Mother Mine
(Through The Eyes Of A Child)
 
She doesn't know that I know. But I hear them whispering, I see how they tiptoe around her. Gosh, does she think I can't tell she's not feeling very good when she hardly eats as much as Barney, our budgie bird, and she's losing her hair?

I'm nine, not four, like Brady. I know it's not because they're hiding presents. That's what Brady thinks, and I'm not going to tell him any different.

But I'm not going to tell her I know she's sick either. I'm not telling Grandma, or even Dad that I know. He'd spill the beans, or Grandma would, and she's the one who told me you don't always have to spill the beans, that it's okay to keep a secret when it's a good one, like somebody's birthday present or something.

Well, this is no gift, that's for sure, but I know how Mom thinks. She's afraid to scare us. She'd be worried about me and Brady if she knew we knew, and she needs to worry about herself. She's worried she'll spoil Christmas, too, and all I care about is that she'll still be here at Christmas.

It's cancer. I saw Mrs. McIntyre waving at her that day we were going to the walk-a-thon, and you could tell she felt sorry for Mom. That was before Mom even started to lose her hair. Mom was wearing a pink sweatshirt that said "Breast Cancer Awareness". She's always been real good about charity work, but come on--

Like I said, I'm nine--it's not hard to figure out.

But I have a hard time not crying sometimes. It doesn't seem fair. My Mom is still kind of young. She's only thirty-two. She's really pretty too, and they cut off their breasts when somebody has breast cancer. They haven't done that with my Mom yet, but they might, and I guess I'll cry then. I don't think I could keep it in if they do that. It must hurt a lot.

I hope she doesn't die. I haven't told Brady. He's too young. But I make him say his prayers every night now, and I try to be a little more patient when he's being stupid. If Mom dies, he's going to need a big brother who doesn't get mad at him all the time. Grandma's old, and Dad's at work a lot, so I'll have to look out for him more than I do now.

Anyway, I am going to see if I can make Mom eat something with me after school today. I'm trying to look out for her now also.

But I sure am trying hard not to be mad at God. He doesn't seem to be listening,and Brady and I, Grandma and Dad, are all praying really hard.

I wonder why He lets people get cancer. It's messed up.

I wonder when they're finally going to get around to telling me and Brady, too. They're probably not ever telling Brady, unless Mom dies. But Christmas is just around the corner. She has to live until then at least. It will break Brady's heart if she dies before Santa gets here.

Me, I'm big enough to know that there's no Santa Claus and that everybody dies, but then, like I said before, I'm praying real hard she doesn't die at all--I don't care about Christmas, just about my mother.

I'm a little mad at my Dad, though; I know how to keep a secret. I wouldn't tell Mom I know. Doesn't he trust me?

"Hey, Scout, whatcha watching?" My name is Samuel; Samuel Anthony Montgomery. I know, right? My initials spell Sam. That was a little of my Mom's sense of humour when she was having me, according to my Dad.

I didn't even hear him come in just now. My Dad is six foot four, but he walks like a Ninja. Like you care what I am watching, Dad. It's some dumb cartoon thing Brady likes anyway.

He ruffles Brady's hair, and sits on the couch beside us. Ever since I can remember I've been 'Scout', and Brady is 'the Beaver'. It's an old television show my Dad used to love, Grandma told us.

"Listen, Sam, I want you to stop by the office to see me today when you get out of school. Can you do that?"

Holy crap! He called me Sam, and he is asking me to go downtown alone! "Sure, Dad, I can do that." I know he's going to tell me about Mom now. "Why, what's going on?" I have to pretend like I don't know anything; keep the game going, for Brady, if nothing else. He may be only four, but he's not stupid either.

"We'll talk about it when you get to my office, okay?"

"Yeah, sure."

"All right. I'll see you then. Brady, you be a good boy for Grandma today, right? Your mother is going to be busy, so Grandma has to watch you today."

"Yes, I'll be good." He can barely take his eyes off the television. Some dumb-looking duck is dressed in a spacesuit and inside a capsule-looking thing. Brady is wide-eyed, watching the capsule fall through space while the duck is scrambling at a control panel or something.

"Okay, boys. I'll be home about seven, but Scout, don't forget to come downtown, right?"

"No, I won't forget." He looks at me funny, and my stomach does a kind of flip-flop; it doesn't feel right, like the time I ate pancakes too fast. "I'll be there, Dad; don't worry."

<><><> 

It's snowing by the time the bell rings. My stomach is doing that flip-flop thing again, and I grab my backpack and head for my locker. Halfway there old Jenkins stops me.

"Hey, boy, what's your rush?" Jenkins is the school's janitor, and he's a friend of my Mom and Dad. We're kind of pals too. Ever since he caught me out behind the rink shack with Tommy White and a couple of other kids lighting a cigarette and didn't report me, he chats me up whenever we bump into each other. He gave me what for, but he didn't say anything to the school or to Mom and Dad. I haven't tried to smoke since then.

"Hi, Mr. Jenkins. I'm in a hurry because I'm going to my Dad's office today."

"Is that so? Well, now, must be important for him to have you travel downtown all alone, right?" I puff up my chest before I answer.

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"Well, you best get along then. We'll talk another time." He grins, and I hurry away. I can hear him chuckling as he mops.

The number 6B bus is the one I need to get to Dad's office. It runs every six minutes, or is supposed to at rush hour, but rush hour starts pretty early. It's not even four o'clock yet, but I can see the bus approaching my stop. I run and catch it, just before it's about to pull away from the curb.

My school is in a residential area of the city, but it's not far from downtown. Less than twenty minutes later I'm there. Steel and glass wink at me in the bright, December sunshine, but it won't be long before streetlights start blinking on. Night comes early in Ontario during the winter months, and that's part of the reason I was surprised when my Dad wanted me to come downtown. Why wouldn't he have just told me at home?

Dad's office is on the twentieth floor. The security guard gives me a wave as I pass the lobby desk. It's the same girl I've met a few times when Dad brought me to his office in the summer, but I'm surprised she even noticed me.

"Hey, Sam, going up to see your Dad?"

"Yeah, he's expecting me." She smiles at me; the same kind of smile old man Jenkins had on his face when I was leaving the school. What is going on?

"Well, that's good. You just be careful on the elevator, right?" Be careful? What's she talking about?

"Sure, Shelly. I will." This is one strange day. First Dad asking me to come to his office, and now this: everybody but me seems to know what I'm doing here.

Dad's secretary greets me like it's every day I walk in the glass doors by myself. "Hi, Samuel. Go right in. He's waiting for you." She's about fifty years old or so, and hardly ever smiles, but even she is smiling today. My heart starts pounding like a jack rabbit hopping, and suddenly I'm not sure my legs are going to work.

"Thank you," I mumble, and start forward. Dad's door opens just then, and he steps out.

"Scout!" he says, like he's surprised I'm here. He gives me that strange look again, like he's trying to figure something out, and then motions me to follow him into his office.

The inner sanctum. I feel like I should whisper. The sacred man-cave, as Mom calls it, where Dad works his magic. He’s a lawyer, and a pretty good one, apparently.  His desk is mahogany, his chair a huge, black leather thing that swivels like a carnie ride when you keep your feet up and push off--I know because I tried it last summer.

"Have a seat." He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, as if I'm an important client or something. My hands are clammy, and my heart is thundering like it's going to leap right out of my chest. What's he going to tell me? Is Mom really going to die?

"I asked you to come down here today because we need to have a man-to man talk." Oh God, oh no; this is it! She is going to die. But why tell me now, here? My armpits are soaked with sweat and I can feel my chest tighten with fear.

"Sam, your mother and I have been talking, and, well, to be honest, this was her idea. She thinks you worry too much, and I have to agree with her."

What's he talking about? Of course I worry! When your mother has cancer--

"Your Mom isn't sick, Scout, at least not anymore."

He knew! All along he knew that I knew!

"She wanted me to bring you downtown today so we could see how you would manage; so we could judge if you are ready for the responsibility."

What responsibility? Mom isn't sick anymore? Suddenly I feel everything loosen, like I've been keeping a secret that was about a million pounds heavy and now it's out in the open and I don't have to keep holding it up all alone anymore.

"Mom's not sick?"

"No, not anymore. She had the last treatment today. But you've been brave, son. I know you've been worried since the walk-a-thon last summer, and your Mom asked me not to tell you because we know you, Sam. You're what Grandma and the old folks call an old soul. If you knew your Mom had cancer you'd be sure she was going to die, and we couldn't have that negative energy affecting her treatment, right?"

What?

"Now wait, don't start thinking it's your fault. We love you, and your grown-up attitudes. It's just that we couldn't take the chance you would scare Brady either." His eyes were focused on mine, like there was a question in there.

"But Dad, Mom had cancer! If you knew that I knew what difference would it make? You could have just told me not to say anything to Brady."

"I know, but some things aren't things you want to talk about with your kids. Can you understand that?" I nodded, and he went on. "It's why we planned what we planned for today. Kind of a reward for all you've been through." Just then I heard the office door open behind me.

As I turned, I could see tears in her eyes. She was holding a purebred puppy, and it was wriggling in her arms, trying to lick her chin. "Hi, Scout." My mother looked about sixteen. Her eyes were shining, and she was about the happiest I'd seen her since the day they brought Brady home from the hospital.

"Your mother and I bought you the dog you've always wanted. We wanted to give it to you here, so it's just us, and we wanted you to know that we do trust you, so the best way to do that was to let you come here on your own." Dad’s voice sounded a bit choked up, but it sounded kind of proud, too.

"Merry Christmas, Scout," my beautiful mother said as she put the squirming puppy into my arms. It jumped up and down, licking my face all over, and everybody laughed. I started bawling like I was Brady, and suddenly, Mom and Dad were beside me, trying to give me a hug while the puppy was pouncing from one person to the next, getting in as many licks as possible.

It was going to be the best Christmas ever. Just wait 'til Brady saw what I was bringing home!

Suddenly I knew what Shelley meant when she said be careful on the elevator. I guess she'd known what I was getting for Christmas, and she didn't want any surprises she'd have to clean up.

The end