MOTHER DEAREST
By Michael Wright
Copyright 2011 Michael Wright
DEDICATION
For my mother, thanks for not being like this one.
Before…
THE DAY that Trisha Pierson was engaged to be married to Tom Morrison was the most eventful day in her life—until the day that she disappeared.
It had started out as it usually did, a few hours gone by, and nobody missed her. A few more hours went by, and people began to wonder why she was running so late. Trisha was usually punctual, to say the least. More than that, she never missed a date; she was always ready early, except for that single, fateful evening.
Tom was in the living room that day, waiting for her. Where is she? He asked, looking at his watch.
—Must be stuck in traffic. Her mother responded. She was going shopping.
—Must have bought a lot of stuff.
—You know Trisha.
He did know Trisha. And he knew that she would never have been that late unless something was very wrong. On the inside he had tried to squelch any fears, but he knew that was impossible, just as hard as it was for him to put to silence that sick little voice in the back of his mind that whispered that something was wrong. Told him that he’d never see her ever again.
Sitting in that living room, waiting for her to arrive, waiting to take her to dinner only a few weeks before they were to be married. It was going to be their last big “date” before they tied the knot. He had planned it all—gotten great reservations into a very nice restaurant, picked a great table, planned a place to take her on a quick walk in the brisk but beautiful air, it was the works. She’s gone. That little voice whispered, that little voice mocked. The terrible twist in his gut, like someone had tied his stomach with twine and were slowly inching the knot tighter—that terrible feeling that has no rational explanation, but you know exactly what it means, it grew tighter and tighter inside of him. Somehow, he knew. He just knew.
Hours passed. Mr. Pierson called her phone. No answer.
—She always answers.
They all knew she did.
He called again. Still no pickup, just the same cute voicemail message, the one that she had put on right after their engagement:
“Hi, you’ve reached Trish Pierson, I’m probably saving the world one hug at a time or just not answering the phone now, so leave a message and I’ll see if I can call you back. Bye!”
The same message over and over. They all heard it as they all called her. They didn’t get an answer to their text messages—nothing. Slowly that trickling dread grew to a flood, and Mrs. Pierson began to worry, really worry. The cops were called, but she had not been missing long enough, and Tom decided to go out looking for her. He found nothing. His older model Ford growled down the streets at a steady pace, the darkness surrounding him, the lights oozing into the black, cutting away the road in front of him.
—Where are you, Trish?
But she was nowhere to be found. He would stay out all night, guzzling Mountain Dew and coffee just to stay awake, and he would find nothing, nobody. There was no car on the side of the road, there was no cell phone out in a field, there was no trace of her missing anywhere. It was like she was just gone, vanished in thin air. Their hopes were sinking by the hour as their heart rates picked up, and their minds cobwebbed.
The search went on for days, weeks. But there was nothing there to be found. Nothing at all, they were without the slightest lead. The police were involved, but there was nothing that they did to help the situation. Her phone was eventually found—in her bedroom upstairs, tucked under her pillow, on “vibrate”. No lead there, her car was old and didn’t have one of the nice tracking systems in it and was nowhere to be found. There was no clothing found, no shoes out of place, no strange appearances. Nothing. Blank as a fresh sheet of paper.
—There’s gotta be something.
—There is nothing, Tom. Nothing.
—How can there be nothing?
—There just is! Don’t you think I’ve asked that question a thousand times?
—I’m sorry, Mr. Pierson, I really am.
—You and me both, son. You and me both.
The search went on, but there was no publicity. It was just a small blurb on the news, nothing much, not enough for anyone to see. It was another one of those cases. Just blown off to the side by the public who was more distracted by who was playing on Saturday in the college games then a young woman who might die if she wasn’t found very soon. Weeks later, there was still nothing, and Tom was with his mother, who had taken ill only a day or two after Trisha’s disappearance. He still lived at home; he and Trisha had been looking at an apartment that Tom had been saving up for, just the day before, actually. Tom stayed home, went to work, but aside from that he stayed home, looked after his sick mother and worried. The news became his life, and he lost himself in it, waiting for something—anything—to bring his beloved back.
But nothing came. Nothing ever does.
After…
TOM LOOKED at the computer in front of him, scanning over the comments on the site had put up to look for her, and finding, as usual, that there was nothing new. The web was about as helpful as the local news. No matter what he tried there was absolutely nothing and he was beginning to feel it all fading away, that glimmering hope that maybe if he just got her name out there, let people know that she was missing, then she might turn up. But as usual, he was disappointed. She wasn’t there.
He turned away from the laptop on the counter, connected to the Web wirelessly, and went back to fixing the chicken soup on the stove that had just peaked in temperature to a boiling.
The bubbling vegetables and poultry mixture sent small pieces of vegetation and chicken dancing to the top, shuffling as they disappeared back down to the bottom. Flecks of orange carrot, green peas and that bony white of chicken flowed around as he stirred it slowly with a spoon, gently swirling the contents around in a whirlpool effect.
It was almost done, he knew that much, the chicken was probably very tender. Mother would be hungry very soon. She needed her dinner that much was for certain, after she came down with that terrible bug she could hardly get out of bed. He had taken to watching after her, even with all that was going on with Trisha. Mother hadn’t said much about Trisha, not much at all, she had plenty to say before she disappeared. Perhaps she knew how Tom felt, maybe that was it.
The wonderful smell of the soup mixed with the emotion that was clouding Tom’s mind and he stared at the mixture for a moment, not caring what was happening with it, he just felt a sudden, sharp stab in his ribs.
It had been three weeks since she had been gone. Three weeks since she had disappeared off of the face of earth, and he still felt it, that worry, sharp as a box cutter, slicing through his soul, just as clear as the night it happened. Every time he cared to remember, it clouded up out of it’s hiding place and fogged his mind, a pressure that came from deep within his chest and reached high into his skull. He fought to push it back, shoving and fighting, and managed to get it behind a closed door. The worry, that tingling fear, slowly receded and he no longer felt light-headed.
The chicken soup boiled in front of him. He took the spoon and pulled out a small sample, holding it up in front of him. He smelled it a couple of times before sticking it in his mouth and slurping the lava-hot soup down his throat. It sizzled past his tongue and simmered in his esophagus, leaving a trailing burn behind, but it was good. It was outright delicious, in fact.
He turned to the counter and grabbed the glass bowl that was sitting there, waiting to be filled.
He grabbed the ladle that was off to the other side and carefully began extracting chicken soup and putting it into the bowl, k
eeping the monster behind the closed door inside.
The hot soup filled the bowl quickly, and he let the ladle remain in the soup pot, and gently placed the soup bowl on a tray that hadn’t been used in years before Mother became ill. The dust was still there in some tiny spots where it was impossible to clean, but the old metal tray was flawless aside from that. Not even a scratch on its shiny surface. He watched himself put the soup, spoon and glass of iced sweet tea on the tray in distorted detail.
The tray was one of the few things that was to be his when he moved out, Mother had already specified that, but it had been packed away so far he wondered if Mother ever thought he was going to move out. She was probably going to get it out in a few weeks as it was, before Trish disappeared.
Before the world ended, he thought bitterly. Before everything fell apart.
He cast the thought aside and went to work with the tray, picking it up and setting it on the same counter as the laptop as