreboding despite its gentle lavender hue, he shook where he stood. With trembling fingers, he knocked as delicately as he could. 

“I am here, Mother.” he announced, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. She did not like him to be afraid. She said it made her feel bad. 

“Yes, yes, come in!” she shouted. 

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.The latch snapped back with sudden volume and he flinched at the noise. He stared firmly at his toes, hands clasped behind his back. 

His mother laid in her large bed, propped up by her orthopedic back pillow and sipping fervently at a glass of water from a straw. Her dark skin looked sickly and dotted with sweat, and her face was cramped in a mixture of disappointment and poorly concealed rage. She looked him up and down sharply.

“About time! Look at me in the eyes, Ezekiel, stop shivering! And where is my breakfast?!” she demanded. 

Izzy’s head jerked up. “I-I haven’t made any, you asked me to come right away. Said it was an...emergency?”

If possible, her contorted face grew worse. “How is my starving not an emergency?! If you hadn’t slept in, this wouldn’t have happened. I don’t know why your father thinks you deserve your rest when you hardly do anything of use during the day!”

“I’m...I’m sorry,” he began, then immediately cringed. 

“You’re...you’re sorry?! I don’t care if you’re sorry! Sorry isn’t going to cook the eggs! Sorry isn’t going to brew the tea! You know I hate excuses.”

Izzy bowed his head low. “I know. I’ll get on it.”

“After breakfast and my ointment rub, you’re grounded from your computer for the rest of the week.”

“Yes ma’am.” he said, and she shooed him out of the room. 

…

To say that Izzy hated his mother would be wrong. It would be like saying he hated the sky when the rain ruined his plans. His mother was smart and she was sick and he knew that she had the best interests in mind for him. Otherwise, his father wouldn’t have married her and stuck around long enough to see Izzy grow up. Sure, he worked a lot these days. But if she was so unbearable, why did his father come back at all?

So Izzy did what Izzy did best. He sucked it up, as his mother was fond of instructing him, and he made tea with lots of sugar and honey and fried bacon and eggs  and potatoes in the skillet. He buttered shingles of toast and sliced and salted fresh slices of tomato. His stomach growled, but he didn’t dare take any. She would notice if he did. She always noticed.

Before he was done, she started screeching again. Something about how she was quite sure it was burning. But it was perfect. 

He carried a laden plate in one arm, a tea cup on a saucer in the other, precariously balancing as he made his way from the kitchen to her room. She was hollering her head off in there and he could her thumping on the wall as she pounded it with her fat fists. 

Izzy was nearly there when it happened. She had gone quiet for a moment as he tried to maneuver his hands to the door. 

“Get in here already!” she shouted suddenly, and he flinched just a little too hard. 

The teacup in his left hand shook slightly, and a few drops of tea scalded the back of his hand. He cried out and dropped the saucer and the plate in the same fumbling motion. Before he could do anything, the plates hit the floor and shattered. Food carefully prepared tumbled together in a clump, dotted with shards of ceramic. 

He stared in mute shock for a moment. The ketchup from the potatoes had splattered across his leg like blood. His mother’s favorite plate. His mother’s favorite teacup. His mother’s breakfast and tea. Destroyed. 

He put his hands up to his mouth as he felt a sudden rush of tears and terror. He pressed hard against his lips, willing himself not to whimper or cry. He mustn’t cry. It always made her feel bad. 

“WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!”

He squatted down, wondering if he could salvage anything. Wondering if he could avoid another punishment. He scooped up a few untouched potato bits and flinched in sudden pain. A piece of ceramic stuck his finger, and he watched as a bead of blood slowly rose to the surface of his skin. He felt like crying again. 

He lifted his arm again to try and scoop the remnants up to throw them away, when a hand touched his arm. He flinched so hard he shook, and his eyes darted up in terror. Had his mother gotten out of bed? He pictured her suddenly with nauseating terror, her body heaving out of bed, belt curled in her hands. 

“Stop. Don’t you see, you’ve cut yourself.” she said, and at once Izzy realized that this was not his mother. He looked up, teary, to see a complete stranger.

A woman with a gentle smile, who had squatted on the floor. Her hands were long and slender, and her fingernails were painted white. Another one of his mother’s friends, maybe? His terror flooded back into him. Had he embarrassed his mother in front of another colleague? 

He pulled back quickly, 

“I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. I’m just a little tired.” he explained, getting to his feet. There was egg yolk and crumbs crusted onto his kneecaps now and he tried to ignore it. 

He stepped forward to knock upon his mother’s door again, to tell her that he’d made a mistake, that he had carried too much at once, and that he was sorry. Wait, no, she didn’t like it when he said sorry. He would say he would do it over again for her. That the floor would be so clean she wouldn’t have even known it had been dirty before. 

That was when he saw the second door. 

It hadn’t been there before. His mother’s room was at the end of the hallway, the lavender door surrounded by blank walls. There was no door. There couldn’t have been a door there. 

And yet, beside the lavender door that shook with the power of his mother’s voice, there was a door painted light blue with a brass handle and a sign in cursive lettering painted at eye level upon it. He leaned forward to read it. 

“Mrs. Welmarsh’s Parlor. Welcome to All.” he read, and frowned. 

He looked back at the strange woman. She was wearing a dress,now that he noticed, but an old sort of dress with lace and frills that looked straight out of a Jane Austen novel. On her head perched a large, fancy hat, made of woven white straw and accented with purple and brown feathers. She gave him a dimpled smile and he nearly felt compelled to give one back. 

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Mrs.Welmarsh. But you can call me Polly.” she said. 

Izzy was about to ask something else when his mother’s voice scraped through the silence and started his heart racing again. Quickly, he fell to the floor again, picking up pieces of plate shrapnel from the ground. 

“Lovely to meet you, ma’am. Are you here to see my mother?” he asked. 

“No. I’m here to see you. I wanted to know if you wanted to come into my parlor.” she asked. 

Izzy froze. He did not know this woman at all. He didn’t know how she had made that door appear. She wasn’t here to see his  mother. Which meant his mother probably didn’t even know she was here. 

He knew he could run into his mother’s room and that she would chase this stranger out and the door would probably go away too. And he also knew that his mother would focus her rage on him again. And she would blame him for this strange, kind woman he dared talk to. 

“I’m not supposed to talk to people my mother doesn’t know,” he said. It was the only thing he could think of. 

Polly exhaled sharply like a laugh, but her eyes were sad. “I understand, Izzy. I won’t make you come with me. You always manage to stay safe, even under her presence.”

And she started to walk away. Izzy grabbed her by the end of her skirt. She turned, surprised. He let go, blushing to the tips of his ears and quickly got to his feet. 

“W-wait. What’s behind the door? What’s in the parlor?” he asked.

Polly smiled. “Are you hungry?” she asked instead of answering. 

Izzy nodded despite himself. She clapped her hands together in resolve, then swiftly turned again and headed back to the door. Izzy stumbled after her, wondering if she was leaving him. Then she stuck her hand up and beckoned him with her fingers. 

“Come along now. You know she’ll always be angry.”

She entered the room and the door closed gently behind her by some unseen hand. Izzy rushed forward in sudden panic, but the knob twisted freely in his hands when he tried it and he realized it was unlocked. That was when he realized what he was doing. 

He jumped away from the door like the knob was glowing hot. What was he thinking? He couldn’t just...just leave! With someone he didn’t know, into a place she wouldn’t explain! Here it was scary, but here he understood. Here every bruise would heal, every grueling day had to end with rest. But beyond that door, he didn’t know what was in store for him. 

It could be better, or it could be much worse there. Or...the scariest of all, it could be exactly the same. He swallowed, and for the first time in his life, he let himself be afraid. Afraid of the powerful voice that shook the walls and the carnage of breakfast dripping down his knees. And afraid of a door that might hurt him in a way he wasn’t used to. That would trick him and twist a knife into his heart while laughing at him. 

“What are you doing, you hoggish boy! Are you out there eating?! You’ve ruined my breakfast and my tea and my whole morning! If your father were here, he’d let me punish you properly!”

Izzy grit his teeth. Something surged through his blood, a strength that he didn’t know he had and his fingers tightened into fists. He strode over to the two doors. His gaze whipped to the blue door and he grasped the knob firmly in his hands. 

“Good bye!” he shouted over his shoulder, just loud enough to permeate through that ugly purple door and startle his cruel mother into relieving silence.

And with that, he opened the door and stepped inside. 

…

Izzy did not remember falling asleep. And yet here he was waking up, rising slowly from a soft couch. A crocheted blanket had been placed over him and as he rose it graced his shoulders like a cape. Polly sat across from him in a high-backed armchair, holding out a mug of warm cider to him. 

He took it gratefully and sipped. It was tart and sweet and pleasantly warm all in the same mouthful. He sunk into the couch in relief.

“I have food for you too.” she said, and before he could blink, there was a little plate with grilled cheese and a little bowl of tomato soup sitting gently on his lap. 

Izzy ate ravenously. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been when he had left, and he had no idea how long he’d been asleep for. When he was finished, the crumb speckled plate and bowl disappeared before he could ask about washing them up for her. 

He gave her a quizzical look. She didn’t act like any adult that Izzy had ever met before. In his own home, he did not control many things about his life. He couldn’t remember the last time an adult had let him sleep when they had needed him. His brow furrowed. He wondered what she would need of him. 

“I think I should be getting back to my mother now,” he said, worry growing in the pit of his stomach. “, she’s not the best but she’s sick and she needs me.” 

Polly watched him struggle with the couch for a moment, trying to sort his numb limbs before getting to his feet.

“Not that I think I can convince you, but I suspect your mother will be fine for a while. If she has strength to scream at you, she has strength to make herself a sandwich.” she said, and took an eloquent sip from the tea cup in her hand. “All and all, she’s a horribly unstable woman and I think your health would greatly benefit from staying here with me.”

Izzy blinked, hand outstretched towards the door. 

“My mother’s very sick, that’s why she’s unstable.” he said, but his words were faint. 

Polly sighed and leaned over her lap to fetch something lying on the coffee table. He hadn’t noticed it when he had awoken because it was face down. But when she turned it over, he could see it was a beautiful mirror that looked nearly as gracefully aged and she did. 

She pointed to the surface and he looked, but inside was not his reflection. Instead, it showed his mother standing in the middle of the kitchen. Her face was red and pinched with rage as she scrubbed the pots and pans hard enough to strip the glaze from them. She cried out in fury when bacon grease flew up from the pan and scorched her arm. And, as she finished, her round face red like a slightly squashed tomato, she walked out without any limping or pain from her feet. 

Her aching feet. The ones she would have him rub ointment on well into the night. The ones she said plagued her so terribly she could not rise from her bed on good days. And here she was walking, looping his father’s belt around her fingers as her eyes searched for her traitorous little brat. 

Polly brought the mirror down when she heard the first sniffle. As she lowered the ornate frame, she saw that Izzy’s hands were clamped over his face. His chest heaved for breath and more sniffles came from beyond his interlocked fingers, but he would not remove his hands. 

Finally, Polly reached out and touched the back of his hand with her fingers. Her touch was surprisingly cool, and he lowered his hands reluctantly. He was just going to explain himself first. To properly apologize for making a mess in her special room and run out before she could try and hurt him. 

But instead, Polly shushed him and dabbed at his wet face with a little handkerchief. He sighed, and she dabbed the cloth along his eyelashes. When she went to wipe his nose, he abruptly pulled away. 

“No, please, I’m...I’m okay. I’m really sorry, I’m such an ugly crier, that’s why I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want to embarrass you.” He couldn’t keep the crack out of his voice.

“Did your mother tell you that? That you embarrass her?”

Izzy didn’t meet her eyes. 

“I thought I was helping her, and that everytime she yelled at me she just wanted me to succeed. But it turns out that everything she could do, I still failed at. She’s never going to be proud of me.”

Polly set the handkerchief down and cupped his cheek with her hand, gently pressing him to meet her gaze.

“Izzy, my darling, you are more than what you can give to your mother. You know that, don’t you?” she asked. 

More tears rose in his eyes. “But if I can’t help my mother, what good am I for?”

“In my experience with humans, they’re usually good for laughing, for loving, and for bringing kindness to the world. I love humans because at their cores, they were made with love. My parlor is to remind kind humans that they are loved, for what else can I do but inspire the good in this world?”

Izzy was silent, sniffling faintly and staring at his hands. Polly put a hand on his shoulder and sighed. 

“You’re welcome to stay for a while, if you’re not sure what you want to do. I’m getting up to put the kettle on. Would you like me to heat some more cider for you?”

Izzy stared up at her, then checked his mug. He hadn’t even realized it was empty. He smiled up at her weakly. 

“That sounds nice.”