Norma

Ocean View | Athlete - "Rubik's Cube"

   She walked from the Sheriff's Department to see Norman holding a bundle of flowers in his hand.

   "I brought you flowers," he said, holding them out to her.

   "That's nice."

  "I've got cab money."

   "You use it, I'm walking," she shivered.

   "Mom, Come on."

   "I have nothing to say to you."

   She left him standing on the sidewalk.

   They met up at the house, and he was ever so intent on talking with her. Norma said nothing.

   A few hours later, they met up with the attorney.

   Norma sat rigidly on the couch, as far away from him as she could possibly get, her gaze boring into the wall in front of them.

   "Mother, when are you going to look at me?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably as he realized he might've picked the wrong time to ask such a question.

   She glanced over at him in an awarding manner, as if to say, "Here you go, you're getting what you wanted, now leave me alone," then directed her gaze to the wall again. A moment later, the secretary asked for Norma, and she stood to follow her.

   "Keith Summers. Everyone knew he was unhappy that you bought the motel."

   "I suppose." Norma could see Norman in her peripheral vision eyeing the candy bowl that sat on the lady's desk. Her mind wandered for a minute as she thought of how he was always so fidgety; she wondered if it had anything to do with his blackouts.

   It doesn't matter, she thought. Focus. Deny everything.

   "Norma," the woman paused, placing her pen on the desk. "The prosecution is going to have a carpet fiber that matches the carpet that you were pulling up in your motel the night Keith Summers disappeared. That fiber was found under the band of Keith Summers' watch."

   Norma sighed, glancing over at her son, who was chewing on an oversized piece of candy. It seemed at that moment that he wished to interrupt her; yet her son was too polite to talk with his mouth full. "I mean, why does everyone find it so incriminating that there was carpet fiber under his watch? The man owned the motel for forty years, I mean, why isn't anybody--"

   "Mom--" he finally had the gumption to interrupt her, which only fuelled her frustrations. "It's like everybody has just all the sudden gotten together and decided that I am guilty. I didn't do it. I'm not going to walk into a court of law and say that I did it in self defense just to make your job easier. I didn't do it."

   The woman across the desk started to speak, yet nothing could come out before Norma decided she'd had enough. I can't take this anymore. "I'm done here."

   She walked out, leaving her son to sit awkwardly across from the woman she had just finished yelling at. A part of him wanted to apologize, yet all that came out was, "I guess we're leaving."   

   They met again in the car. Norman was drilling into Norma, and although her own thoughts and tears blurred out his words, she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was trying to tell her what she should do. "What difference does it make to you anyway?" she asked, sounding rather nonchalant about the matter. "You do not care about me. You went out, and you got laid that night that I was crying in my room worried sick about all of this, about what could happen, about me being taken away from you and put in jail-- you went out, and you got laid!" she yelled fiercley.

   He was clearly torn, yet she refused to notice. "Mom-- I-- I'm sorry. It just-- happened. She texted me and Dylan said I should go--"

   "Oh, well there's a surprise," she remarked angrily. "Who was it?" she demanded, knowing that she would probably regret these words later. Now, though, it didn't matter. She had to know who in this world could take her boy away from her while she was still so vulnerable.

   "Mother..."

   "Fine, don't tell me, I don't want to know anyway," she lied. She knew immediately that he could tell she was lying; she shrugged it off. It didn't matter. He deserved to feel whatever he felt now, and more for leaving her alone after what happened. Although, at the moment it felt so easy to blame it all on Dylan: it would be the best excuse for him to leave. "This is all Dylan's fault," she growled harshly.

   "Mom, don't blame him--"

   "He's trying to turn you against me!" she yelled.

   "No one could do that."

   "Really?" she jerked the wheel, pulling to the side of the road. At this moment, she wanted so badly to be alone, to never have to speak of this again. "You told him our personal business. How could you do that to me, Norman?"

   "Because you do things that don't make sense, Mom."

   It was all too much to bear.

   She pushed him out of the car, attempting to push him away from the emotions that were flooding her and putting all this weight on her shoulders. He was part of that weight, she knew, and she saw in that moment that she needed to get help for her son, and for herself, if it was possible.

   Norma pushed him out of the car, holding back the torrent as she drove home alone.

   The house wasn't far, yet she turned on the radio to try and tune out her thoughts. A song came on that she didn't recognize, yet she listened earnestly and enveloped herself in the truth of the words:

   Oh, I'm like a kid who just won't let it go,

   Twisting and turning the colors in rows.

   I'm so intent to find out what it is,

   This is my rubik's cube,

   I know I can figure it out.

   She wiped her eyes, gritted her teeth, and moved on. After all, after everything she'd been through, she knew she could figure this one out.