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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “the Statue” cc&d, v270 (the April 2017 issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:  |
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A Visit
Paul Bowman
“Hi, Mom. I’m glad you could make it.”
The mother looked at her son. Her face was grieving already.
“You didn’t have to come,” he added. “I would understand.”
They were seated in chairs that had chrome legs and seats and backs of hard plastic. The room was fairly large. They were alone except for a man who stood at the door and watched them from time to time. He was waiting also.
“Mom, you’ve been eating ok?”
He was concerned. His mother did not look well. She looked older since the last visit. Her face wasn’t the same. The eyes were puffy. Her throat had more wrinkles. Her hair had lost its normal sheen. It was flat. Dull. She should try a different shampoo. A better conditioner. And her breath had an odor. He could smell it. Had she forgotten to brush her teeth this morning?
He needed to cheer her up. He would try his best to get her to smile. To get her to forget.
“I’ve been putting on weight, Mom. All those years I stayed at one ninety five. Now I’m two hundred ten. I’ve got a little beer belly.” He pinched his abdomen. “I should go on a diet.”
He laughed. His mother was silent. He stopped his laugh. The joke wasn’t that funny, considering the circumstances. He looked down at the tile floor. Their talk wasn’t going the way he wanted. He wanted them to be talking a mile a minute, each interrupting the other, eager to share news, gossip, laughs, memories. He needed to forget too. He wished he could smoke. He needed a cigarette bad.
“How are Erin’s kids doing?”
“Good,” his mother whispered.
“The oldest, uh, Todd, is he headed off to school yet?”
His mother nodded yes. “School started two months ago.”
“Is he liking it? All I ever remember about school is either hating it, sleeping in English class, or cutting school after lunch.” He laughed.
His mother’s eyes said: I remember. I know.
“Todd’s have a little trouble adjusting. His teacher says he is disruptive,” said his mother.
“If he keeps up that crap Erin should give him good whipping. His no-account father ought to be the doing the discipline but that ain’t going to happen seeing as Erin has succeeded in running another man off.”
“There’s been enough of beatings and whippings in this family,” said his mother. “I don’t see where it has done a bit of good.”
The son raised his eyebrows. “Dad sure whupped my ass plenty of times. One time he hit me right in the jaw and I thought I saw a star explode right in front of my eyes. Whooeee.”
“And a lot of good that did you.” Her quick words interrupted and stopped his laugh and smile.
Mother and son were silent. He looked away from her. His face was warm. He could not believe they were fighting. At this time. During a visit. It was stupid to rehash the past. It was over. Over and done with. Crap down the toilet. All the mistakes he made. What could he do about it now? Not a damn thing. The past was a hundred miles down the road. A thousand miles more like it. Why even think about it? He’d made a bunch of bad decisions, sure. Did he regret them? Sure. Who didn’t regret the past? If he could do things differently, you know, go back in time and do things the way he should have done them, well, his life would certainly be a hell of a lot more pleasant now.
He just did not want his mother to be upset with him. Not now. It was a good thing Dad had kicked the bucket ten years ago. He would have been truly pissed to know that things turned out so terrible.
“Have you been to Dad’s grave?”
“Not in awhile,” said his mother. “I guess I’ll go tomorrow.”
“That will be good.”
Another silence grew between them. Why couldn’t he have a cigarette? What kind of stupid rule was that? He was getting a case of the nerves. There was a knot in his stomach. He rubbed a thumb against a forefinger. He should be hungry. He had skipped breakfast, but that knot in his stomach killed all appetite. He looked at the walls for a clock which was an idiot thing to do. The last thing he needed to know was the time.
His mother looked so old, so small, so worn out from living and worrying.
He thought he heard marching footsteps in the hallway. The steps were far away. Far away. He was running out of time. He had to say something to her.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
She looked up.
“I’m sorry for everything.”
Her eyes became teary. “I said I wasn’t going to cry. I was going to be brave for you.”
“It’s ok, Mom.” His voice was hoarse.
There were definitely people in the hallway. He could hear them.
“I love you, Mom. You know that.”
The door opened. The man who had been watching him stepped aside to let four men enter. Their faces were somber.
“It’s time, Jacob,” announced one of the men.
“No.” His mother reached for his arms. She held his forearms with a painful grip. “No. No. No.”
The son lowered his head toward his mother. His lips quivered. He sniffled. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t! NO!
The guards came to Jacob. Two of them gently lifted him up and away from his mother. She sank to the floor, too exhausted from grief and worry to watch her son, his head down, surrounded by the four guards, shuffle out of the visitor room and go slowly, slowly to the white room that had the table with the restraint straps, the large observation window, and the two IV poles that held clear bags of liquid poison that would soon flow into his veins and kill him.
