Shadowed Soul (26 page)

“Thomas, I don't love you any less,” said Beth with motherly assurance.  “And how you're feeling, honey, I don't think it is so unusual, really.”  Beth glanced at Sophie for reinforcement.  Sophie nodded a little.

“One thing that I have always found interesting,” said Sophie.  “…is that when a baby is born it often tends to look a little bit more like the father.  Perhaps this is nature’s way of ensuring that the father will bond with it.”

“A form of biological protection,” interjected Beth with a wry grin.

“That and his cuteness,” I said, picking up on the levity.

“There are so many men who spend the beginning of the child's lives being jealous,” explained Sophie.  “It's not unusual and it's nothing that you should judge yourself over, Thomas. It's a biological and psychological phenomenon and the truth is that most men get beyond it and find deep love for their children.”

“He's almost a year old, Sophie.  Why don't I love him yet?”  My voice cracked.

“How much time have you actually spent with him, Thomas?” asked Sophie.  “Since he's been born how many hours have you actually spent getting to know your son? Logistically how could you possibly have developed any emotion for someone you've hardly met?”  Sophie paused and smiled a little. “I can’t speak for Beth but I’d wager she’s found that her emotions have been slightly mixed up too just by having a baby in the house.”

“Oh, God, yes,” chuckled Beth, clearly enjoying this opportunity to cut loose.  “I am all over the place with Jonathan.  I love him, but sometimes I wish he would, like, move out and get a job, because my life is almost completely devoted to him. I hardly have time to shower if my parents aren’t around to watch him.  I don't resent him for it but sometimes, when I'm really tired or I think I’m not on
Candid Camera
right now, I can let my hair down and be grumpy, then I do resent him.  He drains me.  He relies on me for everything.  If it wasn't for my mom and dad then I think I would have gone crazy by now.  How do single mothers do it?   How did your mother do it, Thomas?” 

“So I should have been there?” I said bluntly.

“Yes, Thomas, frankly, you should have been there,” stated Beth unapologetically. “But, I get you, I don't blame you for not being here.  I’m sad that you've missed so much because I promise you when you get to know him, you’ll realize he’s an angel.”  Beth squeezed my hand and smiled. “I look at him sometimes, and I just see you in his eyes.  I know that my eyesight is shot to hell but even with that he is so unmistakably
your
son.  When he smiles it’s your smile.  When he frowns it’s you when you do the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle.  He is perfect because he is your boy as much as mine.  He is both of us.  And the one thing about this situation that makes me so very sad is the fact that you're not with him because he would love you so much.  You are going to adore him when you get the chance.”  Beth smiled and raised my hands to her lips to kiss my knuckles. “I get why you found it difficult, Thomas, and I can be patient because I don't want you to be under any more pressure.  But, by God, I wish we were together.”

“I do miss you, both of you, and I'm not just saying that, I promise,” I said.  “I do think of Jonathan and I want to get to know him but I need for him to get to know me under the best of circumstances.  When I’m well.”

“I understand baby, but please try not to wait for too long?  Or he’s not going to recognize you as a player in his life.”

CHAPTER TWENY-SEVEN

Discordant urgency from a ringing phone infected my nightmare and gave the street an apocalyptic resonance.  Lurking at the end of the street, the tall stranger stared at me, his face obscured under his hat.  Flanking him still were two meter-high bundles enshrouded in filthy bed sheets.  About 15 feet from him, I stopped and put my hand in my pocket.  My fingers curled around the handle of the revolver I had brought to kill this man, destroy his power over me.  He chortled malevolently, while he enjoyed the fact that my hands shook as I produced a gun from my pocket.  He welcomed the challenge and mocked my insecurity.  Twisted with age his hands slowly reached down to grasp onto each grimy bundle at his sides.  Whisking away the soiled sheets to reveal what he had hidden beneath, I felt sick.  The stranger unveiled his cargo:  Two pairs of eyes stared at me imploringly, pleading for my help.  My resolve vanished in hot vapor.  I awoke, gripping my pillow.

To my relief, Bailey lay at my feet, oblivious to the ringing telephone.  Late morning sun streamed through the curtains.  I fumbled for my cell.

“Hello, is that Thomas?”  I did not recognize the voice.

“Yes, who’s this?” I waited, probably a telemarketer.  “Florence?”

“Your mom’s neighbor,” said the woman. “I’m nearly finished sorting and packing.  I thought you might want to come get a few items.  A letter addressed to you.  And some sweet ornaments that look like gifts maybe you gave her.”

“Of course, sorry, Florence,” I mumbled.  The dream had disorientated me and I did not want this kind woman to know that I had been sleeping till nearly noon while she was slogging through my mother’s personal effects for me.  Florence obviously held affection for my mom and I respected that.  After all, this kind-hearted neighbor had already bagged up all remaining clothes and kitchen ware for charity.  The least I could do was make time see what Florence had concerns about.

“And there are a few items, I just adore, in case they are not dear to you, Thomas.  It would mean so much to me if I could keep them.  Your mother was very kind to me.”

“Please, take what you want, Florence,” I insisted.

“They aren’t worth much, I’m guessing, I just, well, I thought that it would be nice to have something that made your mom happy as a reminder of how she had helped me out,” said Florence, obviously embarrassed.  I wanted nothing from that woman’s house.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Florence.  What things did you want?” I asked patiently.

“There’s a little figurine of a lady walking her dog.  It’s not expensive, I think, but it was something your mother was so very proud of,” said Florence.

“What figurine?”  I felt a weight on my chest as I rewound to childhood.

“It was on her mantelpiece.  She had it for as long as I knew her.”

“Can you describe it please, Florence?”

“I’m sure that it’s not worth much money,” stuttered Florence, flustered. If it was the ceramic figurine I suspected then it was worth around $7, which to me 20 years ago had been a fortune.

“Just wondering if it’s the one with the red dress,” I asked nonchalantly, hoping to assail her fear that I somehow suspected her of robbing me blind.

“Yes, red dress.  About seven inches tall,” confirmed Florence.

“Pillbox hat?” I asked.

“Right!  She’s holding it with one hand as though it’s a windy day and holding her Dalmatian’s leash with the other.”  Florence’s description catapulted me into a memory.

“Happy Birthday, mom!” I handed the package to my mother who looked at it with faint suspicion before taking it from me.

“My birthday was yesterday, Thomas,” she said in a flat voice as she examined the gift box.  I feared she would hand it back to me and order me to take it away.

“I know, mom, but I needed to get to the store and yesterday was Sunday and you said I couldn’t go out on Saturday.  So, I got it today, on my way home from school,” I explained, hoping this would convince her to open my gift.

“What store?”  She bit off her words suspiciously.

“McCluskey’s, it’s on…”

“That’s not on your bus route home.” She glanced at me sharply.

“I got off the bus and walked to it and walked home.  It didn’t take long.”

“In this weather?  You could have caught pneumonia, Thomas.”  In her line of questioning I heard only criticism instead of care.

“I was wrapped up, mom.  I just knew that you’d like it.  Are you going to open it?”

My mother placed my gift on the coffee table without unwrapping it.

“Later,” said my mother.  “We’ll have supper first.” 

My heart had sunk at this.  Yet again, my young hopes had been shattered by my mom’s continuing rejection of me.  All I had wanted to do was give my mom a birthday gift and for her to smile and accept it, even if she didn’t like it, but I knew she would like this one.  At least I thought she had admired it once when we were in the store together.  However it seemed to me that she had so little interest in me that she could not even spare a few minutes to open my gift.  Her apparent disinterest hurt me a great deal, more than I wanted to let her know.  We ate dinner in silence and after, as I had suspected, the gift remained unopened, until I was sent to bed.  I was afraid to pester her again, and instead, had lain awake for hours, resentment bubbling in my young heart.  The next morning I noticed the red dress and Dalmatian on her mantelpiece.  My mother neither mentioned the figurine nor thanked me over breakfast.  By the time I came home from school it seemed as though she had completely forgotten about it.

“Thomas, are you still there?” Florence sounded concerned.

“Sorry, yes, of course you can keep it.  Any others you’d like, Florence?”

Florence then described a second ornament my mother had loved, that Florence wanted to keep.  Again it was a childhood gift from me to my mother.  I had assumed my mother had had no interest in it.  Of course, I said Florence could keep it.  And, we set a time for me to come collect my mother’s miscellaneous papers and the envelope addressed to me.

The thought of an envelope from my mother addressed to me was laughable, the woman who had never once written to me.  It was as if she was now reaching back from the grave for one last jab.  I hung up with Florence and I convinced myself I would destroy the envelope unopened.  I had a few hours to kill before I had to leave to meet Florence, so I walked Bailey, reminded of the windy-day figurine.  With one hour remaining, I blew off showering and skidded through the world of online pornography.

The bus journey to my mother’s former home seemed to stretch on forever.  I had tried not to second-guess what would be in the letter or what the paperwork might contain but my mind had latched on to a number of dark possibilities. By the time I arrived, I had become convinced that the letter would explain how much she despised me and that her attitude to me in life had all been my fault. I did not want to read it, I did not want to take receipt of any of it, and pondered cancelling the appointment with Florence.  But what would I do?  Just not show up?  Leave a lame message?  Maybe having written evidence of my mother’s disdain for me would serve as proof to Sophie that I was not completely paranoid.

I planned to just stop, drop and roll; I would thank Florence, grab the papers and bolt. I had hoped that Bailey’s presence would discourage Florence from inviting me in.  But she loved dogs. I literally had no choice but to go inside.  Chafing to leave, I had sat drinking coffee and eating
Oreo’s
as Florence waxed lyrical about my
wonderful
mother.

“Such a warm and helpful woman,” exclaimed Florence.  “She was so friendly and caring.  Our whole community is really going to miss her.  She brought so many people back together.  And helped young girls who had been abused, who came to the shelter at church.”

I fought the urge to laugh and scream into Florence’s face that my mother was a cruel, insensitive bitch.  I wanted Florence to know that my mother had fucked up my entire life.  She had chased my father away and so I had grown up a disillusioned freak. It was obvious to me that Florence had nothing but warm affection for the memory of my mother and it really was not my place to do anything to take that from her.  And so I listened to her stories and nodded at appropriate times.  I would never have to see Florence again; I could bear it for a little while. After several hours listening, Florence went through to another room and brought out a large shoe box.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Florence,” I said, taking the shoe box.  “I really appreciate all your help.  You’ve been amazing.”

“Keep in touch,” urged Florence.  In my mind I declared I would not, but shook her hand heartily.  She had saved me from having to suffer through my mother’s belongings.

What was weird was that my determination to just chuck the box had been dispatched.  Florence's reminiscences teased my curiosity.  I had had no idea my mother had been of any service to anyone other than her own sad self.  I sat with the box on my knee all the way home, itching to get home and open it in private.  I needed to talk to Beth about it, and, Sophie.  Get their opinion.  What if these papers had an effect on me; Beth needed to be prepared for repercussions.  Sophie had taught me that I did not live in a vacuum and that my decisions and actions resonated in people's lives.  I needed to consider the ripple effect when making big decisions.

At the apartment, I left the box on the kitchen table and fed Bailey and myself.  The whole time I felt each mouthful of my dinner interrupted by curiosity.  Finally, I grabbed the phone and hit speed dial.

“Sophie, sorry to bother you.  Thomas Milton, I,” I stammered.  “You did say that I could call if I ever had an emergency.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It was late.  Sophie sat opposite me, hands clasped, her pen placed at a safe distance from her reach; her presence was a steady comfort as I read my mother’s letter.

“Dear Thomas,

“I don't know if you will ever read this letter, maybe it would be for the best if you never did but I just want to explain why I have been such a terrible mother to you. I have so much wanted to be able to let you know that my behavior has never been your fault.”

In disbelief, I looked up at Sophie who responded with a nod.

“Continue if you’d like, Thomas,” said Sophie.  I read on.

“I have punished you for such a long time, Thomas, but there has been nothing to punish you for. I know this makes no sense and I know that it will not make you feel better but I have only ever loved one person in my life and that was you. I only wish that I could have shown that love but I am a weak person and I never could and I know that you must hate me and I don't blame you, Thomas.  How could you do anything but hate me?  I have been a terrible, neglectful mother.