Mother’s Favourite

One of Marcus’ earliest memories was from when he was 4 years old, laying under the old pear tree in his backyard. With his head in his mother’s lap and eyes watching her smile while the sun set behind her silhouette. There was a soft breeze that day, just enough to make the grass sway against his pale legs. Just enough to make his mother’s brown hair blow slightly to the left. The green pears not quite ripe yet shook periodically with their branches. Marcus still remembers the way his mom pushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear, she did it with soft hands and a softer smile, small wrinkles in the corners of her eyes appeared as she turned her head away from him to look out into the field. Watching the sunset with content. Marcus didn’t care much for the sunset, he was far too mesmerized by the beauty radiating from his beloved mother.

2 years later, that beauty would be snatched away from his grasp. When thinking about his earliest memory, the next that comes to mind is the day of his mother’s passing. Being only six years old, he was playing outside before he would go to sleep. His small legs running through the tall grass that had grown over the past spring. Chasing the blue ball his parents had gifted him for his birthday with outstretched hands. His mother on the other hand, would glance at him from time to time, although her main attention was set on the painting in front of her. Her thin fingers gripped the paint brush as she began outlining small green pears resembling the ones behind the easel.

“Mama! Mama, look!” Marcus yelled in excitement, holding up the blue ball that he had finally caught up to. His mother took her eyes off of the canvas, turning to look at her son with a broad smile.

“Wow! You’re really fast to have caught that!” She complimented, making the young boy’s chest puff up with pride. With a small laugh from her and a wide grin from him, he returned to the game he had made for himself.

If only he had been facing away from the road when he threw the ball once more. Instead, he tossed the ball as far as he could, causing it to roll with an increasing speed, brown hair matching his mother’s shifted as he began to run after it, sprinting as fast as he could. 20 metres behind him, Marilyn Johnson watched with a smile that quickly faltered once she heard the sound of tires on pavement.

“Marcus?” She called after the child, hand slowly lowering from the pear she had just outlined, placed at the lowest branch of the tree. She planned to draw her precious son next to it, reaching for it with his small hands. The same son that was now getting closer and closer to the road where a car would soon appear.

“Marcus! Marcus! Marcus get back here!” Marilyn yelled, urgency rising in her voice as a black blur drove through the gaps in the surrounding trees lining either side of the road. Where were the lights on that thing? As far as she could see, the only light hitting the road was not the car lights but a mix of their house lights and the full moon hanging in the sky. Instead of slowing, the young boy continued to chase after the ball, speeding through the field with faint giggles filling the air.

Marilyn threw the paintbrush into the holder before jumping up from the stool. She continued calling out her son’s name through hurried glances between him and the car as her jog turned into a sprint. Her bare feet pounded against the grass whilst her white skirt flowed behind her shins. As she closed the distance, her shouts caught in her throat, unable to escape as she took shallow, quick pants. She wouldn’t make it. She could see it now, Marcus would run for the ball and just before his fingers could reach it, he would collide with the speeding car.

5 metre distance, small feet in orange sandals hit the concrete.

4 metre distance, a black SUV rounded the final corner, making its entrance from the forest.

3 metre distance, the SUV was shining in the moonlight, and yet Jason McAllister, the man behind the wheel, who was still feeling the effects of that night’s whiskey could not make out the shapes of Marcus and Marilyn Johnson.

2 metre distance, Marilyn Johnson’s bare feet hit the grey concrete. Her hands reaching out as her son reached down to pick up the blue ball, the one she had picked out for him the week before his 6th birthday.

1 metre distance, Marcus’ hands clasped around the ball and he turned around with a grin, eyes closed as he raised the ball above his head.

“Mama! Look I got it-“ Screeching tires skidding followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground cut him off. Marcus’ eyes opened just in time to see the car lights go on from the black SUV. His eyes widened as he looked around. Where was mama? She wasn’t at her painting stool or at her favourite easel. Just as Marcus turned his head to the left, he heard the blood curdling scream that he would never forget. The one of his father’s. The same one that would haunt him 12 years later.

The police came 20 minutes later, and while Jason McAllister handed himself in, the damage had already been done. The last thing Marcus remembers of that night is the blue ball rolling out of his hands onto the bloody road while his mother was rushed away from their house in a flashing ambulance.

The drive home from the funeral consisted of silent tears rolling down Marcus’ face combined with pained screams from his father.

“What are you looking at, Marcus?” His dad asked with a stern look. Marcus, now almost as tall as the man in question, ignored his father. Instead he continued to look out the window with a loopy smile one could only describe as a drunken look. “Hey! I’m talking to you!” Irritable. Marcus thought, closing his eyes to look away from the wilted leaves and rotten pears before turning to his father.

“The pear tree, it looks better than it did last season don’t you think?” Delusional. Thought his father, taking the chance to once again remind himself of what his son had turned in to. Once a bright and quick learner with a promising future in academics, now a delusional, aggravating brat. All he ever talked about was that hideous pear tree. The one his wife had loved so dearly. The one that had gotten her killed. Resentment poured from his body as he watched his son.

“We’re having guests over. Clean the extra wine glasses at the back of the cupboard.” The broad man ordered, leaving the room before Marcus had the chance to reply.

With a cloth in one hand and a clear glass wine glass in the other, Marcus watched as a group of three men entered his house. “Right this way,” his father said, guiding the three men in construction work attire along with their large duffel bag. The three walked through the back door, his father going last with a quick glance at his son before closing the door behind him.

Who are they? Marcus thought to himself, picturing their work outfits in his head in an attempt to understand why they were here without having to ask his dad. Black, baggy pants, heavy shoes, white shirts with trees on the back.. trees. Where had he seen that tree logo before? Mom’s tree! A surge of panic ran through Marcus’ body as it finally clicked why the men were here. It was clear now, that tree was the logo of their town’s deforestation company. Anger began to build in his gut as he swung open the back door. Seeing his father gesturing to the tree while one of the workers measured the trunk only confirmed his suspicions.

Marcus stormed all the way up until he was behind his father.

“What are you thinking?!” He yelled, pushing away the arm that was in the direction of the tree.

His father took a deep breath before turning to Marcus with a warm smile, “Marcus, these are some friends of mine here to help us. Why don’t you introduce yourself, or bring out the wine glasses?” The boy stared at his father with wide eyes. He acted as if Marcus had merely walked over to say hi, had he not heard him?

“Help us? You’re trying to cut down mom’s favourite tree, how is that helping us?!” He began to sound more emotional, feeling the frustration build as their conversation continued. Glancing back at the men, they acted as if nothing was happening around them, choosing to continue mapping out the cut for the tree. Marcus opened his mouth to shout at his father when the man closest to him unzipped the black duffel bag. Just as he was pulling out a large saw, Marcus lunged at him.

“Hey wait-!” A moment before his hands made contact with the man, a larger pair of hands wrapped around his chest, pulling him back.

Looking up in shock, Marcus was faced with his father’s warm smile looking down on him, arms not loosening as he struggled. Harshly whipping his body in all directions in an attempt to wriggle out of the older man’s grasp.

“No stop! Stop don’t cut it! That’s my mother’s it doesn’t belong to you! Please stop! STOP PLEASE! ITS MY MOTHER’S!” Marcus screamed at the men, watching in horror as they sawed off the tree until the trunk was cut enough to fall on it’s side. With a final BANG! the tree hit the ground, rotten pears rolling off to the side as a way to not be crushed. Birds in the surrounding trees flocked away quickly, just as Marcus was let free from his hold. He was silent now, his throat coarse and dry as his knees hit the dirt. The boy stared in horror with a hand over his mouth while tears ran freely in long streaks down his cheeks.

“Come on, Marcus. Lets go inside.” The words hit the crying boy like a knife stabbing into his gut. How could his father just tell him to go inside as if nothing happened? As if he hadn’t just betrayed his own son, his own wife. The boy turned back to look at the man, glaring daggers through him. He wanted to say so much, wanted to punch him. Scream at him. But instead he simply turned back to the tree.

Marcus only went inside the next morning. Having fallen asleep out of pure exhaustion beside the trunk still embedded in the ground. The men had taken the tree itself in a large truck, he had watched, entirely silent with dull eyes. I’m sorry mama, I tried. He thought, watching as they drove away.

Marcus did not look at his father, did not reply when he asked him if he wanted something cooked for breakfast. He only took a piece of toast-that he wasn’t able to finish-and a glass of water before walking back outside.

Taking a sip, he sat on the step in front of the cut off trunk. Staring at it, waiting for it to grow back and for his mother to be painting it once more. Neither of those things happened however, no matter how long he stared, the tree stayed dead, just the same as his mother.

Just as he was about to turn back to go inside, a flash of green caught his eye. A sapling. Growing just a few feet away from the old tree trunk.

-End. (1,989 words.)