Beckoned Through The Dark

13 // Lesego // A Can of Worms

My mother was drinking her third glass of water now. She looked pale and disoriented. She kept walking up and down, back and forth; and she was starting to annoy me.

Cecilia, Lwandle, and Abigail were still standing at the door, looking like guards armed and ready for war. The hatred in their eyes would be enough to poison my mother. Cecilia looked a bit worried, like my mom would hurt me. "Cecilia." I called, and she finally averted her eyes to me, after staring at Betty for a lifetime. "Please check up on Mrs Martins, she looked a bit unwell earlier."  Cecilia didn't waste any more time, she just nodded and walked.

My mother's head snapped up, her eyes wide in shock. Her eyes moved between me and the nurses at the door, you could have sworn she was crazy. "Who? What did you just say? Did you just call this woman ‘Cecilia’? Why Cecilia, I thought her name was Angie, or something." She asked, pointing her finger at Lwandle. I frowned at her; hadn't she met Cecilia?

"It is my second name." Lwandle said and walked away with Abigail. Why was she defending Cecilia? And what was wrong with my mother and her absurd behaviour today? "What is wrong with you today? Are you seeing ghosts? I think you should go and see a shrink." I said angrily; disappointed by her attitude towards Mrs Martins earlier on. Mom was so rude, Mrs Martins was old enough to be her mother.

"Don't try me young lady. I'm still your mother." She snapped, and headed to the door, "this is not over– it is far from over! I'll be back." She continued in a threatening tone as she exited the room. I groaned and ran a hand thought my hair. Could this day get any worse?

For the rest of the day, I thought about Mrs Martins, everything else that had happened today. However, my thoughts were interrupted by Cecilia; she just couldn't stay away, even if it was for a day. I just sighed and ignored her. Noting that I wasn't going to give her my attention, she just sat on the chair, and played with her white hair while watching me, which crept me out.

"You care about her, don't you?" She asked, and I raised my eyebrows at her, "the old lady." She clarified. A smile found itself on my face as I nodded.

"But why can't you care about your mother the same way you do about her? She's just your teacher." She prompted. A feeling suddenly hit me, anger, worry– I didn't know. I looked at her, my expression unreadable even to myself. She looked at me trying to figure out what I was thinking. She was right, I cared about Mrs Martins, more than I did about my own mother, but I had never said it out loud to anyone. I opened my mouth and closed it again; trying to figure out how I could put this feeling into words.

I sighed and stared at my hands as I fidgeted with my fingers. "She's more than just a teacher to me– she's my mother, my sister and friend." I explained, hoping that she would understand, but to no avail, "You mean 'she's like' a mother to you." She snapped. Of all things I said, she only picked on 'mother'. I just sighed and kept quiet; I was tired of arguing. Cecilia stood up, and paced around the room, her hands on her sides, eyes dull. She was not here at all. "Cecilia?" I called, and I got a stern 'yes' as response. "Mrs Martins..." I started, and she stopped on her tracks and looked at me expectantly. "She called my mother Eleanor earlier." I said, and she just gave me a blank stare, and asked, "so?"

"So? My mother's name is Betty Ngoma. Why did Mrs Martins call her that?"

"And her real surname?" She challenged me, ignoring my question. Where did that question come from? I've never thought about that, I didn't know what my mother's first name and her surname was. I just kept quiet, pondering over the question.

"Exactly! You lived with her for twenty-three years, but you have no cooking clue who she really is. The old lady called her Eleanor, because it is her name." She explained, rolling her eyes in the process. "You can deny it all you want, but let's face it, you don't know your mother." She said coolly.

I honestly didn't know what to say, except that she was right. I spent the rest of the day pondering over what she said, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I kept asking myself the same question, but came to the same conclusion all the time; I did not know, but the question still stood there in bold capital letters: Who was my mother?