Good Son, The

I will always remember my mother in the kitchen.
I don't know why, but when I think of her, I have this picture in my
head and suddenly I'm seven years old again running home from school to
have my mother bandage my knees and listen to my tales of woe.
Sometimes, as a special treat, she would feed me bits of warm bread she
had baked that afternoon especially for me.
The kitchen was always associated with laughter and fun, but maybe that
was just because my parents ran a bakery and we always spent so much
time in it.
My mother was a rather plump, capable woman, with eternally rosy
cheeks, an easy smile and a deft hand for dealing clips round the ears.
She was always bustling around in dough splattered aprons and had no
time for airs and graces. She was also the anchor of our family, which
was large in the way that only Italians know how. My father was smaller
than her, both in stature and spirit, but they were happy and they made
us happy. My brothers and sisters were all much older than me, so I was
mother's baby, the nearest to me was Gina, who was eight years older
than me and at the age when everything was "embarrassing", so we hardly
saw her.
Every evening, after the bakery closed, when Gina was out with friends,
and dad was at the pub, mum and I would make hot chocolate and go up to
my room. Once there, we'd curl up on the bed and sip the steaming
liquid. I would lie cuddled up to her feeling safe and warm and my mum
would read me stories. I was fascinated by knights and dragons and we'd
make up our own little adventures, where I would be the knight and
rescue mum from the dragon. Mum had even made me a dragon from old
curtain material, and I named him Spike. He was my constant companion,
aside from mum.
Mum had a way of making the stories come alive and soon I was imagining
myself as a great knight much of the time. I had my own theory on how
to defend my family from evil and I was deadly serious about it. I
believed that if I carefully avoided all the cracks in the pavement
nothing bad would happen. For underneath the slabs of innocent
concrete, great monsters were lurking, waiting to rise up and hurt us.
I always walked quickly through the street with my head down,
concentrating hard on the cracks. Dad always laughed at my obsession
and ruffled my hair. Gina called me crazy. But mum, mum was different.
She instinctively understood and often joined me in my quest for the
protection of our family. Together, side by side, we solemnly patrolled
the High Street, intent on our mission and oblivious to anything
else.
When one day, a few weeks before my eighth birthday, mum had to go away
for a few days, I knew something was wrong. She held me close to her,
tighter than usual I felt.
"Alexander," she said , clasping my hand in her much larger one. "You
will protect the family for me and look after daddy till I get home..."
Her smile reassured me that all was well, but later that evening I was
no longer sure. I had crept downstairs with Spike tucked under my arm,
eager for a drink of water, when I heard voices at the kitchen door and
saw the shadow of two silhouettes in a close embrace. My mother and
father were whispering to each other and it was impossible to miss the
undertone of urgency in their voices.
"So you'll be okay while I get everything checked out?"
"Don't worry, Maria. What's important is that you get that lump checked
out and come home safe and sound."
"Yes, but I hate to leave the bakery at such a busy time, and you need
me..."
"Maria, you have to do what the doctor says. I'm not letting you take
any chances with this." My parents kissed once more and I could see my
mother was frightened. As quietly as I could, I turned and fled,
wondering what was going on.
Over the next few days, dad took good care of us, or at least he did
the best he could. He didn't go drinking at the pub, but it was clear
from his preoccupied manner that there would not be hot chocolate and
bed time stories. For once Gina was at home, but spending so much time
on the phone that dad hit the roof, ranting that mum might be trying to
ring. I retreated to my room.
I was relieved when mum came home, but it was apparent that something
was dreadfully wrong. Both mum and dad were unnaturally quiet for the
first few days, and there were no knight stories or happy smiles. Dad
still wasn't going to the pub, but spending evenings with us. Unnatural
evenings where everybody pretended they were having a good time. Many
times I heard mum crying when she thought no one was listening, but for
us she remained dry eyed.
One day mum sat me down and spoke to me about the future. The thing I
couldn't understand, was that she spoke as if it was without her.
"But mum, you'll be there when I go to the big school," I exclaimed
when she told me I had to be a good boy and work hard at school. Mum
swallowed painfully and leaned towards dad for support, as if she was
too weak to sit up. In a voice that wavered, she told me the news that
rocked me to my very core.
"Darling," she took my hand. "You know I love you, don't you?" I
nodded. That had never been a question. "I've got cancer. The doctor
says I haven't got very long." I was shocked. How could this have
happened? I'd been so careful. I'd never trodden on any cracks. It must
have been her. "Mum, you broke the code. You must have! You must have
stepped on a crack...you...you." I was getting excited, almost shouting
at my mother and she seemed to shrink from me as if the knowledge that
I knew was almost too much to bear. Suddenly my father stepped in and
shook me angrily.
"Don't you know what's happening, boy!? It's not a game. You bloody
stupid boy. You can't determine life by dodging cracks in the pavement.
Your mother needs you for God's sake, so snap out of this dream world
you live in!" I stared at him, dumbfounded as my mother tried to say
something. He had never spoken to me like that before. Never. In a
flash of hot anguish I turned and raced from the room.
Once in my own room I threw myself on the bed and pummeled the pillows
with my fists angrily. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Spike
the dragon and realised something I had never known before...My mother
was dying and she was not invincible. All my stories and plans had been
lies. I couldn't save my mother. I was no knight. I was just a stupid
kid like my father had said. In tears, I pulled Spike down and tore at
him, trying to demolish the evidence. Then I realised what I was doing,
destroying my most treasured toy, one my mother had made. Crying even
more wildly, I hit Spike repeatedly and collapsed on the bed.
There was a knock on my door and mum came in suddenly, looking frail
and old. She tried to smile at me as she sat down beside me on the bed.
I put my head on her lap and she stroke my hair which was disheveled
and damp with sweat.
"It was all a lie, wasn't it?" I burst out and her hands, cold on my
hot little head, paused for a moment.
"No, I don't think so," she said quietly, instinctively knowing what I
was talking about as she always had done.
"You'll always be my knight, Alex, you have kept me going since I found
out, and you're going to have to be very brave when I'm gone and take
care of daddy. He's never been very strong and he needs me, but you're
like me. You'll need to draw upon every knight story we've ever read
together to keep your strength through this. Remember that I love you
and I'll always be with you, forever." We came close together and
hugged. She had lost weight in the short time she'd been home, but she
was still my mother. "What's this?" She pulled out Spike from where I'd
thrown him. "Poor Spike, he has been in the wars. I'll fix him if you
like?" She didn't question, she simply took my treasured dragon and
sewed up the holes with large shaky stitches. Even that was an effort
now.
The night before she moved into the comfortable nursing home she
insisted that we make hot chocolate and read knight stories together.
Although my heart was no longer in it, I did it for her. By the end my
heart was full, and my eyes were brimming over. We both cried.
Mum died two months after my eighth birthday with her family around
her, Dad just fell apart after that and nothing was ever the same. Like
I said, she was the anchor of our family. I never avoid the cracks in
the pavements now. Spike the dragon is my only reminder of the knight
scenes mum and I once so enjoyed. He sits on the shelf looking down at
me, and every day that goes past he looks less like a dragon and more
like a stuffed toy, roughly sewn together with curtain material and
shaky stitches. My mother's final labour of love.