Mother

Because we are creatures of habit; Sam watches her mother paint her nails.

Green. Like a dirty lake. Where summer goes to stagnate. To rest in a grave of moss, and murky water. In the deep, where the light can’t reach. Where the plants are pale and the fish are grey. She paints her nails the same shade. Every time.

Sam wrinkles her nose. The smell burns the back of her throat and tastes like soap; but she doesn’t mind. It masks the stench of her mother’s perfume: roses and rainwater. Or something like that.

The chair creeks as she straightens her spine, stretching her back. With her palms splayed flat against the table, she lets the first coat dry. Her right is a little sloppy, the left isn’t too bad. Sam is not impressed.

“Stop sulking,” her mother clicks her tongue, “your face will stick that way.”

The frown falls like a curtain dropped. Wrinkles smoothened out. As if a hand had reached across her face and wiped all the creases away. Like a painter, scrubbing at his mistakes.

There’s a hymn they sing in church. It explains things like this: we are clay, shaped and moulded by God. His loveliest creations, imperfect without his hands. And that’s the reward for being good people. His help. A role in his divine plan. A path to follow.

And decisions that change nothing. 

She’s not looking for a reward, but when you’re young, everything ends up that way. It’s all proud smiles and golden stars. Well, it was that way for Sam. She was obedient.

Her mother taps her nails against the table. The sound like knuckles rapping at a door. Sam holds her breath.

“Your father will be home soon.” she says, her gaze drifting out the window. As if she’s searching for him amongst the bushes and the brambles. Sam bobs her head, fumbling with the hem of her dress.

“How old are you,” She stops for a second, blowing on her nails, “Twelve?”

“Yes.”

She smiles. A secret smile, only meant for herself. “We met when I was sixteen.” She says, pecking the the dry polish off her skin. “I think…” she presses her lips into a line, “it was his green eyes.”

They were hazel. Sam knows, she’s seen photos. 

“He was a charmer,” she says, inspecting each nail. Frowning at the chips. “I suppose you’ll meet one soon enough.” 

She meant to be comforting. It’s the kind of thing you’d say with a pitiful smile and a pat on the hand. But Sam wasn’t fooled. She kept sneaking glances at the wedding ring, snug on her finger. As if to check it was still there every half a second. She was comforting herself.

“I suppose.” Sam says, because agreeing is easier.

“Don’t sound so excited,” her mother cackles, fiddling with the pearls around her neck. They’re fake. Each one an earthen yellow. Like bone.

Sam doesn’t answer. She has her gaze fixed on the flight path of a pigeon outside. Watching it hop from one fence post to the next. Wings flapping, feathers flying. Zipping back and forth without making any real progress. 

Her father will be home soon.

Footsteps will be worn into the dirt path that winds down to their little house. Boots will thud against the wooden porch, peeling with white paint. Mud will stain the carpet. The dog will yip and leap and bound. 

Sam will drag the tin bath from the kitchen, and hang pots of water over the fire. Once the pots are steaming, and the copper has turned red, she’ll fill the bath.

And he will step in, the dirt and coal dust leaving his skin. Like a pill, dissolving. Tense cords and ligaments will loosen. Knots will untie. His head will roll back. His eyes will shut. And tomorrow, he’ll do it all over again. 

The thought sits like a heavy weight on her chest. Is it really the present if nothing ever changes? 

Sam has a future. 

That’s what her teachers say. And It’s unfolding before her like a rolled-out carpet. She’s just watching it go. Watching her legs get longer, and her hips grow wider. Like a snake shredding its skin, she’s a little more like her mother every day. Daughters become mothers. Become names: immortalised by census records. And nothing else. 

But Sam has a future. And she’s watching her mother like she knows. It’s right before her. 

They’re stood on either side of a telescope. Sam -the observer- on earth, her toes wriggling in the dirt. With one eye trained on the sky, she spots the first star pierce the night. Blinking like a foggy memory. Because the truth is that’s not the truth at all. 

It takes time for light to travel long distances, and once it reaches Sam, centuries have passed. The image is out of date. But she understands it as the present; even though she’s gazing at the past.

So she’s looking at her mother. Understanding her. The way her tongue juts out when she concentrates. The way her wrist flicks once she finishes each nail. The sheen of varnish in the afternoon sun. How the light blends everything together. Murky, like the bottom of a lake.

She looks at the scars on her hands: burns from the oven and the iron. The bags beneath her eyes. The chip in her front tooth from a time she can’t remember.

This is the present, but it’s also the past. Mothers have daughters. And time tricks us into thinking this is new. That our present is bright and sparkly. When in reality, it’s a reflection from years ago. 

Years from now, Sam will have a daughter of her own. And what will she see when she stares into the sky? History played out before her, a thousand times over. The stage is set, the audience is silent. The curtain drops. 

And because we are creatures of habit; it’s the same play. Every time.