Please Forgive Your Mother

Mr. Westerleigh wasn’t sure how many olives made sense. The twelfth olive on the salad’s crispy surface completed a neat circular pattern, but perhaps a thirteenth in the middle would amuse, or even captivate. On the other hand, thirteen felt like quite an obnoxious number of olives in one salad for four. This wasn’t a small problem - he had to get this right.

His estranged daughter, Meredith, would be coming for dinner with her new man, a fast-talking lawyer named Elmer. It was imperative that he executed this salad perfectly. For many minutes, he deliberated in his head, wavering between twelve or thirteen. Yes, thirteen, he wondered. A baker’s dozen. He stepped back to get a better look. Oh, but from a distance, thirteen olives shined like slimy toads in the moonlight. An absurd quantity. He yanked one off in disgust. Twelve, well...oh, but twelve! What a paltry amount. Surely, twelve olives wasn’t enough. A twelve-olive salad doesn’t command attention or arouse the senses. Not in the slightest. What a conundrum, he thought. He would have waffled all night, but a scream, louder than the others, burst from the dining room. 

He found his wife slumped over the wooden lacquer table, sobbing into her arms. Surrounding her were the napkins she was resolute on folding into pleasant little pyramids. However, her creases didn’t reflect perfection. The tips weren’t pristinely sharp, like the hat of a gnome. They were lumpy, rounded curves.

Mr. Westerleigh put his arm over her, shushing and consoling. 

“Don’t cry, honey. Don’t cry.”

“I can’t get them...I can’t get them to stay rigid at the top…”

“Perhaps you are being too hard on yourself. These napkins look downright majestic to me. I guarantee they will spur some delightful fodder-”

“-what if she leaves again? What if she walks out that door and doesn’t come back again for two years? It’s not like we can follow her.”

Her fears were his, as well. Meredith had been fed up with them before after a night, just like tonight. It was best to not ask questions as to why she was returning, but she was

“I wonder,” his wife continued, “I wonder why I am here sometimes, if not to be her mother. I wonder why we are trapped in this ungodly world if she won’t acknowledge us anymore.”

“It’s best we leave those unanswerable questions alone and try to make the best of it. Shall we go hang the paintings?”

Out came the dusty box of paintings, reserved only for guests. The weathered walls were running out of room for new punctures, but he found some free space. Each painting was hung, frame to frame. Not a single inch of surface could be bare. 

They worked in tandem. He banged the nails in and she adjusted each piece. Swiftly, they made their way around the house until the job was complete and every space was properly cloaked. Over years of practice, they were able to create the optimum pattern that utilized every inch of space. But, perhaps because emotions were high or the pattern wasn’t executed correctly, a small square remained open, dauntingly hovering over the couch in the living room. A tiny, terrifying square it was. 

Mrs. Westerleigh popped into the bedroom and returned with a picture of the three of them. It was of a vacation from long ago. A simpler, happier time.

Mr. Westerleigh wasn’t keen to the idea. 

“Putting this here is far too risky. This is precisely what we are trying to avoid.”

Mrs. Westerleigh picked up the hammer, slammed a nail in the wall and mounted the picture. Its shape wedged neatly into the square. 

“You know why this has to be here,” she said.

He did. He could feel it, too.

“The voices,” he said. “They’re gone.”

***

“Actually, there’s a strong possibility I’ll be making partner by the end of the year. One of the old heads is finally retiring to Florida. Fingers crossed.”

Elmer, talked through a mouthful of greens as the Westerleighs listened with unnatural enthusiasm. Their daughter sat next to Elmer, their free hands intertwined. She quietly chewed with her head down. Mrs. Westerleigh noticed her daughter’s timid behavior and wondered whether it was her parents or Elmer whom she was more embarrassed by. She was convinced Meredith was already planning her escape, that coming to their home was an incredible mistake. 

Elmer had finished his speech and was back to chomping away at the salad still clumped in his cheeks. His jelled quaff and dimpled chin were bobbing with each bite. Eager to fill the awkward void, Mrs. Westerleigh spoke up.

“Elmer, that's wonderful. So you said this was your father’s firm?”

“Uh, yes that’s right.”

It was as if this exchange had compounded the uneasiness in the room. The parents had prepared for this exact moment. 

“I want to apologize.”

“Apologize for what, Mom?” Meredith inquired, her gaze locking on her mother’s.

“Oh, it’s silly. You probably haven’t even noticed. I tried making these cute little pyramids out of the napkins, like they do at weddings. Couldn’t really get it right.”

She was expecting some slight sympathy out of common courtesy, but neither Meredith nor Elmer piped up. The uneasiness in the room grew. Elmer’s chair creaked as he stretched his arm under his dress shirt to scratch the middle of his back. 

“But honey, look!” said Mr. Westerleigh with a goofy grin. 

He picked up his folded napkin and plopped it on his head. 

“You sure you weren’t trying to make yarmulkes? Mazel Tov!”

Elmer looked at Meredith, who was visibly distraught by what had just transpired. He squeaked out an uncomfortable chortle in an attempt to be polite. Then followed another excruciating silence. A desperate Mr. Westerleigh put down the napkin and turned attention to the salad. More specifically, to Elmer and the salad. 

“I want your honest opinion, son. What’d you think of the salad?”

“It was good, sir. Thank you, again. I appreciate your hospitality,” said Elmer, sincerely. 

“Do you think,” Mr. Westerleigh continued, “there were too many olives in the salad?”

“Um, I suppose not. I like olives. The olives were fine.”

“Perhaps,” he persisted, leaning close to Elmer, his voice morphing into a whisper, “there could have been more? Maybe more would’ve been more satisfying. What do you think?” 

“The olives were fine, sir.” Elmer restated. His eyes cocked towards Meredith again, trying to share his discomfort, but his girlfriend was watching her father, willing him to stop with just her glare. 

“Who wants coffee?” said Mrs. Westerleigh.

Elmer raised his hand. “Oh, I would love some. We have a long drive back, so. Need the caffeine, right Mer?”

Meredith silently nodded.

“Wonderful. Honey, show them to the living room. I’ll go fetch it, be back in just a sec.”

 In all of her years as a child, she had never let anyone call her anything but Meredith. Mrs. Westerleigh thought about this as she brewed the coffee. Her daughter was changing, without her. It’s to spite us, she feared.

As Mrs. Westerleigh entered the living room, Elmer and Meredith were sitting by themselves on the couch, directly under the vacation picture. In earshot of their quiet conversation, she heard Elmer make a nasty comment about the artwork:

“You have to agree that it looks like they robbed a dentist office,” he murmured in her ear.

Mrs. Westerleigh smiled, pretending not to hear a word, and handed them their cups. Mr. Westerleigh had also reappeared from somewhere in the house, arms akimbo. Unfortunately, he had not picked up the vibe.

“Elmer, do you dabble in art? We have quite the collection going on here. Might need to prune out the weaker ones but, well. Meredith, you know how I am. A bit of a hoarder, unfortunately.”

Elmer smiled and nodded, his eyebrows raised in amusement. The thick layers of dust coating most of the pieces was a pitiful sight, but he acknowledged that Meredith’s folks weren’t exactly art dealers. He chugged his very bitter coffee and tugged on his girlfriend’s sleeve. 

“We better head out, actually. I just remembered I have some documents to forward to the office before this big meeting in the morning. You ready, babe? Where did we leave our coats?”

“I’ll get them,” said Mrs. Westerleigh. “They’re in the dining room.”

Mrs. Westerleigh grabbed the coats, taking a moment to herself to sigh an odd sense of relief. Meredith and Elmer’s short-lived visit was ultimately for the best. There were some hiccups, yes, but not once did either of them push their daughter out. Perhaps, she thought, this amicable departure, although not ideal, would lead to her return. 

Like a wave of pain crashing into her, she heard them. The howls, once faint, now funneled through the walls. It had happened in the living room. Throwing the coats down, she sprinted back into the room.

Meredith and Mr. Westerleigh, wide-eyed with fear and uncertainty, cautiously hovered around Elmer, who was holding up the picture frame. His face seemed transfixed, his eyes bulging straight from their sockets. Why or how this happened confounded Mrs. Westerleigh, but there was no use in squabbling now. The young man had put the pieces together.

“How old is this photo? Mer, you’re like, a little girl here. And you two...your folks look exactly the same…hey...sounds like you guys have noisy neighbors. Thin walls.”

Cold shrieks emanated from the bare space on the wall. 

Mr. Westerleigh barked at his wife.

“For crying out loud! I told you this would happen. I told you.”

He then turned to Meredith. Tears were already streaking down her cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry, honey. Forgive your mother. Please. Please forgive her. The odds of this happening, I can’t even begin to-”

“-Meredith, I am so deeply sorry.”

Elmer, unaware of the verbal tussle, was drifting towards the wall. Muttering to himself, his eyelids flickering. He’d been caught in a trance by the screams from the wall. Meredith, knowing her lover was lost, balled her hands in rage.

“And you wonder why I never come back to this place! This place is hell! Pure hell on Earth.”

“Honey, no. It doesn’t have to be. We love you-”

“Just shut up and do it already, Dad. Have some decency and do it before he’s too far gone.”

With a sigh and shrug, Mr. Westerleigh sidled up to Elmer, who was now caressing the space in the wall like a cat on yarn. His eyes rolling back, drool cascading down his chin. Mr Westerleigh turned the young man toward him. Just being removed from the spot seemed to snap back his focus on reality.

“Sir, the wall...the wall…”

“I’m sorry, son. It was nice meeting you. If it’s any consolation, I found you to be a fine young man for the short time we had together. Your life may be ending now, but just know it will always be remembered. Hey, here’s hoping you really got a kick out of that salad.”

Ending his sentimental gesture, Mr. Westerleigh’s swung his arm forward, his hand plunging directly into Elmer’s chest. Fear flashed across his boxy face as the hand permeated into him like a laser beam, not breaking flesh or bone. But that fear lasted only a second, which is the time it took for Mr. Westerleigh’s incorporeal fingers to squeeze the life right out of Elmer’s heart. 

Elmer’s lifeless body dropped to the ground, smacking straight into the sharp corner of the coffee table, splitting his forehead wide open. 

“Ah, for Christ sake,” moaned Mr. Westerleigh.

Meredith stormed out of the house. If not bound by an eternal curse, her mother would have chased her, hugged her, consoled her. Instead, she was stunned, falling to her knees right there in the living room. Mr. Westerleigh pouted some more, then disappeared in the back for cleaning supplies. 

Mrs. Westerleigh could do nothing but weep. She wept for Elmer, his body still oozing on her carpet. She wept for Meredith, forever scarred by her ghoulish family. She wept for herself and the world she was trapped in.

On cue, the wailing walls grew one voice louder. The young lawyer was added to the chorus, to forever howl from the walls in which his soul was now encased for eternity. Mrs. Westerleigh composed herself, stepped over Elmer’s corpse, and placed the picture back on the wall. For the voices drowned out the memories - her only true possessions.