The Other Mother

by Matthew Dicks

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life

Synopsis

From Matthew Dicks, the beloved author of Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, comes The Other Mother, a novel about a teenage boy coping with the rupture of his family by viewing his mother in an unusual light.

The one he loves most, is the one he knows least.

Thirteen-year-old Michael Parsons is dealing with a lot. His father's sudden death; his mother's new husband, Glen, who he loathes; his two younger siblings, who he looks after more and more now that his mother works extra shifts.

And then one day, Michael wakes up and his mother is gone. In her place is an exact, duplicate mother. The 'other mother'. No one else seems to notice the real version is missing. His brother, his sister, and even Glen act as if everything's normal. But Michael knows in his heart that this mother is not his. And he begins to panic.

What follows is a big-hearted coming-of-age story of a boy struggling with an unusual disorder that poses unparalleled challenges—but also, as he discovers, offers him unique opportunities.

Release date: January 12, 2021

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

one


This mother is not my mother. She looks like my mother. She looks exactly like my mother. Same curly brown hair with a little streak of gray on the side. Same pink slippers with a hole in the big toe. Same blotchy freckle on the back of her left hand. This woman is like my mother’s twin. Her identical twin. But she is definitely not my mother.

“Hello?” My voice cracks, not because it’s changing (though it is), but because I can’t believe this is happening. It’s impossible.

“Hi, honey,” the woman says. She is standing over the stove, scrambling eggs. She stirs them the same way my mother does, by moving the pan and the spatula at the same time. The eggs dance in the pan. Just like my mother, she doesn’t have to think about it. She makes them dance without even trying.

Still, this is not my mother.

“What’s going on?” I ask. It’s a dumb question, but I don’t know what else to say. I feel like I’m in a place where I don’t belong. Like I’ve opened my eyes on some alternate universe.

“It’s called breakfast, stupid.”

Charlie says this. He’s sitting at the table, drinking orange juice and reading a book. He’s not wearing pants or shoes. Just underwear and the same blue shirt he had on yesterday.

Julia is sitting next to him with Mom’s laptop on the table in front of her. She’s staring at the screen. She’s dressed already. T-shirt and jeans and sneakers. She’s not a savage like Charlie.

I stare at Charlie and Julia. It’s that wide-eyed stare I use when I don’t want anyone else to hear me. Sort of like our own personal sign language. I’m yelling at them with my eyeballs. I’m practically screaming.

What the hell is going on here?

They don’t even look at me. It’s just a normal day for them. They must think this mother is our mother. She’s tricked them, but I can’t imagine how. Maybe it’s because I’m fourteen and they’re still in elementary school. Little kids are always easy to fool. It’s why Charlie still thinks that a fairy flies into his room at night and steals his teeth from under his pillow in exchange for a quarter.

Honestly, I’m not sure if I ever believed that bullshit.

But how could they miss this? She looks exactly like our mother except exactly not.

I scan the kitchen. This can’t be happening. This must be the wrong kitchen. It’s a ridiculous thought, since Julia and Charlie are here, too, but it’s all I can think of. I must be in the wrong place.

Still, everything seems right. The linoleum floor is cracked in the same patterns as our kitchen. The end of the counter is piled with the magazines that Mom says she’ll read someday but never will. The drying rack is filled with glasses and plates that will go from table to sink to drying rack then back to table without ever making it back into a cabinet. The refrigerator is covered with the misshapen vegetable magnets that Charlie made in Cub Scouts last year. They’re holding up one of Julia’s spelling test (100 percent), expired appointment cards from doctors and dentists, coupons, a photo of Mom and Auntie Carole at some party last year, and a to-do list that I wrote about a year ago and haven’t touched since.

It has just one item on it:

Don’tThis was Mrs. Newfang’s idea. She says that most of the time, the best thing for me to do is nothing. This doesn’t apply to things like homework or chores, but I wish it would. It’s a to-do list for when I’m feeling angry or sad or embarrassed. Whenever I get “emotionally charged,” which is Mrs. Newfang’s way of saying “pissed off.” Instead of do, I should don’t. Instead of acting impulsively (one of Mrs. Newfang’s favorite words), I’m supposed to think first and do as little as possible.

Do nothing at all if possible.

I don’t know if the to-do list has done any good, but I see it a dozen times a day, so maybe it’s sunk in a little without me knowing it. Osmosis.

I look from the refrigerator to the pantry and then back around to the table. It’s all how it should be. I’m not in the wrong place. This is my kitchen. Everything is right except for the woman at the stove.

She is not my mother.

Anger fills me up. It fills me up from my toes to my nose, which is something my real mother would say. My hands ball into fists. I clench my teeth. My whole body gets tight. I don’t think about doing these things. They just happen. It’s like a switch is flipped inside me without my permission and I’m red, just like that. Just like all the times before. I don’t want to be red, but it feels good to be red. It feels right to be red.

Why is this woman here?

Why am I the only one who can see that she isn’t our mother?

What the hell is happening?

I say these words in my head, but they are still red words even if I don’t say them out loud. I squeeze my fists even tighter.

I want my mother back.

These words surprise me.

I’ve wished my mother away a million times. I’m angry with her all the time. Nothing she does makes any sense to me. But I never wanted her to be replaced completely. I just wanted her to leave for a while. Get the hell out of my life. Take a vacation. Get her freakin’ act together. That’s all I really wanted. Go somewhere and learn how to be a real mother. And take Glen with her. This other mother is like the opposite of my wish. I wanted a better version of my own mother. The old version of my mother, really, before everything got ruined and she fell apart.

I don’t want this new mother.

I stand still for a second, just being angry, being full, seeing all those red words, and wanting to hit something. Hit someone. Someone. I guess I was wrong. The to-do list isn’t working. I don’t want to Don’t. I want to Do.

I count down from ten in my head and calm down a little.

I learned this counting thing from Mrs. Newfang, even though I knew the strategy from when I was little. Everyone knows this one. I went along and pretended to learn it because Mrs. Newfang likes to help me, and Mrs. Newfang and I have to spend three hours together every week—which is a long time—so I try to make it easy for her. And I like it when she smiles and says nice things to me like, “That’s great, Michael. You are owning that strategy.”

She actually says, “You’re owning that strategy,” but I do not like contractions. When I was little, I avoided them whenever possible. I use them a lot more now, mostly because people used to think I talked funny and made fun of me, which always made me angry, and I’m supposed to be trying to control my anger.

But I still do not like them.

Contractions are like fractions. They are messy. Not exact. Fractions like one-third are the worst. When you turn them into decimals, they never end. You have to draw a little line over the last three in 0.333 to tell people that the threes never stop. The little line is like a sign that says, “This number is crazy.”

I am not crazy. I do not need a little line over me. I just do not like fractions or contractions. I like things to make sense. I just need to talk to Mrs. Newfang about stuff for three hours every week and take my medication and learn lots of strategies for when I get mad or sad or full.

No one in the kitchen has noticed that my hands are still balled into fists. Mom would’ve noticed. Mrs. Newfang taught her to notice, so she could help me de-escalate (another favorite word of Mrs. Newfang) before I do something stupid. This woman is definitely not my mother. Mom would be all over me.

Instead of hitting or throwing something or shouting at the woman stirring eggs (which I might have done three years ago and still want to do right now), I sit down beside Charlie. He is reading The Zombie Survival Guide. He has read this book a million times since he got it for Christmas last year. He doesn’t really think that there will be a zombie invasion, but he likes to plan for all the ways that the world could come to an end. He’s not a Boy Scout anymore, but he still believes in the Boy Scout motto—Be Prepared—more than anyone I know. He has canned food hidden on the top shelf of his closet that he thinks only he knows about, and a life jacket stuffed under his bed in case God decides to flood the world again. He got the life jacket from Santa last year, which really means that Mom bought it for him, which was kind of crazy. Just because a kid asks for a life jacket doesn’t mean you should give him one.

I don’t believe in God. I would like to believe in God and heaven and all that, but it just doesn’t make any sense to me. It seems ridiculous. Babies die all the time. If there was a God, babies wouldn’t die. Little kids, either.

Even so, I told Charlie that even God couldn’t flood the world in one day. It would take a long time for all that rain to pile up, so a life jacket wouldn’t help. He would need a boat like Noah, which is a bullshit story, too.

Even if Noah managed to squeeze every animal and every bug and every bird on his boat, which isn’t possible, what about all the trees and the flowers? After forty days underwater, they’d all be dead.

“Maybe next time God won’t give anyone a chance to build an ark,” Charlie said. “Maybe it’ll be quick. Like a flash flood. Then you’ll wish you had a life jacket, too.”

“Can’t God just shoot lightning bolts at us if he wants?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be a lot easier than forty days of rain? And a lot more fun for him? Kind of like a giant video game.”

“Don’t be dumb,” Charlie said. “Even if it’s not another Noah’s ark flood, I’m still ready for a regular flood. They happen all the time.”

We have never had a flood in our town, but I let that one go. Sometimes you just have to stop fighting and move on.

Mrs. Newfang taught me this, too, and I think she’s right. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, but with Charlie it’s easier than most. I can’t stand him most of the time, but I love him, too.

Julia is reading the box score from last night’s Red Sox game on the ESPN website. They lost again. Even though Julia is a girl and a year younger than Charlie and five years younger than me, she pays more attention to sports than both of us combined. She can also throw and catch better than Charlie. The dumbass doesn’t even care.

She throws and catches better than me, too, but at least I care.

“Did you talk to Mom this morning?” I whisper to Charlie.

Charlie keeps staring at his zombie book. He is reading a page about weapons. There is a cartoon drawing of a gun on the page.

I look back at the other mother. She’s buttering toast now. She’s left-handed, just like Mom. Or she’s faking it. I wish I had a real gun right now. If I did, I could make her tell me where my real mother is.

I start to get angry again.

“Did you talk to Mom this morning?” I ask Charlie again, even softer this time.

“About what?” Charlie asks. He’s still staring at his book.

“About anything. Did you talk to her?”

“Mom!” he calls out. “Did I talk to you this morning?”

“You’re talking to me now.” The other mother is using my real mother’s voice, and she is saying what my real mother would say. It makes no sense. How could she so perfectly replace my mother? I feel like I’m trapped in some scary movie, but not a stupid one filled with blood and guts. A real one. The kind of scary that you secretly believe in even while you’re trying not to. Like one of those old, black-and-white Twilight Zone shows.

I look at the other mother again. She is standing by the stove. Bacon is crackling and spitting in a pan. She’s trying to flip it with metal tongs without getting burned. I look closely. Maybe this is my real mother. Maybe I’m just not all the way awake yet.

But I know this is not my mother. I know it deep down in my bones. I know it like I know that there was no ark filled with two of each animal and no Santa Claus delivering life jackets. I know it like I know that Charlie will not put his book down until someone takes it away or threatens to punish him. I know it like I know that even though Julia is the youngest of the three of us, she will have a boyfriend before Charlie has a girlfriend and maybe before I have a girlfriend.

I’m angrier now. I try counting back from ten again. It doesn’t work. It’s a stupid strategy. I want to ask this other mother where my real mother is. I want to know what she’s done with her. But I’m too afraid to say anything. I’m afraid to know the answer, but I’m more afraid of what she might do if I ask. I’m afraid of what she might do if I stop pretending that she is my real mother.

I want to ask Julia if she noticed anything different about Mom, but thanks to my idiot brother, the other mother is listening now. I can’t let her know that I know.

Asshole Glen walks into the kitchen. He is wearing his maroon bathrobe and probably nothing underneath it. I give him a hard look. I want to know if he has been replaced, too. If he is the other Glen.

He’s not. He’s still just Asshole Glen. Shaped like a walking baby, all pale and pudgy. He says he was a basketball player in high school, but I don’t believe him. He’s got squinty eyes and a mustache and beard. He’s going bald. He combs his hair over the spot, but it only makes him look like more of an asshole.

I wish he had been replaced.

I watch to see if Glen can tell that this is the other mother. Except to Glen, she would be the other wife.

The other stepwife, really. That’s what I call Mom sometimes. If I have to be a stepson, she has to be a stepwife.

I only call her that in my head, though. Never out loud. I say a lot of things in my head. Mrs. Newfang says this is a problem. I’m supposed to talk about my feelings more. But I think I would have a lot more problems if I said what I thought.

Asshole Glen doesn’t realize that this is the other mother. He grabs a slice of toast from the plate on the counter and eats with one hand while he takes the other mother by the waist and pulls her close. He’s wearing brown slippers.

I hate this. It makes my stomach turn just thinking that his hands are touching my mother, except now his hands are on the other mother, so I don’t care so much. I wish Glen would run away with the other mother and leave me and Charlie and Julia behind. Then all my problems would be solved.

Not really, but at least it would be a start. Getting rid of Asshole Glen would be a great start.

“What are you guys doing today?” Glen asks. He is eating eggs from the frying pan with a fork.

“Fishing!” Charlie says.

I say nothing.

Julia says nothing.

“All three of you?” Glen asks.

“Yup,” Charlie says.

“I have a softball game tonight if you want to go,” Glen says. “You could be the batboy if you want, Michael.”

You haven’t been to a single one of my Little League games this year, and you think I’m going to go to your stupid-ass softball game?

I say this in my head, too. More red words.

“No, thanks,” Julia says. She is answering for me because she knows how I feel. She does this for me a lot. Otherwise she would’ve said nothing, too.

“Breakfast is ready, guys and gals,” the other mother says, just like my mother would. “Help yourself.”

I will not be eating eggs today. Not from a pan where Asshole Glen has already stuck his fork. Not from a mother who is not my mother. My mother’s eggs are good. These eggs only look good.

I eat toast instead. I stare at my feet. All of this is too strange. I should be calling the police and asking for help, except no one would believe me. If Julia and Charlie and Glen can’t see the other mother, a policeman won’t be able to see her either.

I’m suddenly glad that I’m still a kid. A teenager, really, but close enough. Stuff like this can happen to kids. Weird shit like moms being replaced by other mothers. If I were a grown-up, I’d have to be crazy right now. Mysteries and magic don’t happen to old people unless they’re losing their minds. If I was an adult, I’d probably call the police, and they would take me away to the funny farm, which isn’t funny at all. Only kids and grown-ups in books and movies could believe that something like this could be happening without going crazy.

I see Mrs. Newfang for three hours every week, but it’s not because I’m crazy (even though this asshole in my class named Luke said I was). I see her because I need to learn strategies. I need to learn “to see what people need from me.” That’s what Mrs. Newfang calls it. She says I need to learn to notice when someone is sad or angry or afraid so I’ll know how to behave. Know how to treat them.

I’m not sure if she’s right. I think I see all those things just fine. I just make bad choices. I do dumb stuff and say dumb stuff.

Charlie fills his plate with eggs and toast as the other mother and Asshole Glen head upstairs. I hope they don’t make loud sex like Mom and Asshole Glen do, because I’m not in the mood to hear it this morning. I have too many problems.

My mom is missing.She has been replaced by this other mother.I’m scared.My brother is stupid.Asshole Glen is still my stepfather.Sarah Flaherty lives next door.I have three detentions next week.Brian Marcotte will be waiting for me to do the thing next week.I don’t have enough strategies to keep from getting full.Today is payday.The letter in the yellow envelope won’t stop being real.


Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Dicks