Life Imitates Art

Part 38 - Forced Out

After choking down the last of the hilarious meal, Tess and I share some observations about the mess we're in. What else is there to do? You might as well go out laughing, right?

"So... a ritual?"

"Yep. That's right. Candles and everything."

"I just wouldn't have... expected anything like that from Mum. This has really scrambled her."

I am well and truly over letting Mum guilt me out of what I want to be.

"Let her be scrambled. I'm being a girl." The fire rises in me. Why should I bend to what she wants?

"So what's the plan?" She has a delay to her speech which is uncharacteristic for Tess. She's normally right on my tail with a retort. Not this time. "What can we do to win Mum around?"

"I wish I knew. I'm just going to stop listening to her rules. I'll be in girl-mode as soon as I come home from school, and I'll spend the entire holidays pretty. She'll have to grow used to it eventually."

If she will, she hasn't yet. She must have beaten us here by a good while, because there's an unsettling mood throughout the whole house, despite Mum being the sole presence before we arrive. It's like a courtroom or a public h*ging, the same gloomy sense looming over us.

Returning to my room without breaking breath to my maddened mother, I notice cases on the bed. Three of them. I don't even remember having as many as three cases worth of stuff at any point. I suppose you just accumulate stuff year-on-year and never really notice until your belongings are all stashed away on your Japanese-art-plastered bed sheets. Charizard remains on the wall. Mum clearly wasn't keen on climbing up to remove it properly from its watchtower-like pose on my back wall. A small white piece of paper is taped to the handle of the middle case. A closer inspection reveals it to be one of Tess' old doodles of dress ideas we were creating for Maxine on-screen. I furiously pull at the tape, which rips off surprisingly cleanly. On the back are some new words, scribbled over more sketches.

'You're no son of mine. I only wrote this because I can't bear to say these words to the BOY I raised',

I pause on the word 'BOY', scrawled in all caps and underlined two or even three times. Her handwriting is messy and tired. Perhaps even laboured. She writes like she hasn't been sleeping right. Her words join in places where I have never seen her form links before. I can't ever remember seeing her act this way before. And all over me and my identity, too. It's sad to see, but I've cried myself dry now. Her note continues.

'I did what I did tonight because I'm scared about what you're doing to yourself. You can't be a girl. You were born my little boy. You always will be. I can't see you as anything else. And I don't want to.

You're leaving tomorrow. I don't want to make this any harder. Your dad will be taking you to your new home. He and Tess will visit. I only want to see my son. Once you snap out of this, I'll see you again.

Love,
Mum.'

Her hands were clearly trembling as she wrote it. 'Mum' is hardly legible. It looks like a stain of bird cr*p. In fact, that's what this whole letter is. That's what Mum has been to me lately. Unsightly, dirty, needing cleansed. She likely feels the same about me. I essentially have it in writing right here.

Tonight, I don't wish any ill health on Mum. However, I wish no fortune on her either. What kind of mother pushes her child out in this way? No. My intrigue falls on my destination. Where on earth am I going? Is she sending me to stay with the witch I met earlier this evening?

Mum does not wish to see me at all that night. It's a good thing that Tess and I have already eaten, and there's no need for an even more dramatic crescendo to be built to. No more dinner table dramas. No more 'my son won't be doing this.' I'm no son of hers anymore.

I wish I wasn't lying when I mentioned crying, and how I'd given all I had in terms of tears. But tonight, as I lay in my bed for the final time if Mum isn't lying, my suitcases lie by the door in a fashion which screams rejection. It's a turn towards those cases which sets off a fresh flood of tears. I use the tissues on my bedside table - I can't bring myself to leave this safe space and enter the world that hates me so. I wait for sleep to win. It eventually does, but it's not an easy match-up.

While darkness still dominates the night sky, I am woken by a loud knock on my door. It is sharp and brisk, so most certainly Dad at the door. Tess would be less official. Mum wouldn't knock at all right now.

"We're leaving in an hour."

"OK. Mum didn't even say where I was going."

"I'll explain later."

"OK. I'm guessing boy-mode, right?"

And just then, Dad hands me a carrier bag.

"Mum told me to give you ten minutes. Playing both sides is tough, so don't tell her I gave you enough time to look presentable."

He winks at me. I peer into the bag to find my confiscated black gym skirt, with tights and the jumper I wore on my one and only girls' day out so far.

"I'll be waiting downstairs, sweetheart. Don't take too long!"

With that nickname leaving my dad's lips, I'm immediately reminded that not everyone is against my expression. I plan to go into the bathroom and lock the door. The lighting is better for me attempting my own makeup. I creep down the hall silently and push the door gingerly.

Hands grab me from behind as I place the bag on the bath mat. I know who it is. She's doing her best to stifle her breath.

"You didn't think I wasn't going to say goodbye, did you, sis? One more for the road. Let's get you pretty."

She keeps her voice down as low and hushed as possible.

"Maybe write one of your comics online about this one day, huh? Even credit me for the idea. You could say 'thanks to the bestest big sister in the world for the inspiration.' How about it?"