A Mother-Daughter Bond

Plink, plink, plink. The silence in the room is cut by the constantly drip of water from the ceiling. If I listen close enough, I can match the rhythm of my breathing to the sound. The water, like everything in this house, is a result of neglect.

The ceiling, once a soft eggshell white covered in plastic glow in the dark stars, now stained with weathering, reminding me of the childhood I’d long since been forced out of. Plink, plink. I close my eyes, focusing on the water, the drip, the only consistency in my life, filling bucket after bucket, in succession.

A creaking shakes me from my thoughts, I should be accustomed to it by now. The house moans and groans with lack of care. The floorboards are split, the walls scattered full of holes. This house, one big block of cheese waiting for the mice to devour it at the end of the maze.

“Molly,” my mom’s voice sounds in my ears, if I weren’t listening for, I couldn’t hear it. Her voice softened with each year she spent screaming at my father. Now, her voice is barely above a whisper, cracking with each syllable like a floodgate threatening to break loose.

“Mom” I reply, sitting up in my bed. The bed protests my weight, another noise filling the deafening silence of this house. I turn towards the doorway, my mother already appearing in the dimly lit hallway. She’s tired, not just physically, although I know she’s had plenty of sleepless nights. She’s tired of biting her lip until it bleeds wondering when they’ll take the house. Her once full of light face, covered in a grey overcast proof of the storms she’s weathered. Her eyes, sunken and hollow permanently tattooed with dark circles. Her hair, once a beautiful rich brown. Now, a sad silver, the color sucked out with time exhaustion.

My father, once a man I looked up to, now, a man my mother and I try to forget. An unspoken rule of the house is not to speak of him, it’s easier to pretend he doesn’t exist. Easier for my mother to not think about his other family, his other wife, kids, pets.

I want to reach out to her and shelter her, she’s a warrior despite looking as fragile as a china cabinet. She steps into my room smiling a tight smile. Her lips are worn thin from shutting her mouth tight every time he argued.

She hands me an envelope with my name scrawled across in black ink. “This came for you in the post.”

I take it from her hands and she immediately clasps them together, no doubt hiding the gentle shake they’ve grown accustomed to. “I’m not sure who it’s from,” she eyes it wearily “there isn’t a return address.”

“Thanks,” I give her a reassuring smile, at least I hope it’s reassuring, our mirrors have long since shattered under the uneven foundation of the house. I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror anyway. Even my brown hair is dulling with the weight I carry day-to-day.

She leaves my room not bothering to shut the door behind her, the silence of the house amplifies all noise regardless of boundaries. Once I hear her make her way back down the stairs, I open the package dumping the contents onto my bed. A small black notebook falls out along with a pen and a note. I take the notebook in my hand. The cover is a smooth black leather soft under my fingertips. I place the notebook back onto my bed and pickup the note.

“If you could wish for anything, anything in the world, what would you wish for? Write it.”. I turn the note around several times trying to make sense of it, even opening the package again to see if I’ve missed something. Empty. I sigh and place the note inside the notebook along with the pen and slide it under my pillow.

I make my way down the stairs to where my mom is seated at the kitchen table, one of the only pieces of furniture left in the house. Make no mistake, it’s as eroded as the rest of the house. The wood full of depressions from plates clanking its surface time and time again.

My mother sits with her head in her hands not having heard me come down the stairs despite the creaking. Her familiarity with noise is just another residual of my father’s damage. I try to creep softly into the room to no avail, she quickly pulls her head up as if she’s been caught and throws on a fake smile to hide her despair.

“Hey honey what was in the package?” she asks me and ushers me to take a seat beside her. I sit down and pull my legs into the chair.

“It was nothing.” I lie, I don’t know why I do, but I haven’t made sense of it myself and I don’t wish to cause her unnecessary worry. “Just a book”

“That’s great.” She reaches out and puts a strand of hair behind my ear, “It’s probably from your father.” Her frown at the words don’t go un-noticed but I don’t comment on it.

I look at my mother and the mere sight of her face under the harsh light of the kitchen almost breaks me. I reach out and wrap my small arms around her smaller neck and squeeze her into a hug.

“I love you so much, Mom,” I tell her taking a deep breath, my mother’s perfume wafts into my nose and my eyes sting with tears. She still wears it, despite my dad buying it for her.

“I love too honey” She tells me cupping the back of my head with her hand. We stay like that for what feels like an eternity as if we are halves of a whole heart beating perfectly in sync.

After dinner, which consists of canned soup my mom found in the back of the pantry, I rush up to my room and shut my door. I run to my bed and pull the black notebook out from its hiding spot and uncap the pen.

“If I could have anything in the world,” I write “I would only ask for enough money to make my mom happy.”

A tear springs from my eye and drips onto the page smearing a few of my words. I laugh at my ignorance but close the book anyway and slide it back under my pillow. I crawl under my covers and close my eye’s willing myself to sleep.

“Molly, Molly, Molly!” I hear my mom yell and my eyes shoot open, my heart races. My mother never speaks above a whisper and her yell awakens every nerve in my body.

I run downstairs where I find her standing in the kitchen clutching an envelope and a letter in her hand. Tears are streaming down her face and her eyes are fixed on the letter.

“Mom what’s wrong?” I panic rushing to her aid. She’s crying harder and she hands me the letter.

“Dear Ms. Montgomery,” it reads. “It has come to our attention that a debt of $20,000 was to be paid in your favor, we are deeply sorry for the time it has taken us to consolidate our debt with you, please accept this check paid out to you and our deepest apologies – National Bank.”

By the time I finish reading the letter I’m crying alongside my mother. She sits the letter and the check on the counter and pulls me to her chest and kisses my head. When she pulls back it’s as if a rainbow has come out after days of rain. She’s smiling at me, a true smile, something I haven’t seen on her since I graduated high school.

“Does this mean we’re okay?” I ask her hopefully. She smiles even wider at me and hugs me again.

“Yes baby, we’re going to be just fine you and I.”

I don’t believe in miracles, and I don’t believe in fate. But ever since that little black notebook appeared in my life, I’ve never had a bad day.