‘Have You Called Your Mom Lately’

Ben Gilbert and Sasha McGhie - two artists living and collaborating in London.

Have You Called Your Mom Lately

If you haven’t then you should. Your dad might not let you, or yell when you try. But do it–try. Pick up the receiver and dial her number.

When you do call, she probably won’t answer, but that’s because she’s in the closet with a bottle tucked between her legs. Leave a voicemail and let her know that you’re looking for her. Ask her when she’ll be back. Ask her as if she’s only stepped out to get some milk. Wait by the phone in case she calls. Wait by the window in case she comes home. 

Wait so long that you fall asleep and your little forehead presses against the window glass. Let your dad sigh as he carries you to bed, tucks you in tight. In the dead of night, your shoulder will be shaken. Open your eyes and blink against the darkness as you make out the lines of her face. Let her gently pull you from your bed and lead you down the hallway. Go willingly, be as awake as she is. 

Go to the living room where she’s spread out a blanket. Sit beside her as she turns on the TV, use it as your only light. Watch her as she lays down, listen to her slurred words as her eyelids flutter shut. When they’re finally closed, hold her hand and stay seated beside her. Breathe her in–sour fruit…tangy and acidic. Turn and watch the TV as you stroke her hand. Protect her while she sleeps. 

The next day, she’ll be gone. Wake up in bed and wonder if it was merely a dream. Realize it wasn’t when you smell the blanket laid over your bed–sour fruit.

Call your mom.

Catch her in a good mood so she agrees to pick you up. When she comes, pile into her dented Trailblazer along with your brothers. Buckle your seatbelt and pull it tight as she tears away from the curb. Smile the whole ride as she brings you to a diner. Don’t question why she keeps going to the bathroom or needing to step outside. Whenever she’s at the table, relish in her laugh, and convince yourself the lines in her smile are the declaration of change.

When she doesn’t answer your call the next day, go and stare at yourself in the mirror. Smile, frown, raise a brow. Wonder what the lines in your face mean and if you’ve misread them. Call her again the next day. 

Don’t hear from her. 

While she’s gone, people will say hurtful things about her. Don’t let them.

Fight for her like she’s your queen. When anyone speaks ill of her, stand up and raise your sword. Scream your battle cry until your lungs give out, and your throat is raw and bleeding. 

Follow her like she’s your God. She’ll be gone for weeks at a time, sometimes for months. Believe in her despite not being able to see her. People will doubt her, but do not back down in the face of nonbelievers. Love her like most children love something - blindly. 

Grow. Get older. Play soccer and see the ghost of her running along the sidelines. Quit soccer and start acting. Hear the people laughing from the audience while you imagine her laugh echoing from the rafters. 

After the show, listen to your castmates as they walk alongside their moms out to the parking lot. Watch them all crawl into their minivans while you wait for your dad’s sedan. Check your phone.

Try and fail to deepen your understanding. 

Look for her everywhere, search for a sign. See her nowhere. Begin questioning your God. Get confused and then angry. Become agnostic and put your belief in nothing. 

When you’re in eighth grade, she’ll call you. She’ll storm back into your life and you must lie down in the wreckage. She’ll smell like daisies and her voice will be a clear mountain stream. Wade in it, dipping your toes at the surface as she asks for your forgiveness. 

Breathe. You’ll forget a few times, but as you stare out at the road ahead - breathe. 

Don’t give your forgiveness. Carry it home and curl up with it in bed. Wrap yourself around it and press it to your chest, tell it to give you time. You don’t understand what you’re forgiving her for yet. 

Keep wading through the water until it becomes too deep. Then, board a boat and ride the waves. Sail to the boundary line between your island and hers, and drop your anchor. Find the fifteen-foot wall blocking your view, and question who put it there - her or you. 

Feel guilty for not calling your mom in a while. 

Call her. Hear the relief in her voice as she speaks. In an hour, let her pick you up and go to that diner you like. She’ll talk the whole meal, she’ll never leave the table. Wonder what her life is like when you’re not together.

She won’t mention the wall you’ve found and you mustn’t either. Instead, add another brick so she can’t see your hurt. This is important - you cannot let her see your hurt. Not while you can see the lines in her face deepening with pain despite the flash of her teeth, the words falling from her lips. 

See her guilt and eat it. Steal it one crumb at a time so she doesn’t notice. Swallow it and don’t run from the taste as it burns down your throat. And when it hits your stomach, don’t you dare throw it back up. 

Carry the guilt in your stomach, bear its weight. Don’t let anyone see your boat teeter as you continue to circle her wall. 

Keep sailing while she calls you. Channel your father’s anger each time you ignore them, set a boundary but don’t build another wall. 

Eventually, answer her calls and go out to dinner again. Seeing her won’t add water to your bucket - in fact, she’ll unknowingly take from the dwindling pools at the bottom of your well. Let her. When you get home, cry because you should have given her more. 

Keep crying. Every time you leave her, every time you wake up smelling like sour fruit. 

Yes, sour fruit. Rebel. Be like her. 

Regret. Listen to your friends threaten to call your mom when you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom, your head hanging over the toilet bowl. Let them console you as you repeatedly cry out apologies, but they’re not for them. You cannot throw up her guilt. 

It’s too big, too heavy. You’ve nurtured it too well, leaving it enraged within you - your stomach engorged. 

You think you’ve hidden it, but your swollen gut doesn’t lie. Your mother sees it plain as day, knowing its nature as it resembles her own.  

She will call you because you haven’t called her. Let her come over and sit with her in your own living room - an inch apart on the couch. Watch as she begins to pry bricks from the wall, one by one as her nails become chipped and bloodied. 

Let her. 

Then stand with her. Together. See each other from the neck up. Be face to face for the first time in years. 

Panic when she asks for your hurting. 

Decline. Remember - do not let your hurt hurt her. Take a step back, bow your head in surrender. Retreat. Retreat. Retreat. Stay completely still when she takes your hand. 

Feel the slow, soft brush of her thumb over your skin. 

Then break. 

Open your mouth and let guilt dribble down your chin. Not too much - just enough. Don’t scare her. Don’t scare yourself. 

Watch as she does the same and listen. Listen. And when she’s done, together, wipe your soiled chins. 

Acknowledge that you’ve only cleaned one mess. That there are still bricks to be moved and debris to be cleared. This is not forgiveness. But understand that this - this is a start.

Molly Bibeau (she/her) is a writer and teacher living in Denver, Colorado with her partner and two cats. After twenty years of keeping her writing tucked away in notebooks and hidden under mattresses, she wishes to share her words with the world. She is currently pursuing her MFA in Writing at Lindenwood University with a focus in creative fiction.