The Carbon Copy
by Christopher R. Martin
Chapter 7 – Not what I expected
Tonight's supposed to be a run-of-the-mill Friday night. All five of us gathered at the living room, enjoying each other's company over a movie that one of us has chosen. It's Anais turn this week, and to no one's surprise, her pick is a film adaptation of her precious Daisy the Donkey.
Gumball and Darwin disliked it from the word go, voicing their objections for everyone to hear. Richard and I calmed them down and urged them to give the movie the benefit of the doubt.
But as it turns out, you can't always practice what you preach. Not even ten minutes in, my husband is bored out of his mind, passing out from the uneventfulness of the film. I'm no better, either, barely fighting to keep my eyes open. What an embarrassing example we're setting for our kids.
You can't really blame us, though. There really is nothing happening in this movie. It's just its title character jumping from one situation to another, without context, without explanation, without sense. Someone has got to make a complaint to the motion picture association of this country for this shameless corporate pandering. Kick their doors down, stomp inside their building and use a strong, loud, imposing voice to get the message across. Eh. That would be my approach.
Oh, well. Anais sure seems to be enjoying herself, bouncing in her seat to the tune of Daisy's theme song, which plays—and I wish I were lying—every two minutes. Overwhelming boredom aside, the film isn't hurting anyone. And miraculously, Gumball and Darwin have lasted pretty long for a movie with no substance to it whatsoever. They even make the occasional passing comment about what's happening on-screen.
Not quite how I pictured tonight to unfold, but here we are. Under one roof, in one room. Close. Inseparable. It may not ever change, and that's okay with me.
Or perhaps there could be a few changes.
The doorbell rings in the middle of the movie. I gaze over my shoulder, wondering who would want to pay us a visit this late. Richard asks that exact same question, to which I answer with a shrug.
Standing up from the sofa, I cross over to the door and turn the knob, but immediately regret that decision. How… Why… What the heck…
"Good evening, Nicole," says an old, wrinkled cat with the same colored fur as me and Gumball. Her ears are pointed and drooping, and those eyes of hers are always narrow.
"Mother?" I barely get the word out, the breath forcefully pulled out of my lungs.
Her expression falters from hearing me address her for the first time in decades. She might even start crying because she can't keep herself together. If she does, then she should have a pack of tissues handy inside that purse she's carrying. Or maybe a handkerchief.
This is definitely not how I remember her. This is not what she looked like when I last saw her. My memory of her is far bitterer. Far more painful.
"Sorry for turning up in such short notice," she says, the warmth she's displaying uncharacteristic of her. Not what I'd associate her with. If someone told me that this is another person under the guise of my mother, I'd believe it. She pokes her head past the door frame to get a cursory look at my family. "I see that you're in the middle of something. I didn't mean to bother you."
I doubt that. But that's not what I tell her. "You're not bothering," I say in an effort to be the better person between the two of us. "But you better tell me why you're here on my doorstep."
"Actually, may I come in first? It's a little cold out here, and I should have brought a sweater or scarf with me." I'll say. What was she thinking, coming out here at night with a sleeveless turtleneck top?
Rolling my eyes, I open the door wider and usher her into the house. "Come inside," I mutter, unenthused by her unannounced presence.
Mother walks inside on uneven steps, as if she knows that I didn't ask for her to come here. I'll give her credit for finding out where I live. I don't know how she did it nor do I want to, but when the woman is driven, she will go to great lengths – the only good trait I inherited from her.
She wanders her head around, humming favorably at every sight she sees. I shut the front door and tend to my mother.
"I must say, Nicole, this is one nice house you have here," she states, probably as an act of flattery. No, that's not true. She really is impressed.
"Thank you," I say without a shred of emotion. They'd be wasted on her, anyway.
My family averts their eyes from the TV and looks on at us from their seats. The kids are perplexed, having never seen their maternal grandmother before. Richard, on the other hand, is as astonished as I am by this unceremonious visit by my mother. He has a distinct urge to say what's on his mind, but his gaping mouth and unbelieving eyes do the talking for him.
"Who's this, Mom?" asks Anais.
No one important. The temptation for me to use that as my answer is strong, but I am above my temptations. I can be. I will be. And for good measure, I put on a cheerful front for the sake of my children.
"I don't think you've met before," I say to them with as much 'joy' as I can muster. "Kids, this is your grandmother from my side of the family."
Taking notice of this, Mother approaches the kids to greet them. Just thinking of it fills me with copious amounts of bile. But seeing it unfold before my very eyes has increased that bile a hundred fold.
"Oh, what do we have here?" says Mother warmly. "So these are my grandchildren. My, they're more beautiful than I imagined they would be. What are your names?"
"Anais," replies our baby girl.
"Darwin," says our adopted boy next.
"Gumball. Nice to meet you, uh," our oldest boy introduces himself last, waving his paw at her.
"You can call me Grandma Senicourt," says mother, affecting a modest and casual demeanor. "And it's very nice to meet you, too." She turns her attention to Richard, who is nervous at the sight of her. I don't know what he has to be afraid of. "And Richard."
My husband leaps from his seat and stands attentively, like a soldier being addressed by his commanding officer. "Yes, ma'am."
"You haven't changed one bit." Neither has she, but she doesn't realize it, nor does she care. "How's Jojo these days?"
"She's fine, thanks for asking." Now he's breaking a sweat. Over what? My overbearing, controlling, toxic mother? What can she possibly do to him without arousing my ire?
This idle chatter is starting to get on my nerves. I take my mother by her wrist and yank her away from my family in fear that her poison will spread to them. "May I speak with you in the kitchen? Mother?"
She does not get a word in edgewise. Not that I'd allow her. This is my house, and anyone who sets foot in it is subject to its rules—my rules—including my mother.
I drag her to the kitchen and lean my back on the counter with folded arms. I fix my glare on her to prevent her from escaping. This is what she wanted. This is what those sixteen voicemails culminated to. And now that she has it, now that I'm giving it to her, she had better make it worth my while.
"No need to be so rough, Nicole," my mother whines, flicking her wrist to dull the hurt. What little I've caused it.
"Spare me the crap and start talking," I refute her, my words dripping with resentment. I soften my tone to keep this conversation between me and her. "What do you want from me? Why have you been calling me lately?"
Mother stalls on her answer by pacing here and there. She walks in circles for a good thirty seconds. So much time spent reaching out to me, retelling my childhood, salvaging the bright spots through those missed calls and voicemails, and when she's at long last given the opportunity to talk to me in person, she has absolutely nothing. I'm surprised that she's still standing, let alone walking, without a backbone.
Is she going to say something, anything, or not? For her sake, I hope she does. Otherwise, I will throw her out the door.
She lowers her head and sighs, her face riddled with difficulty. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, they're swimming in tears. They threaten to fall down her cheeks, but they never do.
"I've missed you, Nicole," she declares, clasping her paws together. She steps towards me, but I avert my eyes from her, and she stops and backs off. Don't come close to me. "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to hate me, though I can't really blame you for feeling the way you do. You brought so much pride and joy to me. I never told you, but I truly was proud of you.
When is she going to wrap this up? The dishes aren't going to clean themselves, nor will my homework do themselves.
"It was because of that pride and joy that I got carried away. You didn't deserve what your father and I put you through. You deserved so much better. Obviously, Richard and your children filled that void for you. I understand that you hate me so, but I'd like the chance to prove myself to you."
I still do not look at her. I can stomach petty criminals, inmates, know-it-all tramps, disgraceful cowards and a gorilla of a teacher to a large extent. There is only so much of my mother I can stomach before throwing up.
As I look away from her and stare at nothing, Mother's knees give way and she's down on the floor. She lowers her head and does something I never would have thought she'd do: she starts sobbing.
"Please, Nicole," she pleads, her voice cracking. Broken. "I'm begging you. Please give me one last chance. One chance to be the mother you deserved is all I ask for."
Sorry, that ship is sailed.
It's too little too late.
Nothing you do can ever make things right between us.
You had your chance and you ruined it.
These are just a few of what I want to say to her. And even then, it would not be enough to exhaust the venom I've amassed over the years.
My disdain for her aside, I can't deny that she is still my mother. That she is still family to me. That if it were not for her, I would not be walking this Earth to begin with. I would not have what I have, go the places I've been, start a family of my own.
Reluctantly I face and walk towards her. I crouch down and offer her a paw to lift her up with. This is taking more out of me than I want it to.
"Come with me," I tell her as I lead her to the second floor. I lead her to the room at the leftmost side, the one that used to be Gumball's room but has since remained unused after he'd turned three years old. Mother enters the room, wiping the tears from her eyes. "You can stay here for as long as you need. Do you have any luggage with you?"
"I'm afraid this is all I have." Her response is not what I wanted to hear.
I sigh, annoyed, and think of a solution. "Fine. I'll provide you with a few of my old clothes. They're still good and should fit you."
Mother passes a smile at me and sits on the bed with her paws on her lap. "Oh, Nicole. This is awfully generous of you. I promise you, you will not be disappoi—"
"Let me make a few things perfectly clear to you," I cut her off, closing the door to the room. "You are under my roof, and there are several rules that you are going to follow."
"Nicole…"
"I'm not finished," I impose myself on her, folding my arms, lowering my head and glaring at her. The sensation is therapeutic. "Number one, you clean up after yourself. The clothes you wear, the bed you sleep on, those are your responsibility. The only exception is tableware; either Richard or I will be cleaning everyone's dishes, utensils and glasses, and that includes yours. Number two, when you are expected to do something, I am not asking you. I am telling you. Number three, you will not act out of line around and towards my children and my husband. I want them to walk the straight and narrow, and I don't want you getting in the way of that. You have only one chance. Three strikes, and it's over. Do we have an agreement?"
"Yes… We do," says my mother, her paws clutching and at the center of her chest.
"Good. If there are no further questions, I still have a lot to take care of. If you need me, I'll be at the dinner table."
Turning my back on her, I open the door and set one foot out. As I make my exit, I am stopped by Mother's last few words.
"Nicole?" she utters softly. I tighten my paw around the doorknob. If I can just leave her sight… "Thank you."
The only semblance of a reply I give her is a muttered groan. I close the door, then my eyes and lean back. I am not the only one standing in this hallway. This other presence with me is inches away from me.
Knowing who this person is, I crack a grin and acknowledge him. "How long have you been listening?"
"Ah! I, um… See, the thing is…" Oh, my goofy, inept but loveable husband. He has a bad habit of falling apart when someone calls him out or he's put on the spot.
"Don't lie to me, I won't hurt you." I lift my head up, relax my shoulders and take a deep breath.
"Well, erm…" He flounders for a while and then finally gets it out there. "Only all of it."
"I see." I make my way to the stairs.
"Honey?" attempts Richard, trailing me. I stop at the first step. "Are you alright?"
I can't bring myself to answer him, so I go down the stairs in the futile hope that he drops the topic. Like a good, perceptive husband—which he is—he follows me, suspecting that I'm not alright. And his suspicions would be right.
With no way to avoid the topic, I concede to his whims.
"I wish I were alright, Richard, but I'm not," I breathe, going to the kitchen for a glass of water. And also to avoid arousing my children's interest. I take a glass from the cupboard, fill it up at the sink, and down it in one go, though my mind is still cluttered. My chest has been turned to lead. "I didn't expect her to turn up at our doorstep. Were you?"
"No, I didn't," adds Richard, coming to my side with a vapid gaze. "Seeing your mother now is like the first time I met her. I couldn't move out of my chair if I wanted to until she was gone."
"I thought that part of our lives was over. I thought we'd move beyond that." And I couldn't be any more wrong.
"So did I. Wait, was she the one who—"
"Yeah." He was about to ask if my mother was the one calling me.
"And that's why you've been upset lately."
"Yeah."
"I see." Richard taps his foot on the floor to dull the tension in the kitchen. He turns his eyes to the ceiling and then to me. "That was a nice thing you did, Nicole," my husband smiles, placing his arm around my shoulders. "I'm glad that you two are making an effort to patch things up."
"I am not patching anything up with that woman. I'm only giving her a chance. They're not the same."
Richard looks at me wearily, his mood deflated. That's just great. This night sure is going smoothly. I didn't mean to upset him.
"You should see Gumball, honey," I retry, hoping that this topic will lift his spirits up. "He's only a white belt now, but he's a quick learner. He's getting the hang of it faster than I did. He might even wind up to be better than me if he keeps this up.
"He's growing up to be a fine young man. Because of you." My husband pulls me into his arms and kisses me on the head.
"Because of us," I correct him, repaying his kiss with a tender graze on his cheek. He nuzzles me, and I shut my eyes to savor his touch. "Looking at him is like looking at a mirror."
"He takes after you."
"I know. That's why I'm scared."
"Why?"
"He shouldn't have to go through what I went through. I want him to live his life. I want him to make his own choices. I want to be the mother to him that mine couldn't be. But with the way he's going now, I don't think I'm doing enough. And now that my mother's here, it's gotten harder." I clutch my husband tightly, the urge to cry welling inside. I'm stronger than it. I can fight it. I will. I do. But for how long?
"Listen to me. You are doing just fine," assures Richard, rustling my head. "Like you said, you're a good mother. You're doing more than enough for him. They're our kids, not your parents' kids. They're in the right hands. Just because your mother's here doesn't mean she will take over."
"I hope you're right, Richard."
"I know I am. Let's just continue to be the parents we should be. Let our kids explore the world and guide them like we always have. Okay?" He touches my cheeks and gently pushes them together.
Comforted, I manage a smile that starts out fragile but affirms itself. "Okay."
