Do angels deserve to die?

It's when no one's watching me. Then I see my opportunity. How many times have I been on the verge of doing this? How often have I replayed this scene in my head? I've counted the steps. I've measured the distance. That's why I'm standing on the sand dune.

This height. It will have the most impact. All I have to do is give the wheelchair a good push. That's after all, the whole point. The speed at which she'll land in the water. She shouldn't just get wet. She should go completely under. Like she’s drowning.

The moment I give the wheelchair a formidable hit, Mother smells trouble. She may be bedridden in her own way, she might feel incapacitated, her wits have never deserted her. First, she looks around. Frightened, helpless. As if I'm betraying her. And I am.

"Stop! Stop!" she screams with all her might. The wheelchair, however, thunders at full speed toward the greenish-grey water of the forest pond. Ducks flutter up, a coot sprints to the bank. Gravel and rough sand crunches under the pressure of the rubber tires.

However, things don't go as I expected. Despite seeing the scene countless times in my head, I've never practiced it. I've thought about it. About reenacting the incident with a doll. But what if I'd been caught? Then my plan would have completely failed.

Just before the water's edge, the wheelchair loses its balance. A bump in the path? The result is that Mother is literally launched into the forest pond. With an alien scream, she leaves the seat of the invalid carriage and slides into the icy pool. Like a peeled potato is dropped into clean water, a hamburger into frying oil.

For half a second. Everything is silent. As if nothing has happened. My Father, my oldest sister, myself. We stare at the pond. White clouds float carefree over the city. Above us, seagulls fly. And a single goose. In the distance, we hear cars, buses, and trucks driving through the narrow streets of the city centre. The rhododendrons are blooming. We recognize the sweet, spicy scent.

"What did you do? What happened?" My father sprints to the pond. He's standing next to the cart. The wheel of the wheelchair spins as if nothing happened. My sister has now walked into the water. But she's mistaken. I know that. I've done my homework.

The pond isn't a dug-out pond where the water level is no more than half a meter deep. The small lake was formed hundreds of years ago when peat was dug in this area. And the current city didn't exist. The water can be two to three meters deep in this pool.

"Mama! Mama!" Then she disappears under the water's surface, only to emerge sputtering and cursing. Her long hair sticks to her face like seaweed. Meanwhile, my father waves his arms. He screams helplessly for his wife. Nicole! Nicole! Nicole!

But whoever we see in the grey, dirty water, it's not my mother. Not Nicole. Passersby, however, rush by. Alarmed by the yelps, the howls. Meanwhile my sister tries to clamber ashore. She grabs tufts of grass, but they don't offer much grip. She goes under. Again.

My father has taken off his jacket, sweater, and pants. A cold wind blows past his thin, white legs. His daughter yells at him to stay on the shore. Nonetheless, he tries to jump. Unfortunately, he slips, and falls into the pond. Like a dead branch. When was the last time he swam? Won't two people be missing anytime soon?

More bystanders have now gathered around the muddy foot of the pond. Elderly people, children, teenagers. They watch in astonishment how my father struggles in the water. You can see them thinking. Who needs to be rescued? My sister still hasn't managed to get to shore. The spectators are filming, typing messages, showing pictures and talking to each other.

They are pointing at the wheelchair, they are indicating the murky water. My father is screaming, my sister is yelling. And I'm observing the situation from the hill. Is it going the way I thought it would? And what did I think would happen? The hysteria, certainly. But I hadn't expected it to all be so slapstick-like.

Then police sirens sound. I realize. Now the second part begins.

“And you’re the son?” the policewoman asks “You said you were the one who pushed her when she slipped into the water?”. She has an open, friendly face. But her eyes are fierce and restless.

It’s ten minutes after the accident took place. Part of the park has been cordoned off. Police are trying to keep the bystanders at a distance. Divers lie in the water. My father and sister are standing by a van. They’re drinking coffee. Blankets are draped over them.

“The wheelchair slipped out of my hands,” I say. The officer nods and waits patiently for me to give my next sentence. Is that how they learn this during their training? To let silences fall? Because people find it troublesome? And then start talking on their own? To confess? I keep quiet. I know the game. Just because I’m not yet eighteen doesn’t mean I have to act helpless and naive.

“You understand how serious that is?” the policewoman explains. "Your mother fell into the water. And we're working tirelessly to find her. There's a good chance she won't make it out alive. So anything you can tell us will be invaluable input."

She's right. And without any effort, I can tell her the truth. I can disclose the facts. But not yet. I have my suspicions. I have a theory. But I'm the only one who can test it. The officer wouldn't understand me if I explained to her why the accident happened.

A loud shout is heard. One of the divers indicates he's found something dubious. The policewoman forgets she’s interrogating me and runs to the pond. Along with her, the rest of the officers on duty. A few onlookers manage to break through the loose barrier. So now the gendarme are busy sending the onlookers back while simultaneously focusing on the diver's discovery.

"She was such a sweet woman," my father sobs. I stand next to him and my sister. Even though I haven't been in the water, I'd also like a blanket. And a cup of coffee. But I accept my fate with dignity.

"Why does this have to happen to her?" my sister asks. "First she gets sick, that was bad enough in itself. And then, on top of that, she becomes paralyzed. Now this. While she's such an angel."

Whereas the police officers are busy judging the finding of the diver and stopping the many onlookers, I sneak out of the park. This is my intention. It's time to reveal the truth.

"So, how long have you been here?" I ask as I walk into the living room. She's sitting in her favourite chair in her preferred spot next to the fireplace. Her clothes are still wet, her hair looks like a pile of river clay. There's a puddle of water on the cherrywood parquet.

"You always suspected it," my mother says. I sit across from her in the beige polyester armchair. "As a child, I couldn't fool you. Even in kindergarten, you used to sneak behind the teacher to see how she did it, with those glove puppets during the show."

“It’s true,” I say. “From the moment you told us you were so severely weakened that you’d have to use a wheelchair to get around, I didn’t trust it. You enjoyed it a bit too much.”

She sits there. A wet doll, a soaked stuffed animal. Then she starts laughing to herself. As if something has occurred to her. Anything funny. A memory? A story? An anecdote? A dream?

“I thought I could get away with it,” she says. “Your father believed it a hundred percent. And your sister too. And what about the rest of the family? The neighbours, the churchgoers, soccer friends?”

I realize it. For over a year, we’ve known nothing better. My mother is ill. No one understands exactly what she has. But she’s constantly exhausted, she claims. Yet, she used to be such an energetic, playful woman. So cheerful, so inspiring. The life and soul of the family.

“I want my mother back,” I say. She doesn’t dare look at me. She sees her pants and shoes reflected in the puddle of water.

"My job, your father, his work, the family," she says. "It all became way too much for me. I think. Eventually, I couldn't do it anymore. Keeping up appearances. That's why, I guess. That act."

"Maybe I should have thought of a more delicate way to wake you up," I say. “But I fear, you wouldn’t have listened.“ Mother shrugs.

"Maybe, you’re right," she says. "I have been pretty hardheaded. Anyway, congratulations. You have her back. Your real mother."