A Short Story by Elizabeth Doubleday

The round cake is covered with black icing, a tiny but perfect circle cut from the middle. The delicately iced letters of “Metallica” identify its shape as a music record – my mother’s handiwork. She smiles too, and laughs genuinely, tossing back her long golden hair. She rests her elbow on his shoulder, and her face on her hand, staring down her arm into his soft grey eyes. He kisses her lips as she drops her arm around his shoulders, but promptly turns back to the camera, leaving her hanging from his side.

They’re both still so young, neither has reached 30, yet she looks like a teenager beside his strong build and unwavering focus. He lifts one of those large hands to his chest for a second – not long enough for either of us to have noticed then – and rubs it back and forth a little, pressing down against his chest. My cards are lined up on the shelf I sit across from, at the dining table, all proudly displaying a large number 10. The coloured wax of the candles drips slowly down them, eventually settling in clumps on the black surface of the cake. He takes a deep breath, imitating for me to blow the candles. Or so I had presumed. I copy him then, blowing out all but one. It flickers a little but recovers, burning almost brighter than before. A tiny bead of sweat courses down the side of his face. It breaks as it hits the floor, as if in slow-motion; the splash echoing as it smashes onto the hard floor tiles of the kitchen-diner. I know that it’s coming; I’ve had this dream a million times before, but still I freeze in fear in my sleep as he falls to his knees, clutching his chest. He’s gasping now, as my mother screams and rushes to him. My grin quickly drops, and I realise what’s happening. He even tries to turn away from me, from my wide and frantic gaze, from the grey eyes he left me.

“Call an ambulance!” My mother shouts, as if forgetting my age and abilities.

I want to. But I can’t do anything but stare, as she wraps herself around him for the last time, and the sparkle leaves his eyes, his head lolling backwards into her waiting lap. The last candle burns out as the flame reaches the end of the wick. * * * * * I’m sweating when I wake; but my body shivers, covered everywhere with Goosebumps. I pull James’s familiar bedcovers around me tightly. I should have been expecting everything I’d got – I hadn’t dreamt like that in days. I wipe the sweat from my body quickly, knowing how suspicious it would look; this time of year mornings are always cold. Everything to the left of James’s window is sealed under an icy white cover, cold and unfriendly air blowing through the vent above his head. I should shower, but my lungs already feel bloated in water as I realise my gasping, and I know I can’t handle the steam of the bathroom.

I look to James – envious of his undisturbed sleep. He’s always been a deep sleeper; it’s made my constant nightmares easier to get away with. I’ve woke screaming, fitting even, and he hasn’t even turned in his sleep. So it’s no surprise that he shows no reaction to his greyhound, Tara, stretching out her long limbs where she sat at his feet, pushing forward the covers around her. I watch her yawn - not at all annoyed by the way I had awoken her - the muscles of her face flexing with a pulse of energy, the veins prominent in her velvet cheeks.

She cocks her head as she realises my watching, studying me now with her wise green eyes. I smile, as she jumps softly from the bed; landing beside me and snuggling into my side. My hands glide over her short coat of fur, her agile figure, but after a few minutes her warm body slips silently from me, and she weaves from the room.

I follow her guide and wriggle from my covers to stand, tiptoeing to James’s desk and unplugging my mobile from his charger. I slide it open and read the time, drawing my hand to my face in reflex - shielding my eyes from its bright light - then sighing as I read ‘3:18’ through slightly parted fingers.

But I don’t slink back beneath the covers; wary knowing, from many mornings of experience, that I won’t slip back into a heavenly dreamless sleep. The moon peeks out from behind grey clouds, casting dark light through the room’s open curtains. A car waits on the narrow road behind James’s garden, the quiet purr of his engine and light melody of his radio are carried to my ears with the wind. James sleeps; waiting for the sweet aroma of coffee and fresh toast to drift to his nostrils, one of the only things which, surprisingly, will wake him.

But before his foster parents wake to make such a smell, I splash my face with cold water and climb into yesterday’s clothes; pulling my long, dark hair into a headband and letting it fall to one side. I slip from his room quietly - hoping not to disturb anyone else’s sleep – and tiptoe down the stairs. Before I reach the front door I perch on the final stair to slip on my DC shoes – once a birthday present from James.

I take the emergency key from inside the old vase which rests on a shelf beside the door, and turn it silently in the lock, stepping out into the crisp morning air. I take a few breaths, deep like the ones from my dream, before walking - only as far as the garage - and crouching to the floor; resting my back against its damp door. I delve into my jeans pocket, emptying it out onto the floor beside me. The small pile reflects my financial state well: two loose cigarettes differing in brand, my key to the small locker large enough to hold every one of my belongings (and intended to do such a job), my simple mobile (now nearing two years old), and a cheap, battered old lighter in translucent red. I take a cigarette and light up, shutting my eyes as I inhale it deeply.

I know I should quit; the health risks are huge, and I can hardly afford it anyway. But when my lips touch the familiar round shape and I take that deep breath in, letting the delicate fume fill my mouth and the subtle buzz pulse through my blood; the world just melts away around me. I don’t feel like I’m intoxicating myself at all, more like the world has, leaving the cigarette my only antidote.

I smoke until what I’m left with is so short that it burns my fingers. Then I crush the tiny stub against the gravelly ground, and push myself up. A slight wind weaves through my hair as I stand.

A hangover hits me with the chill of the wind; the night before coming to my memory in pieces. Already I regret being so easily persuaded into attendance. But in three days time it’ll all come to an end - the college term bringing me plenty of real excuses to escape their full nights of drinking.

We’ll all have to make sacrifices. For me, that means working fewer hours. For now, I’m surrounded by people who want to help me out – maybe lend a little here and there – but nobody knows who’ll be there in my future.

Until then I’ll pay by dues subtly; like helping Mattie clean up his house tomorrow, before his parents return home on Sunday from their post-Christmas vacation. I’m practically an expert at clearing up after house parties, though I’ve never thrown even one. Maybe that’s a good thing – I’ve been told it’s very stressful – but every host I’ve known has been drunk the whole experience. Still, I envy the fools. So comfortable where they live that they have no fear. Since my dad died, I’ve never once felt at home.

And yet some people actually see my situation as a good one. That by having no home, I open myself to hundreds. They think it’s easy, that they can go around begging and live in a bountiful paradise. Maybe that could happen... for someone else. I’d never have it. Anyone close to me can see that’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want an army of fallbacks, like the way James’s foster parents still treat me. I want unconditional love, from even one person.

But I’ve stopped looking, it’s not out there. I can’t put myself through that mental torture; working and working on a relationship, but in the end, always waiting. This way I have a life I can just lift myself out of, no looking back.

But running away – searching for a place to call home – it can’t always be the first thing on my mind. I wouldn’t be able to live like that. So I look to the sacred times, when I can relax just a little, feel like myself even if only for a second.

James still sleeps as I creep back into his room and strip my makeshift bed back down to its singular components, quickly bundling the sheets and covers into the washing machine.

When I return to the dining room, Darren is already seated at the table, today’s paper in his hand. He looks over it and nods at my presence.

“Morning” I whisper, “Nice to see you, lad,” He smiles, “Take a seat, won’t you?”

I sit down, and Sheila hands me the clear coffee jug. I pour myself a cup and thank her, smiling as they too fill their cups. I drink quickly and leave the house, as I’d predicted: before James even stirs.

“See you,” I call back when I leave, “thanks for the food.”

“No problem, sweetie.” Replies Sheila, all too maternally.

I trudge through the slushy streets, water seeping into my shoes and rising up my jeans. I shower at the asylum I now call my home, first visiting my tall locker for my rucksack of clean clothes; sifting through for my uniform, shampoo, and towel. I take a clear plastic shower bag from the crate beneath the window, slipping the items into it carelessly. It’s almost the eight month of me living here, and the room still reminds me of cheesy American high-school movies: blue benches lining the walls, the lockers back to back around a pillar in the centre. Here they’re littered with stickers and graffiti; tiny gestures, desperate attempts to make this place feel like home.

I open the cubicle door and inspect the shower lazily; it’s not perfect but clean enough, and all that I have. I hang the bag on one of the hooks behind the door, and activate the lock by slotting my membership card into the reader. The light flashes green for a moment, before the shower starts noisily; the water pounding against the cold floor tiles. The digital timer click-starts on the far wall, counting up from zero: a constant reminder that it’s adding to my monthly bill.

I shake my hair from the band and let the warm water rush over me, appreciating the unpopularity of an early morning rise like my own. I sing a little in the empty room – although I needed have worried, my voice is barely audible in even the adjacent cubicle, not over the battering of the shower’s heavy water against me. I toy with the possibility of new lyrics, wishing James was around to help shape them.

But he’s not; he’s still in a comfy bed, in a warm house, with parents and family all around him. I hate how much I envy him. I hate that he can’t just be my best friend, the person who knows everything there is to me, whose been through hard times with me and in the end has put a hand on my shoulder and swore he understood the choices I was making. No, he was the image of everything I could have had. A room to go to when he needs to relax, calm down, or just feel safe, a place to find shelves stacked with his own books, and wardrobes filled with his own clothes. Sheila to get him up twenty minutes after his alarm - to pull back the curtains, switch on the light, and leave open the door. And all these things he can complain about; the regular teenage angst that binds him to so many friendships, simply because he connects in a way I never can. He relates. Sometimes I wish my life were like that again, words rush through my head in an attempt to piece together a script letting me back into their family. The truth is they’d take me back easily; I just don’t want to let myself know that, because I’d have to face other truths too. Like how I know that won’t make me happy.

I have to remind myself of the arguments, the countless nights I’d spent away from home just to prove that I didn’t need them. I couldn’t stand to be controlled, feeling like a puppet to legality. All that crap about child protection, it’s just a façade. They were never there. Not the government, not anyone. I suffered there alone. For too long. I can’t let myself be that vulnerable again.

My phone vibrates in the shower bag, knocking against the door noisily, and pulling me back to the everyday life it takes all my focus to get through. I stumble out of the shower, clumsily hitting the button on the wall to stop the water, and the timer along with it. Opening the draw-string bag, I pull out my deep-blue towel and dry my hands before wrapping it around my middle. My phone still vibrates madly as I stare disbelievingly at the screen, holding my phone in a tight fist. “Mum” it reads.

I’m frozen to the spot – my eyes fixated to the screen – until the vibrating stops suddenly, and I sink to the floor letting my phone fall into my lap. I don’t know what to do. Better knowledge tells me what I should do – switch it off. Switch my mind off. Know better. But I don’t.

I haven’t seen her since that night, when I was 14. She was beating me away from her, from my home, with a broom… screaming. Yet all I could do was stand and let her, fixated by the terror that plagued her eyes. I just couldn’t understand what I’d done to create that, how I could make my own mother so frightened.

And she’s doing it again: pulling on my heart, making me forget myself, to help her. I’m unnaturally paralyzed by guilt and worry; for the women who ruined my life, who made me this untrusting and hard to live with. And all I can think is that I’ve failed her, that I should take any chance I get to put things right.

As my fingers hover over the phone, I feel like a child again. As though I’m embarrassing her with my waving and uncontrolled temperance; simply throwing a tantrum in the supermarket. Only it was never as trivial as that, not since dad died. Every choice was a battle, nothing was ever ‘normal’ anymore.

I suddenly realize she must have been bypassing authority again; even to get a hold of my number. They have barriers for me against her, set up by those authorities who claim protection. They just can’t stop getting in the way.

I don’t suppose I should blame them. How could they know? Beaten up, practically schizophrenic trying to reason with myself – do I run? Or do I beg? Only a son could know; only a bond of blood could feel her desperation. She’s not playing by the rules. She’s in trouble, and she needs me. Who’s to say what else she’s been doing; or hasn’t been doing, how many of her pills she hasn’t been taking? I’m relieved to feel my phone vibrate again, accepting the call quickly.

“Mum?” I try to sound calm, casual, but it comes out hoarse, higher than I’d anticipated. “What’s up?” I squeak. “Baby, where are you?” she cries, “I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m…” I answer quickly. But stop; considering just how bizarre the situation is. And I don’t know what to say. I can’t just along with it, tell her where I am. She wouldn’t understand anyway, I know that’s not what she’s really asking for. But even insane, she’s still my mum, and she can tell when I lie.

“…What are you waiting for?” I question, real confusion in my voice.

“I’m waiting for you, silly!” She giggles; the innocence in her voice battling with my own sanity. She doesn’t even know what she’s done. But now is not the time; I can’t let myself break down. She needs me calm, she needs me mature. She needs me to do all the things she can’t.

“Don’t say you’ve forgotten?” she continues; her pretense giddy and free, but dripping with desperation.

I try to think, searching through the hazy past I’ve tried to repress, looking for meaning to today’s date. But nothing comes, so I submit to her games unwillingly.

“Forget what?” I sigh. Deciding this conversation might take a while, I begin to dry my legs as I sit on the floor, the towel still wrapped around my waist.

“Our lunch date! So you did forget! That’s not like you, are you okay?” She accuses in a excited garble of words, “What time is it Mum?” I quiz, standing up and taking my card from the door – my mobile propped between my ear and shoulder – pulling it open and peeping out to view the clock; it’s just gone 8:30am. I slip the card into my shower bag and wait for her answer.

“It’s half past 12, so don’t try to pretend you’re not late.” She shouts back boldly.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I just wish someone would realize she isn’t where she’s supposed to be. How stupid do officials get to be? But I can’t seem to see that I’m in danger, and all I want to do is go to her. My mind refuses to acknowledge, last time we were together I ended up hospitalized for days: she was ready to kill me. But surely a mother has the right to freely see her son? And a son to see his mother. What is she really going to do to me? She’s only petite and I’m strong now. I’ve had to be. But she wouldn’t touch me anyway. Of course she wouldn’t hurt me. She’s my mum, she made me; everything I am came from her. So in the end, I owe her this.

“Where are you?” I ask at last, almost in a whisper.

“That’s my boy,” she praises me gleefully, “I’m at La Plaza, come soon won’t you?”

I nod, almost involuntarily, “Soon” I repeat.

I dress as quickly as I’m capable of, which turns out to be rather slowly; the new information, the overload of feelings draining my energy, throwing me off balance. I wasn’t ready for this. Would I ever be?

I tip the shower bag upside-down and watch as the items spill onto the floor, picking them up only as I need them. I rest a hand against the wall and dress frantically into my uniform, and almost unaware the cubicle door is still unlocked. I throw my towel over my shoulder and wrap my hair band around my wrist loosely, letting my long wet hair hang limply. I dash back to my locker and bundle in the wet towel unwisely, emptying the shower bag and flinging it carelessly into the crate. Naturally, it misses. Once outside, I let the cold air whip my face and take deep, cleansing breaths. That’s when it occurs to me that La Plaza is out of town, so I hurry to the bus-stop without looking up. I begin to regret leaving my hoody in my locker, as I wait in the cold, scanning the bus timetable.

“Hey!” A familiar voice shouts enthusiastically, and I turn reluctantly to see James jogging my way.

“S’up?” I ask, though only out of politeness. He picks his days to get up before noon.

“Have to go to the college library; got an essay due tomorrow and I haven’t even started it, so Mum’s making me hit the books. Pity, ‘cause I have a bitch of a hangover… don’t you?” “Yup.” I mutter.

“Sucks.” He smiles a cheeky grin, chuckling a little as he still jogs on the spot.

I turn away, trying to focus on what I could possibly say to her. And as if she knew, my phone rang again. “I’m going to take this.” I tell James, sliding open my phone without even making eye contact.

“You coming baby?” She whines into the phone, “Don’t leave me hanging.”

I pause for a second, taking in once more that I’m stood at a bus stop, about to take a bus – which in itself is something I never do – to see my mother: to go to someone who is mad and dangerous. But someone who loves me. The only person in the world who loves me - who has ever loved me.

“Yes.” I say with refreshed confidence.

“Good. Bring me something pretty.” she demands, as my eyes widen in horror. The sheer emptiness of her head never fails to take me off guard. “Mum…” I remind her: I’m her son, not some new boyfriend of hers!

“Please honey,” she begs; the innocence and desperation in her voice enough to shake me all over again, so much that I just can’t stand to hear it anymore.

“Something pretty.” I surrender, tucking my phone back into my pocket.

James stares.

He steps towards me cautiously, putting a hand on my shoulder. I don’t know if I should move away, shake him off? So I just wait.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I know he heard me say her name; he’s just waiting for my lie.

“Lunch date.” I answer truthfully. He looks confused, concerned.

“It’s not even 9am?” he questions, raising his eyebrows. A bus pulls in and people rush past, hurrying to bag a good seat. The words ‘I’m not crazy’ balance on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them and shrug.

“I had an early breakfast,” I alert him coldly. “And I guess I’m stopping at a shop first.” “You can’t go.” He orders sternly.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I remind him calmly.

“But you can’t see her.” He ignores my warning and continues with his own, “You have to listen to me; I can’t let you do this.”

“I can do whatever I want.” I disagree.

“Please, for me, don’t see her.” He begs.

My bus pulls in to the stop and I shake him off, walking towards it. He grabs my arm but I throw him back menacingly; he stumbles in surprise and falls to the ground pathetically, “Stay away from me!” I snarl, “You know nothing of this.”

From the window I watch James clamber up and brush himself down angrily. To my dismay he jumps onto the bus just as the doors close, plunging his hand deep into his jeans pocket angrily in search of spare change to pay the driver. He sits beside me; despite my turning away, making it very clear he’s not welcome.

“I’ll never forget the parts of this that I have experienced.” He says quietly to the side of my head, “That phone call you made to me, the terror in your voice. And don’t you forget why she was put into that place Cole. Don’t forget that night.”

“That wasn’t her.” I reply coolly, because I know it just couldn’t have been.

“This isn’t her either. Don’t you see? It’s the condition.” He argues, “She needs me, it’s all her.” I plead. And I need her, because I need to be loved.

“What for? What are you going to do for her? Just tell me that.”

“She only wants to see me! What’s so wrong about that? Seeing someone you love, is that not enough to make someone feel better?”

“Someone feel better? Is that her or you?” He mutters under his breath, “But if she loved you, do you not think she’d know where you live now?”

“That’s not fair. You know she’s not well.” I argue, my hands drawing into fists.

“I do know that, but do you?” he waits for a reaction, “That’s why she needs professionals, you can’t help her.”

I don’t want to believe it. My long legs are already bundled up behind the chair; I’m practically curled into a ball beside the window. Shielding myself from James – from a world that knows she doesn’t love me at all.

He puts a hand on the cold shoulder he’s faced with.

“You can’t go on blaming yourself for this.” He speaks softly, rubbing his hand against me.

I shrug him off. “I have to.” I tell him. “If I’d have stayed at boarding school...”

“You’d never have met me. You’d have been unhappy. You don’t know what that might have led to.”

“The brochure said. I’d have been disciplined, I’d have self-control. I’d have money, and a proper job. Or I’d be at university.”

“For her? What would it have meant for her?” he argues.

“I don’t know.” I admitted. “But the fact is, without me she’d have never turned to drink.”

“Cole!” he shouted. “Her mum had died! She was depressed! It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, and her son being a raging drunk and school dropout had nothing to do with that depression? I should have been there for her! She needed someone!”

“She had your aunt. But she wasn’t talking. You couldn’t help what you were doing. You had so much to deal with. She didn’t give you even a minute to grieve. You needed someone.”

“I had my friends.”

“They weren’t friends. They were just people to you. People you could hide with. ...Until they started asking too many questions.” He was shaking me now, a hand on each of my shoulders. People were staring, whispering amongst each other. “Cole, you were hiding from her. She’d beat you ever night you went home. She forgot who you were! How can you ignore that?”

“She knew who I was when she called me today! The medication... it helps?”

“Did she?!” he screeched. “Did she ever once say your name? Did she say ‘son’?” I shook my head. “Then how do you know that she won’t turn on you as soon as she sees you? It doesn’t have to be you she’s waiting for.” He continued.

The bus pulled in. “Final stop,” the driver announced, “everybody off.”

We stand on the pavement long after the bus has driven away. I’m the first one to break the silence.

“I need something pretty.” I whispered.

James takes a breath. “You.” He growls. He turns towards me slowly, but doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because I’m shaking; a slow stream of tears making their way to the floor.

Elizabeth Doubleday