Mother is Coming Home
David Corse
The clang of Mother’s handbell shatters Otis’s euphoria. He’s at the foot of his bed, admiring a pair of pressed khakis he plans to wear during his trip to New York City. Annoyed, he gently places the pants inside his leather suitcase and reminds himself that he’ll be away from Mother for an entire week.
“Do you hear me?” Mother shouts before ringing her bell again, louder this time. It’s like a bomb going off in his ears. Every day, all day long, she summons him with her brass bell and orders him about. He wishes Amelia—Mother’s best friend—never gave her the infernal torture device.
“Coming,” he yells back and heads to the top of the stairs. Halfway there, he stops to make himself presentable. He re-tucks his white short-sleeved, button-down shirt into his jeans and adjusts his glasses so they rest perfectly on the bridge of his nose. Mother likes when he looks nice.
“What is it, Mother?” he says, stepping to the landing.
Below, Rebecca Ferryman glares at him from her wheelchair. Her gray hair and makeup are immaculate, and her white and green floral dress is spotless. Without a word, she rings her handbell violently, reminding him that when she calls, he needs to come. Ten seconds pass, then twenty, then thirty.
Otis’s jaw clenches, and he squeezes his eyes shut in frustration. To soothe himself, he imagines his future: Times Square, Madison Avenue, Central Park.
At last, the ringing stops, and he peels his eyes open.
“I need a top-off,” Mother slurs and holds up a glass of ice. It’s midmorning, and Mother is deep in another rum and Coke bender. “We’re out of Coke. Go to the cellar and get me some more.”
Otis screams internally but keeps his face neutral. “We can’t be out. I put a case in the refrigerator last night.”
“You didn’t. You promised me you would, but you didn’t.”
He did bring the case of soda up from the cellar. At least, he’s pretty sure he did. They were watching Wheel of Fortune when she asked. “In a few minutes,” he says. “I’m packing. The taxi will be here soon.”
Mother scoffs and shakes her glass. The rattling ice is better than the godforsaken bell, but not much. “You don’t have two minutes for your mother? I thought I raised you better. I’ll do it myself, then. Don’t you worry about me. I can handle those steep stairs.”
Otis holds back a grimace and imagines Mother thumping down the cellar stairs one step at a time, her arthritic knees and ankles throbbing. “Don’t be like that. I’ll do it in a bit. I just need to finish packing. I don’t want to be late to the airport.”
Mother glares at him with her moist blue eyes. She’s been in a foul mood since she failed to talk him out of his trip. Last night, she pleaded and cried and swore something terrible would happen to her if he left. A burglar would break in and slit her throat. She’d slip in the bathtub. The house would
burn down around her. Her begging almost worked. She is an old woman who needs support. But he needs to escape, even if it’s just for a few short days. It’d be good for the both of them.
After what feels like an eon, Mother maneuvers her wheelchair toward the living room instead of the kitchen and the cellar door. Seconds later, the TV turns on and he’s treated to her favorite soap opera. A character Otis has a passing familiarity with is sleeping with another character’s wife.
Back in his bedroom, he pulls a blue dress shirt and a brown sports coat from his closet. “I’m so glad I came,” he says to the empty room. “The people make me feel so alive. People back home would never understand.”
Mother’s handbell drags him back to reality. She’s impatient as always. With Mother, everything must be now. He pinches the bridge of his nose. How is this my life? What happened?
“Almost finished!” he shouts. Under his breath, he adds, “Then you can drink all the damned Coke you want. You can drown in it for all I care.”
He finishes packing and stares out his bedroom window at the red barn he used to play in as a child. This time tomorrow, he’ll be admiring skyscrapers from his hotel window. He’s waited his whole life for this.
A shrill scream pierces the air, and Otis’s heart rattles in his chest. A chill rushes over him. He darts out of his bedroom and down the steps toward Mother’s shrieks. The living room is empty. He lingers for a moment before hurling himself into the kitchen. Mother’s wheelchair sits empty in front of the cellar door.
She wouldn’t, he thinks. But he knows Mother would if she’s angry enough and drunk enough. Maneuvering around the wheelchair, he steps into the doorframe and gasps. Mother lies twisted at the bottom of the stairs, one arm trapped under her slight frame, her dress bunched around her shriveled thighs. Blood pours from her nose and down her lips.
When she sees him, she wails and rings her handbell harder. “Why did you do this to me?”
***
The soda machine spits Otis’s dollar out for the third time, and he’s forced once again to smooth the bill along the edge of the dispenser. “Just take it,” he murmurs, inserting the dollar. This time, the machine accepts his cash. He punches the button for a Coke and snatches the can from the tray. More than two hours have passed since Mother was admitted to the hospital, and every muscle in his body, from his calves to his shoulders, is tight with worry.
“Mr. Ferryman?” a woman asks from behind.
He turns to the woman. She’s short with thick-rimmed, plastic glasses and curly blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her hooped earrings sparkle in the fluorescent light.
“Yes,” Otis replies.
“My name is Dr. Mueller. I’ve just spoken with your mother. She asked me to speak with you, too.”
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he blurts out.
“No, nothing like that. Your mother didn’t break any bones. She has deep contusions on her right arm and shoulder. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
