Coming Home For Mother's Day

While most people celebrate Mother’s Day with a nice card, flowers, and maybe a nice lunch or dinner for their mothers; my mother has always insisted I drop everything I’m doing where I live in San Francisco to come straight to Calabasas California , where she lives in her large mansion. For seven days leading up to Mother’s Day, I’m more or less a hostage in my mother’s pristine house until the day after Mother’s Day.

It’s the morning of Mother’s Day and I’m counting down the seconds leading up to when I can leave and not have to come back her for a whole year.

She’s laid out the cooking utensils on the counter tops, along with the ingredients, all of my mother’s hints telling me she wants her breakfast in bed like she did every year, with the recipe and measurements for the meal she wants this year on the refrigerator.

Waffles and blue berries, homemade, with light sprinkle of powdered sugar.

I take a deep breath and start cooking.

When I’ve finished, I walk up the stairs and gently open the door to Mother’s dark bedroom.

“Happy Mother’s Day.” I say in a soft voice.

She stirs in her heavy comforter then opens her eyes. She doesn’t smile as I approach, but instead just waits for me to set down her breakfast on her lap.

Mother spends several minutes looking over the tray and picking at the plate with a fork. Then she pushes the tray slowly down her lap and crosses her arms over her chest.

“It’s not right.” She says. “Make it again.”

I stand there in shock, even though I damn well know this is something to always expect from my mother. I pick up the tray, go down the stairs, and toss out what I’ve just made and get to work on starting over again.

Attempt Number Two: “Not enough powdered sugar.”

Attempt Number Three: “You put thirteen blue berries, there should be twelve.”

Attempt Number Four: “You burned the waffles.”

Attempt Number Five. “It’s still wrong, but I’ll just eat it since we have a schedule to keep.”

The shock of this entire interaction is enough to make the average person laugh or cry. In front of my mother, you do neither, especially on Mother’s Day.

After breakfast I make Mother her coffee, which she takes black, thank God. I drink coffee with her. She drinks her coffee while she reads the newspaper, while I have to sit and watch in case she needs something else.

I take this moment to take a risk.

“Mother?” I ask.

She doesn’t respond, but I see her eyes and she’s stopped reading her paper.

“Do you think…” I swallow, then continue. “would it be possible to do something different this year? Like go to a movie or have a nice dinner. I know it’s your day, but I thought you might want to change things up a little.”

“No.” Mother says, not looking up from her paper.

I don’t know why I hoped for anything different, but it still hurts.

“You know how I like to spend this day. I don’t intend to spend it any differently. Do you understand me?”

I sigh. “Yes Mother.”

Mother finishes her coffee.

“Now, I will be in the bedroom waiting. I’ll give you ten minutes before I expect you to see you in there.” Mother gets up, walks over to me, then lifts my chin to look at her. “You know how bad Mother needs you today.”

Mother leans down and kisses me, long and deep on the mouth. I don’t fight. You don’t fight with Mother when she needs you, even if the of the black coffee on her breath make your eyes water.

“Such a beautiful girl. Mother's little helper, as always.” Mother says, her voice like the purr of a hungry cat.

After Mother goes upstairs, I go into one the cabinets and take two shots of vodka. Then I go upstairs to give Mother her annual Mother’s Day gift.

Her smell never leaves. Her smell never leaves my hands, my mouth, and my entire body. Her howling screams never stop ringing in my ears, no matter what loud music I play to drown out the sound. Even though this has happened every single Mother’s Day since I was five years old when my father left for a young beautiful actress down the street from them, I can’t get mother off me, out of me, away from me, no matter what I do.

She’s gone down to the pool. I can see her from the bedroom window. All I want to do is go home and forget this happened, like I always do, until I have to come back next year. What’s different this time is I know nothing will change even if I just leave. Nothing will change, unless some actions are taken.

When I step outside, Mother’s floating on her back near the edge of the pool. She’s naked, her full breast breaching the surface of the water. Even in my deep hatred for her, she’s beautiful, beautiful and vulnerable.

She’s floated over to the wall of the pool, bringing her close to where I’m standing at the edge. Mother’s eyes are closed, so I take the chance I’m given.

I crouch down, reach out my arms, grab her by the shoulders and push her into the light blue water. Mother’s eyes open the second before she’s submerged, but I don’t let her horrified gaze stop me . I have one hand gripped on her shoulder, and the other gripper her dark red hair. The water splashes my face while she struggles underneath. She tries to scratch me, even to scream, the water in her throat making her screams sound like harsh gargles. The smell of chlorine burns my nostrils. I don’t stop until I feel Mother go limp in my hands, not at all different from the orgasms she would have under my forced hand as her Mother’s Day gift. Thrashing at first, and then going limp, while I was left empty, and full of shame.

I rise from the edge of the pool, her floating pale body still unreal to me. I take the walk to call 911. There’s no fear of prison on my part. Mother’s a known socialite with ties to powerful people, who won’t want a scandal with all of the dirty I can expose to the world about them, and everything Mother has helped them all get away with. All of it make up of tapes, photos and hard drives, all stored away safely in Mother’s safe, for a rainy day.

Also, Mother’s safe is full of tapes and photos of all the years I’ve come into Mother’s room for Mother’s Day. In an effort to keep getting off before Mother’s Day, without meaning to, Mother made it easy for me to cover my ass, should I ever need to.

The End