trial. His interest suddenly peaked.
“Morrison Pleads Not Guilty” was the headline. Tom was stunned for a split second by the headline. Not guilty for what? He tried to focus his attention back onto the paper in front of him. Something pulled him back, and try as he might, he couldn’t seem to focus on the paper right in front of him.
“Thomas?” Mother said.
He looked at the doorway and saw Mother standing there, wrapped in her bathrobe that was adorned with various Peanuts characters. Snoopy and Woodstock were busy hunting around for sticks or something, while Lucy pulled the football away from Charlie Brown.
Mother looked tired.
“What are you looking at?” She asked. Her voice was thick, husky from coughing and sore throat, probably.
He closed the album quickly. A little too quickly, but there was no taking it back. “Just some old photos.” He said.
“You’ve never seemed interested in those old things before. Looking for something?”
“No, ma’am.” He said. “Just looking. I haven’t looked at them in ages.” He didn’t know why, but something inside told him not to ask her about the newspaper clippings. Something told him that he should just ignore them around her, and pretend like he’d never seen them, but he knew that he could never do that.
“You haven’t looked at that in years, have you?” She sounded wistful, in the thick, soft way that came from sickness. “I think you were ten the last time we looked at those photos.”
He nodded. He also recalled that she had skipped a few pages. He knew what they were now, and why she had skipped them.
“Do you need something, Mother?”
She looked at him distantly for a moment, as if she had just retreated into another world for a moment, and then nodded. “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind fixing some of your wonderful tea. My throat is killing me and…”
He held up a hand. “Say no more. How much honey?”
She shrugged, two boulder shoulders rolling backwards. “You know, what you usually do.”
He smiled, placed the photo album on the table and stood. “You got it. Just go ahead on back to bed, Mother, you don’t sound so good.”
He walked toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her out of the room. He tried to mask that inside he was a stew of questions by glancing at the wall art as they passed by, a cheap copy of a Thomas Kinkade picture framed nicely.
“Why do you still wear that?” She asked.
He turned to her. “Wear what?”
“That ring.”
He looked down at the band that he had bought a month and a half before; it was the twin of the one that was Trisha’s. “Because, I’m still engaged, Mother.”
“Thomas, you know she’s not coming back.”
A dagger twisted inside.
“Don’t say that.”
“What?”
“Just…don’t say that, Mother. Of course, Trisha’s coming back. She has to.” He found himself touching the wedding band, twisting it on his finger. He didn’t know why he was doing that.
“But she’s not, Thomas. It’s about time you accepted the truth.”
“She’s coming back, Mother. They just haven’t found her yet. She’s coming back. She has to.”
Mother looked at him sympathetically. “You know she’s not, son. Why do you hold on to hope like that?”
“Because,” He paused, composed himself, “I have faith. I believe that God wants us together, and we’re going to be together.”
Mother huffed, a deep, wheezing, mucous filled huff. “I don’t know about God, but it seems fate doesn’t want you two together. Do you know why, Thomas?”
Tom didn’t answer. He refused to respond to her, he knew if he did he would regret it.
“Because you made a promise. Promises can’t be broken like that, it doesn’t work that way—fate makes sure promises are kept.” She smiled briefly, “Always. Sometimes it needs a little help, but fate wins in the end.”
He looked at her, and thought about telling her he had seen the reports, but thought better of it. It was hardly the time or place, and he would only say something the wrong way that he would have to apologize for later. It was best to be silent, just to let it all go. That was usually the way things were with Mother. You just had to know when to let go.
“And sometimes fate can do things all by itself. We’re the little people in the end, Thomas, what we do doesn’t really matter. Maybe you and that girl weren’t destined to be together.” She shrugged again, “Just a thought.”
“I’m going to make your tea, Mother.” He said and stepped carefully out of the hallway and into the kitchen. He looked down and saw that his palm had blood on it. He opened his clenched fist and saw the half-moon mark of a fingernail where it had dug into his palm. He paused and looked at it for a moment. On the same hand was the ring that he had worn for over a month. He wasn’t going to take it off, he didn’t care what it came down to, and he wasn’t going to take it off. He would wear it until they found Trisha and they were married, or until he died, whichever came first.
He hoped it was the first.
He pulled a silver pot off of the rack above the island counter, pulled the honey from it’s little hole shelf in the island and began to make Mother’s tea, trying to calm down. Trying to ignore her comments and the reports he had read.
Tom tried his very hardest to think of nothing as he made the tea for Mother.
Before…
WHEN HE had dropped Trisha off, he found that Mother was still waiting for him when he got home. He and Trisha hadn’t really discussed Mother much after their small conversation in the car. Trisha had simply gone on to him about how excited she was that they were to soon be married, and how her mother was probably the most excited out of all of them. It was Trisha all the way though, peppering it with humor, gleefully laughing at herself and Tom’s own sarcastic remarks. It was one of the things he loved about her, not taking her too seriously, balancing herself with her even sense of humor. Years lay ahead of them, years of that same laughter and happiness. The more he thought about it the more excited he grew, and unable to believe that it was actually happening to him. He had been thinking about it when he walked back into the room that night.
—You’re really serious, aren’t you?
—Of course, Mother.
The anger was no absent from her voice at all. The undertone of pain was what had caught him off guard however. She was not only angry, but she was hurt as well.
—How could you, Thomas?
Confusion broke everything around him, he lost all bearing on reality turned to his mother, who was staring at him unbelievingly.
—How could I?
—You broke your promise!
He wracked his brain hard to find what she was talking about. The silence that filled the air suffocated him, making it impossible for him to speak—unable to protest and answer her accusation.
What was she talking about?
The joy of the evening was suddenly gone. Thoughts of Trisha suddenly disappeared as he stood before Mother, at a loss for words and steeped in confusion.
Finally, he found that he could speak.
—What promise, Mother?
She looked at him as if he were insane.
—Your promise! The one you made to me that we’d always be together. Always. And now you’re going to go off and marry this tramp that saunters up to you at that church you go to?
Rage boiled momentarily, but was staunched.
—She’s not a tramp, Mother.
—Oh, please. Take one look at her. I know a tramp when I see one, and…that one…
—Stop it, Mother. Just stop it.
—I will not! This is my home!
Change the subject.
—When did I make this promise to you, Mother?
—You don’t remember? Oh, look how she’s got you, Thomas! Look at what that tramp has done to you
!
—Stop calling her a tramp.
—Now look at you! Forgetting promises, and talking back to your own mother! Is this what religion has done to you?
—Church has got—
—Turned you into a forgetful, disrespectful skirt-chaser?
—nothing to do with it. You’re twisting my words.
—You’re just like your father. Are you going to leave me too?
—You’re assuming too much, Mother. Stop accusing me and listen a moment!
Her eyes grew wide, as if she were unable to believe what he said. She looked at him, probably like she would if he had grown a third eye.
—Now you’re accusing.
—STOP IT, MOTHER! Stop.
Silence. Silence: splitting and still, breaking the air between them and cooling the atmosphere of the entire room around him.
A moment.
Then:
—And shouting? Does this not end, Thomas? What has she done to you?
Tom backed out of the living room and towards the stairway, the rage bubbling up slowly from within, a boiling cauldron formed in his chest and the fire grew hotter and hotter. He had to leave before things got worse. He wasn’t sure what would happen then, he’d never had a fight with Mother before.
Never.
—I’m not going to finish this conversation.
—Where are you going, Thomas?
—Away, before I say something I’ll regret.
He managed to get to his room before the cauldron spilled over and he kicked off his shoe and watched it as it flew into the wall and left a dent in the drywall. A dirty black crater right below a power socket still was there.
He stood, looking at the hole for a long, agonizing moment. For the first part of that moment he was unsure what he was looking at, then he wondered why he had