Survivors Read online

Survivors

  A Short Story by

  Jamie J. Buchanan

  Copyright 2012 Jamie Buchanan

  “Do you really want to do this here?” I asked her, wondering if she would want to discuss this here, in line, at the post office. It was three weeks before Christmas, the line snaked its way through the shop and was filled with frustrated shoppers trying to send parcels to loved ones.

  I wondered, when I first joined this line, if they were like me - sending off parcels out of duty rather than love. A set price limit per loved one, the items chosen with random disregard - loosely appropriate to the intended receiver. In my case there was little thought given other than to fulfill my duty as a friend, cousin and previous boyfriend.

  Not son…I have no duty as a son. That role was not one I played any more.

  The vacant look on the faces of the shoppers in the queue belied the internal rage and frustration we all felt as the the post office continued to eat up our valuable time with haughty hubris. The workers here knew that this was our only choice to fulfill the seminal duties as distant loved-ones; that their delivery service was our vehicle to travel vicariously into the lives of far-away friends, even if only for the one day of the year we cared enough to send a gift. There was no need to rush or expedite this process any more than was necessary.

  And so we waited, shuffling forward with geisha-like steps every thirty seconds or so as the line slowly diminished from the front - only to be increased at a greater rate at the rear, extending the queue out to the doorway. The serpentine line of vacuous malcontents weaved its way through precisely placed placards and marketing tables, selling last minute gift ideas and giving the children something to break. Mini-people squealed and generally ran amok, overweight tired mothers issued a perfunctory warning which was given the attention it deserved by their misbehaving brats - none.

  It was as I was zoning in and out of reality, trying to enter a zen-like “happy-place”, when I noticed her in the line - about ten places ahead of me.

  The queue had snaked around so that we were almost level with each other, each facing an opposite direction but heading the same way - towards the counters. I saw her before she spotted me; she was hunched over a shopping trolley filled with groceries and a few small parcels. The smell of naphthalene wafted off her in a way that only the elderly can muster - mothballs mixed with mustiness produced a distinctive aroma that instantly reminded me of dusty rooms, hiding places… and sanctuary. It was the smell of escape and fear, mixed with the relief of temporary reprieve.

  My own special memory- my historical “happy-place”.

  When she spotted me in the queue, I was shocked to see her face light up. It literally brightened at the recognition of her son in the line behind her.

  My old Mum, 65 years old and weather-beaten, withered and wizened. The lines in her face, carved by years of stress and worry (not all of it caused by her wayward son - yours truly), splayed wide as a smile emanated on her face. Her blue eyes sparkled at realizing that her son, whom she hadn’t spoken to for about ten years, was standing in the queue behind her.

  Our eyes met - those same blue eyes. In the eyes alone, it was like looking into a mirror. But, apart from the physical ocular similiarity, we were poles apart. Her mouth opened to say something…but what could she say? She knew that words were not suitable, she simply couldn’t possibly say anything with any level of propriety or surety. He mouth gaped, the words failing her.

  She remembered why we were this way.

  I maintained a stern look - at least that’s what I was trying to do. Inside, I felt like I was going to smash into a million pieces. This old bitch had let me down so many times I had resigned myself to never seeing her again. I had built my memory of her up into one of a complicit demon - someone whose lack of strength and caring had left her only son out in the cold with no-one and nothing. She was foreign to me, a veritable stranger. I had replaced the childhood idolization of motherhood with a stone cold weakling.

  Then, to see her in that queue, old, frail, and still genuinely happy to see me…that just shook me to the core. I felt the guilt rush in - smashing away the barriers I had built up over so many years to protect myself. I wanted to hold her, hug her, take back all the badness and the nastiness. Instantly I hated myself for that - to be so weak as to disregard all that she had done (and not done) over so many years.

  My words failed me too - what could I say? How could I give her a carefree greeting as if we had spoken only the day before?

  “Hey Mum, how are you?” - seemed trite.

  “What do you want?” - I couldn’t be that aggressive, that confrontational.

  “Well…?” - no, that wouldn’t do either.

  I couldn’t let her think I harbored those old grudges, that pain, all the issues of the past. She seemed happy to see me and I was torn between throwing my arms around her and washing away the anguish and hatred, and tearing her to shreds in front of 100 people because that pain and anguish was still under the surface. One didn’t have to scratch too much, or dig too deep, to find the source of my problems.

  That was when I said: “Do you want to do this here?”

  I could see that neither of us did - but what was the alternative? We certainly couldn’t ignore one another in the queue as it wound past itself every few metres.

  She took a deep breath and I could see she was busting to say something - but all she could muster was a nod of her head ands he instantly broke from the time-sapping line.

  This was neither the time nor the place for this, but when was the time? We had had ten years to discuss this, to confront it. It was easier for me to blame her for everything but I knew that I was partly to blame for the fact that we hadn’t talked in so long. I could easily have picked up a phone, or been to the old house - especially after the old man had passed away - to try and reconcile the past.

  Exorcise the demons.

  Drive a stake into the heart of darkness that clouded my past, my memory.

  I had driven past the house many times, feelings of dread always filled me as I turned the corner into the street of my youth. It took many years, and the death of my father, for the heart racing and the high blood pressure to disappear as I entered the old street. But I still couldn’t bring myself to enter that house.

  I say “house”, because it certainly wasn’t a home.

  We stood in the corner of the shop, as far away from the other patrons as we could get. I had no idea where this was going to go - although I feared where it could go. Who would speak first?

  She beat me to the punch:

  “Son,” she said and I could hear the tears in her voice. “Son…” she could say no more.

  Her hands went to her face and hid her crying, veiled her shame. My Mum’s shoulders shook as she sobbed in the post office, a frail old lady confronting the past face to face.

  It took all my strength and pride NOT to hold her there and then - I still held onto my hate, my hurt.

  There were so many things I wanted to say and that I wanted to ask her. I couldn’t believe that she could simply allow my pain and suffering to continue. She did nothing.

  NOTHING! I screamed inside whilst trying to avoid the awkward glances of the other customers as they tried to find somewhere else to hide. An old lady crying in public in front of a younger man…it was not a scene they would see every day in the shops. They avoiding looking at us just as much as I needed them to - nobody wanted to acknowledge the obvious.

  I was caught off-guard, I didn’t know where to start. My thoughts meshed, confused, obfuscated. I was a blur of emotion - the past rushed back at me at a million miles an hour. I wanted to know why.

  “How could you let him do that to me Mum?”

  She continued to sob a
way. Customers shifted awkwardly - I had no idea how loud or soft I was talking and, at that moment, I didn’t care.

  “I was a little boy. I trusted him, I trusted you! Why weren’t you there for me?”

  “I tried to be Peter, I really did!” Her fragile voice broke through her leathery hands, cutting the air between us with its shrill protestations.

  “Really Mum? Really?” I was starting now - I had no idea how far I would go. “When? Hmm? Fucking when?”

  I felt the gaze of people on me - they burned through me like lasers. I couldn’t stop now, the flood gates were opened and nothing could hold it back.

  “Well?” I asked. “When he was feeling me up in my bed? You tried to help then did you? Or maybe when he made me suck him off in the shed…how did you try and help me then?”

  I knew my voice was rising but I couldn’t help it.

  I didn’t realize I was crying though.

  “It started when I was about eight and went on until I was fifteen - that’s seven years you let him abuse me. And you did NOTHING! How could you let him DO