TWO

                                    

                                          
Her skin was like porcelain, delicately painted with make up, the wrong shade of lipstick, a shade or two too dark. Trying to give the impression my mother was still alive, merely resting in a deep slumber, I guess to all intents and purposes she was, but the casket she lay in ruined the illusion. My mother, my dear sweet mother, was dead. Joe's oversized shovel like hands, on my shoulders the smell of booze and cigarettes eminating from them as he squeezed my shoulders
'Quit your crying boy, be a man' 
He would  mumble in my ear, if he were here, his slurs proof he was still heavily intoxicated from the night before.
But then, when wasn't he? 
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
That's not now, not yet.
I waited in that emergency room for Joe to turn up, for what felt like days, I'm told it was closer to four hours though, my legs swinging back and forth from the chair, like a pendelum. I'd constantly stare at the doors in both fear and hope Joe would walk through them, the hope of a familiar face to tell me momma would be fine, the fear because, well, Joe was Joe.
When he did finally turn up, he spoke to the nurses and the doctors about what had happened, glancing down at me occasionally, he had that face that meant he needed to take this out on someone, we both knew, that someone was me. Joe was that guy that if he felt low, he'd share that feeling, as if it was selfish for him to keep the feeling to himself, so, he'd bring everyone around him down to his level. How he'd do that, were it through psychologically dismantling someone, or through sheer brute force was anyone's guess. 
Not the nicest trait in a man I admit.
The nurses left him alone, he sat next to me and cradled his head in his hands. Rubbing the beads of sweat from his head. As he turned to me, looking at me as if I was a foreign object stuck to his shoe. A face of disgust.
'I see why your daddy left you, your momma should have done the same. You bring death with you boy, it should be you in there' 
I looked in the direction he pointed too. And back at his greasy, unshaven and altogether unkempt face.
'Is momma.....' 
My lip quivering, my hands shaking, trying to get the words out, but nothing.
'Is momma.....' 
Joe's face leaned into mine his stale breath on my face, the tar from his cigarette stained pallet stinging my eyes
'Dead? Is your momma dead? That the word boy? Spit it out, is your momma dead? ' 
I nodded, barely, but I nodded. My dear mother was the only family I had, her parents died before I was born and I was a only child, like my mother before me
Joe shook his head, and picked a piece of stray tobacco from his tongue and flicked it towards the floor.
'No, she's not dead, as good as though, but if she does die.....' 
He moved closer, his piercing eyes staring into mine
'It'll be on you, you did this boy, this is all on you, you proud of yourself kid? Not many boys at your age can say they're responsible for the death of their own mother' 
I glanced at the door, the room in which she lay, alive, barely, but still alive. This man, this alcoholic would spout so much drivel, so much nonsense, but that day, that moment he was right. If she died, it'd be my fault.
My dear sweet mother, when I finally saw her she was unconscious, wires, machines keeping her alive. I overheard a doctor reading from a clip board to Joe that it wasn't so much the hit, but the way she landed, it had caused a blood clot near her brain, and some internal bleeding around the lungs. They had operated and thankfully the operation had gone 'as well as could be expected' and that the doctors concurred that in time, my mother would make a full recovery, and she'd be back home with us as soon as possible .
I stood beside the bed, her hand in mine, looking at her bruised face, this was all my fault and my five year old mind knew it, I had to be a better son. When she'd come home I'd look after her, I'd treat her like the princess' in the books she'd read to me.
I get it, I get what your thinking.
She never came home, or how was she in the casket?
Right?
Wrong. I told you, that's not now, not yet.
It took 3 months, I'd see her everytime Joe would drive me up there, and that first time I walked in the room and she was awake, I'll never forget that.
Momma never had many friends, Joe would often tell her 'why do you need friends when you have me' she'd smile and nod, but my mother was, aside from me, alone in this world. So, no real friends, no family, meant no visitors, the other beds on the ward had flowers beside them, cards clamouring for space wishing the mostly old dears in the beds to get well soon, basically a card saying 'don't die' that was often accompanied by a half arsed fruit selection and a bottle of fruit juice, because you know, a banana and a glass of orange squash, plus of course the don't die cards will cure pretty much anything. My mother had none of those, as the only people to grace her with a visit was me and Joe. I made her a card with my crayons on the inside of a soap box and picked her some flowers. She was happy, I heard that the couple who drove her to the hospital visited at some point, which was sweet. 
After those 3 months of just me and Joe, my sweet mother came home. Mostly she sat on the couch watching re runs on television, or trying her best to make Joe his dinner, I'd grab her hand, lead her back to the couch, tell her she's poorly, she should rest. Everytime, every single fucking time I did I'd hear Joe telling me it's good for her, she cant sit idle on the couch all day, it's good for her to get exercise. 
Excerice.
Fucking exercise. 
Exercise is not hobbling to the kitchen. Exercise is not leaning on something every step of the way, exercise is not nearly blacking out to make some drunk his dinner. 
Even at that young age, I'd look at him, his greasy hair, remnants of the last meal he ate round his mouth, a stained vest that hadn't been changed in who knows how long, I'd look at all that and wonder why? Why him? What did he once have that was so appealing, what made her so desperate that he seemed like the only logical choice. 
That night I lay in bed unable to sleep, staring out the window at the stars, there seemed more tonight than usual, I'd connect them in my mind, trying to make a picture, trying to block out the sound from the next room. She'd been home less than twelve hours and he had her making him food, it was, as he said 'her duty as a wife' sadly, her 'duties' didn't end there. I'd hear and try to block the sound out with my fingers in my ears, looking at the stars, but no, I could still hear him, telling her he had needs, urges, she was lucky, he could have gone out and fucked some other hussy in the local bar, it's not like he's not had offers. 
Actually I'm certain of it, he never had offers. 
My momma saying no, she's not well enough, she has stitches, she's still weak, everything she said he had a reply 'I'll be gentle' I remember at that age, not sure what he wanted, not sure what he was going to do 'gently' and not sure what the hussys were offering him, but I knew from my mother's tone she didn't want this, she wasn't ready or we'll enough for whatever it was. 
But like always he got his way, their bed creaked for what must have been a whole forty seconds, the headboard beat the wall for a whole forty seconds until Joe let out a grunt. Rolled over and was snoring within the minute, ever the romantic. 
My mother the next day went to have her wounds checked, a stitch had came lose, the nurse asked her is she taking it easy, my mother nodded, and replied that she sneezed last night, that must have done it, 
I looked at my mother, she looked at me and her hand never left mine the whole time.