Mother-Wife

by Theo Stewart

Mother is at the stove stirring the stew that will be their dinner.

She’s barely added in the beef—lightly seasoned because her husband, Oliver, has a sensitive stomach and can’t handle many spices—when Jack runs in. His little footsteps are a contrasting soft, yet loud, pitter-patter, and Mother can tell by the gait and his sniffles that something is wrong. She’s unable to turn her head to check on him, not at this stage of the stew, so a new eyeball tears its way through her skull so she can get a glimpse of her son.

Image credit: Vinícius Müller on Unsplash

The third set of eyelashes are sticky and clumped together with fresh blood, but they do a decent enough job of parting the hair on the side of her head so she can see the tears running down Jack’s pudgy face. The sight crushes her heart to a pulverized goo, so when his sweet voice tells her he broke his favorite toy, love numbs the pain of two arms birthing themselves below Mother’s shoulder blades and ripping through her shirt in order to wipe his tears, caress his soft cheeks, and click the pieces of the toy together.

Jack beams up at her when he’s handed back his toy. He chirps a thank you, squeezing her leg in a tight embrace—he’s not yet tall enough to reach her waist—before he wanders out of the kitchen back to wherever he had been playing. Mother’s third eye seals itself demi-permanently shut, leaving barely congealed blood clumping sections of her blonde hair together; a temporary dye job. The second set of arms slither back inside her body with a wet sucking noise. Her blouse sticks uncomfortably to her back, frayed fabric from the tears chafing against the still-open wounds left behind. Mother can feel where clots had slid down her back and into her jeans, and she’s willing to bet she’d be able to individually pluck each stray fiber of shirt from the gouges in her back without a mirror.

She continues to stir the stew, absently noting it only needs about five more minutes to cook.

*

Wife gently lifts each picture frame and trinket from the mantle, carefully running a duster beneath where they sit.

Oliver lounges on the couch behind her, dressed in the ratty tee and shorts he’s designated his house clothes. Their TV’s remote is loosely held in his hand and he’s intently staring at the game. Wife isn’t sure what sport or team is currently on because she isn’t paying attention. She has too much to do to stop for a second of observation.

When she reaches the end of the mantle, she softly places the last photograph of Jack back down, leaving the duster beside it. Wife crouches and grabs the first of many handfuls of miscellaneous toys spread around the living room. She carries them to the storage chest kept next to the fireplace, depositing them inside to be organized later. It’s on her last trip when Oliver speaks up.

“Darling, do you think you can make a roast for dinner tonight? I’ve been craving it for some time now.”

She keeps her eyes on her hands, watching as the toy cars and miniature animals fall into the pile of toys atop the small bins they use as organization inside of the chest, briefly thinking of the contents of their fridge and pantry. “Yes, dear.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Her husband’s voice is distant, as though she’s hearing it through a wall instead of across the small room. Oliver’s voice always does this when he’s distracted.

Straightening up, Wife hardly flinches as a second set of arms burst their way through the thick scar tissue below her scapula. A loud rip follows the dull squelch, which she pays no mind to; she’s already in the habit of re-sewing her shirts in the evenings. Her head and hips swivel 180° with a bundle of snaps, crackles, and crunches more befitting for someone in their 80s, not a woman who’s yet to hit her 30s. Her original set of arms begins organizing the interior of the toy chest, an eyeball crowning in the palm of each hand so she can see what she’s doing, bones growing in length as she uses her newly aligned legs to walk to the kitchen to get started on dinner.

Roasts take a long time to cook, after all.

*

Mother is only surrounded by others like her—other Mothers, Fathers, and Parents all waiting for their kids to be led out the front door of the preschool—for a handful of minutes.

She’s never kept waiting long before she’s greeted by the sight of a sea of toddlers running through the door, a few frenzied adults in the midst who are attempting to keep a semblance of order. Jack is one of a handful making an attempt to listen to the teachers, but as soon as he looks up and catches sight of Mother, he beams and sprints her way.

Chuckling, Mother squeezes him tight in greeting, grabbing his hand to lead him to the car. She makes sure to spare a moment to wave at the tired teacher in charge of her son while she listens to Jack babble about his day. He’s always full of stories about what they learned, the coloring pages he completed, the adventures he embarked on during recess, and all about how much he loved his lunch. His voice is a familiar comfort, one that seeps into her bones and soul every moment she spends listening to the precious words he spews. Mother’s shoulders minutely relax at the pure contentment her son radiates.

Entering their home seems to remind Jack of a promise she faintly remembers making some months ago. He begs her to sew his dinosaur costume, the one that she “promised to make, Mama!” since Halloween is “next week!” She chuckles at his pleading eyes, further messing up his unruly hair as she agrees to get started on it that very moment. Luckily, Mother remembers the existence of a sweat-suit Jack is on the verge of outgrowing, so alongside her fabric scrap collection, she already has everything needed to begin the project.

Mother nestles herself into the couch and starts to form spikes to add to the back of the hoodie. Jack joins her, settling on the floor by her feet with his toys. The soft sounds he makes quickly become background noise, lulling her into a Zen state of productivity.

Measure. Cut. Stitch. Turn right-side out. Stuff. Attach. Repeat.

Time flies to the point where Mother is almost startled by the sound of keys in the front door. She blinks as she registers that it really is about the time Oliver arrives home from work. She looks over to the door to greet him, tilting her cheek so he has easy access to kiss it—as he is wont to do—all the while mentally perusing the pantry and fridge so she can remember what she had planned for dinner that night.

Mother-Wife is almost done attaching the fourth spike to Jack’s costume when Oliver returns from their bedroom, house clothes on. He’s also carrying a pair of pants, though she doesn’t even have a moment to question the sight before he sets them beside her, saying, “I’ve been meaning to ask you to fix the hole in this pair of work pants. Figured now is perfect since you’re already sewing.”

She nods in understanding as two arms thrust themselves through her torso: one just below the sternum, the other mirroring it on her back in between her 12th and 13th thoracic vertebrae. The positioning allows her new pair to pick up and start patching Oliver’s pants—overseen by the eye that protrudes itself from her shoulder—while also being out of the way of the original set of arms working on the dinosaur costume.

Blood and viscera slowly drip down her front and back, seeping into her shirt and pants. It’s an uncomfortably familiar sensation, so Mother-Wife easily shrugs it off. Specks of her insides dot Oliver’s pants, she briefly notes, then continues to finalize dinner plans in her head.

She makes a mental note to move laundry up to this evening.

*

Natalie meets the dull-eyed gaze head-on.

They’re brown, with an appearance of eyes that once sparkled before being stamped on, leaving behind a muted dirt ring. They belong to a head of blonde hair that’s currently dripping water down the neck and onto the shirt of the person in front of her. The face itself is on this side of too angular, indicating a life of little play and lots of work.

Image credit: Dekler Ph on Unsplash

The body tells a similar tale; almost skeletal in nature, if one were to undress the soft cotton pajama set from it, it would be covered in an array of poorly, and still-healing wounds. Gashes closed by the thinnest scabs; slices that have yet to begin knitting themselves back together; thick scar tissue coating several old, large puncture wounds, their shape implying the person was stabbed from the inside out. The skin itself is comparable to translucent curtains, barely capable of hiding the sinewy muscles and shot nerves that lie beneath. There’s a pink tinge around each wound, as though permanently stained by the spilt blood. Everywhere else is a pale shade of blue—their body doesn’t have enough to hold even a mimicry of warmth.

Tilting her head, Natalie keeps her gaze on the individual in front of her. They strike a conflicting picture of pity, guilt, and grief inside of her. Part of her wants to hug them, pull them into her arms and reassure them that life can and will get better, that all will turn out okay. Another part of her wants to recoil, wants to back away and run, screaming at the top of her lungs because of the monstrous sight facing her. These two parts war with one another, leaving her stuck while they wrestle with control, forced to keep her eyes locked with that grotesque image.

Slowly, without conscious decision, Natalie sees her hand lift and begin reaching out to the other. It’s trembling as it moves—from fear or something else, she isn’t quite sure. The other lifts a hand as well, their palm facing skyward in a silent plea for human connection. The empathetic side of her wins out, so she pushes forward, fingertips dancing above that bony palm, when a knock on the door startles her.

“Mama?”

Blinking, Mother pulls her hand away from the large mirror hung in front of her. She absently wipes her palms on her shirt, calling out to reassure Jack she’ll be with him in a moment. Breathing in, she grabs the doorknob to leave the bathroom, allowing herself one last guilty glimpse of that creature, with its wide-eyed, dismal stare, before she exits the small bathroom.

Mother is needed.

***

Theo Stewart

Theo Stewart is an art-lover and multi-genre author from Cincinnati, OH. Their work has previously been published in Flash Fiction Magazine and Happy Captive Magazine. You can find them on Instagram @theodore.k.stewart.