Claiming of Fifty shades

The Montgomerys

The old woman was resting when I entered the hospital's private VIP room. Laying there, her whole visage immediately conveyed the appearance of someone harmless, childlike even. Her skin appeared paper thin and had left the bones as I surveyed her hollow face and thin protruding shoulders, her sunken eyes and a small wrinkly pale mouth finished off the image portraying her critical condition. The thin white hair on her scalp were tied tightly behind her neck, perhaps by the nurses who took care of her. She slowly opened her eyes, a light milky gray and looked around. I was standing beside the door. It hadn't occurred to her yet that there was someone else other than her in the room. She, with dull expression, looked at her lap, her gaze fixing there idly. My eyes bored down on her, watching her in grave silence. The lines on an old person's face tell a tale many times potent than any story. Their anguish, happiness etched onto those lines. Her face was no different. The lines on her face depicted her life, her unhappy life.

I quietly glided near her bed. Her weak-lidded eyes lifted as she took me in. She opened her mouth to say something. I noticed she had no teeth.

"Am I hallucinating again?" she mumbled, then squinted at me, "yes I am."

"Actually, you're not." I said.

Her deep set eyes widened as much as they could given the wrinkles. Her breathing slowly picked up. She lifted her thin arthritic bony hand and pointed a finger at me. "Derek!"

I slowly shook my head, my brow furrowing at her vulnerable condition. "I'm not Derek."

I didn't know how to talk to her. What to say? She was the only living blood relative of mine. And seeing her so fragile and alone was unsettling. I wondered if she was scared knowing she was on the verge of death. She must be.

She squinted her eyes at me as her bony finger started shaking towards me persistently, "You're Derek."

"Who's Derek?" I asked conversationally, trying to engage her. I tried to conjure up a smile. The muscles of my mouth stretched. I immediately snapped them back. I hadn't practiced smiling much. In case I looked like a carnivorous beast, I should refrain from the practice. I didn't want to scare the poor lady. The poor lady who was related to me. I swallowed painfully.

"My son. Derek's my son. How did you come back? They told me you died." She tried reaching for me, trying to touch me. My first instinct was to step back instantly. She appeared harmless, if not a little crazy. But who could blame her? I hated hospitals too. I only wish I'd die before the time came for me to stay in a hospital for a lengthy amount of time, knowing any day could be my last.

"I'm not Derek. I'm not your son."

A lone tear carved a thin line on her cheek, "You look exactly like my Derek." she said with a voice that conveyed dismay.

The notion was a strange one; of me resembling another person to such an exceedingly strong amount. "I look exactly like him?" I inquired curiously, my voice soft, in an attempt to not rattle her.

She gave me an honest perusal, the lines on her face appearing more perturbed by the minute, "I don't understand if my weathered memory has blurred his image in my mind or you're a spitting image of him." She looked at me once more, then murmured firmly, "You're a spitting image of him."

"I am aren't I?"

"H-How?"

"It has come to my attention that I happen to be the son of one called Derek Montgomery." I pulled a chair next to her bed and sat down, keeping a safe distance between us.

For a second her face appeared blank. Then it was a whirlwind of different emotions. I looked at her face calculatingly, trying to discern the truth. Her expression went from disbelief to realization. Then disbelief again. Which quickly morphed into delight.