The Pain You Hide

Day 48

"What is going on with you?" I say.

I know my mother is a different. . .creature every two days. So far, I've only seen four. I'm hoping my mother can tell me if there's more and anything else about what is going on with her. As she finishes playing the flute, I wonder if the direct approach will work.

"Whatever do you mean?" she says sipping from a wine bottle.

"You're not normally like," I gesture to her, "this."

"Are you sure?" She smiles. "Maggie--"

"Margret."

"Underneath layers of skin and bone, lay the fragments of my being."

"You're aware of what's happening to you?" I say, leaning across the table.

"What is being aware? Am I aware you are sitting across from me? Perhaps, or perhaps you're a figment of my imagination. You don't exist, therefore I don't exist. Unless," she holds up a finger, "I want you to. My desire could be strong enough to cause you to be real. Just as your desire could be strong enough to make me real."

"Wait. wait. wait. Hold on." Something that she said a long time ago comes back to me. "Are you saying you're like this because you want to be?" Her only answer is a smile. "But why?"

"While you chose to suppress your desires, I chose to follow mine," she says picking up her flute.

I lay my head on the table and groan. I don't know how seriously I should be taking her. Maybe everything out of her mouth is gibberish. I glance up and watch her fingers nimbly play across the flute. There is a lot about my mother I don't know. I have so many questions, but the person in front of me is in no condition to answer them. Not in a way I can understand at least.

"Just tell me what is wrong," I mutter into the table.

"Well, I'm running out of wine," she says with a grin.

Time for plan B. I'm skeptical about how helpful an internet search will be, but it's my only other option. After three hours of searching, the only thing I've learned is that my mother is currently embodying a satyress. I guess no one else has had a mother with a personality disorder quite like mine. I close my laptop with a little more force than necessary and lay back into the couch cushions. I don't know what else to do. My eyes fall on the stack of books I organized this morning. Looking at them makes me think of my mother's stories.

I pick up the nearest book and glance through it's pages. It's a children's story about changelings--fairy children taking the place of human children. I don't remember how the story goes. I'm not even sure she knows how it actually goes. Halfway through reading, she'd set a book aside and continue with something she made up. The thought brings a smile to my face though I can feel my heart breaking; I remember how badly she wanted me to listen to her stories. She's dancing in the grass when I bring the book to the backyard.

"Mom?" She doesn't answer. I keep forgetting she won't respond to that anymore. "Cathy?" She looks over her shoulder. "Would you like to hear a story?"