He Wasn't There: A Short Story

The sun seemed to sink lower beneath the horizon, sulking behind the dusty curtains like a dissatisfied child, but keeping everything in surveillance, as if it expected an apology of some sort. "Told you I won't come near, and you hadn't believed me! Ha! Proved you wrong." It seemed to declare. But the haggard youth who stomped towards the window wasn't in the mood for hide and seek. He peered out of the window at crowd surging like gray moths in the narrow lane below.

He wasn't there. Not a trace of gold lace could been seen amongst the flapping overcoats. No sign of rosy cheeks, deep dimples, or even a lift of the eyebrow that was his specialty, amongst the expressionless tight masks. He wasn't there.

That meant that it was going to be a brand new day with the same old tasks. Sweaty foreheads needed wiping, and so did the mottled concrete floor, or the landlord would use it as yet another excuse to raise the rent. Again. There was a pile of musty-smelling books that had been kicked into a corner, leaning consolingly against his sister's one eyed doll. "Bidi! Get the mud-caked creature out of here!" He had no sympathy for her today.

There was a scampering of footsteps, before the straw colored plaits and a pair of wide eyes blinked at him, followed by a snatch for the doll's murky pigtail. Good riddance. At least now his books had their own special place in a corner, waiting to collect a thick layer of dust. But the five year old lingered, sweaty fingers clutching the doll's oversized dress, peeping at him cautiously.

"Get going!" he snarled, baring his teeth for effect. She jumped. Good. That was the signal for her to get out of the house and out of his way. He had enough to worry about without having to look after a doll-obsessed five year old as well. Let her go and fool around with the neighbor's children.

But she still dawdled, circling him with her eyes. "She wants you in there," was the girlish whisper. A pudgy finger pointed towards the imposing wooden door with cracked blue paint, before the flash of two bouncing plaits, and she was out of the room.

She didn't. He found that out the hard way, by holding her wrinkly hand and trying to smoothen out the visible blue veins. She still hadn't moved, but then again, what was he expecting? That she would take a nap and wake up refreshed, ready to pick-up the pieces of her life the way she left it? Ready to cook so that they could eat something other than Brussels sprouts and burnt porridge for dinner? But the limp figure remained lying on the yellow blankets with a piece of dishwashing cloth on her forehead, her chest heaving feverishly. She didn't even look at him.

"My son my son" she muttered, "son?"

She was in for a disappointment, but there was nothing he could do about that.
"Mother, I'm here," he croaked.

Her eyes fluttered open, before she took an exaggerated sigh. "Not you I didn't mean tell me when he comes "

He wasn't there, to sing her lullabies and whisper soft, comforting words of love. But she didn't seem to realize that he wasn't her only son. The lanky boy with big, awkward hands thought himself capable of doing whatever she demanded. Why didn't she even think about him? He was there, at least. He wasn't the one who insisted on staying at that wretched singing school in Rome for the holidays instead of returning home.

"Mother. I'm here. Is there anything that I could do?" He asked, hoping just hoping that she would confide herself in him. Maybe then she won't need him by her bedside.

"Yes. Call him. Call him and tell him that I want to see him. One last time. And tell him that I'm sorry" her voice faded to barely above a whisper, " we never appreciate how precious people are until we lose them."

They waited for his return. In particular, the pale boy with blue lips waited for his return. But he still wasn't there, although he promised to be back before winter was over. "Of course, silly little brother," the ringing voice had laughed over the telephone, "you are indeed a silly one to think that I'd abandon you there your exact words, young man!" He must have not understood the severity of the situation. This time, it wasn't one of Mother's facades of pretending to be sick so that he'd return to see her. She was truly miserable. But he just continued reassured him, "Yup, yup, yup. You needn't worry so much, little brother! Honestly, you'll have turned into a little clone of mother before I'm back. I might really have to stay away after all, simply to distance myself from all that nagging!"

What did that mean? That he wasn't coming back? What would Mother think?

But his brother just laughed again. "Just joking, little chap. Don't need to take everything so seriously! Tell you what, I'll be back before winter, and then we'll take you to Rome and give you a little trip. We'll take Bidi along too. How's that?"

He didn't like the sound of it, but he bit those words back. There was no place for Mother in the picture he painted. What would that mean?

"Just come back!" He croaked, for the ninth time. The humming from the other end meant that his brother had already tuned him out. A couple of seconds later, there was a plastic click, followed by the monotonous repetition of the dial tone.

Another winter. Bidi had abandoned her ragged doll and started helping him with chores around the house, knowing that if she did, then perhaps dinner would be slightly better than burnt toast and runny eggs. Mother had grown thinner, her skin stretching over her bones like a semi-transparent layer of gnarled bark. Mostly she lay limp on the bed, though there were occasional violent bursts of energy "Why won't you leave me in peace? I already said that I won't have that ridiculous mess of pig food you've cooked, so there's no point begging. Just go! I don't even want to look at you. You remind me too much of him"

He still wasn't there.

He had been invited by some famous composer to perform in a concert, which he claimed was an once in a life time opportunity. And he simply couldn't be home for Christmas. "Can't you understand? It's Signore Di Costa we are talking about here! You guys are all being so selfish. Don't you know what it would mean for me for all of us if this concert is successful? I'll be famous! That's right. I'll be famous!" was the exhilarated voice over the phone.

It was useless to ask why a single concert would take a year. More useless than to beg him to come back to see them.

"Oh, my dear little brother, you know that she's just pretending. Like last time. And the time before. Or have you forgotten she dragged me out of the Odessa tour because she had a cough? And it wasn't even a cough! It was just hiccups!" His laughter echoed in the empty room. Just hiccups? No. That couldn't be true

"Anyway, silly boy, I'll expect to be back when the concert's over, but you might see me before that I'll be on TV!"

He did see him. On TV. They dubbed him the music discovery of the year, with a voice that could charm the angels from above. " so let us welcome this god-sent gift. And for those who've never heard his voice before, beware. It is like a charm that mesmerizes the listener completely" But even though he winked at him from behind the pixelated screen, his eyes twinkling with good humor and his arms around a golden haired girl, he still wasn't there.

It was nearly too painful for Mother to talk, but she had still managed to gasp out "record record that my son record it." Bidi had bought her large posters, each with him posing in a different exotic location, and pasted them across her ceiling so that she could stare at them while lying in bed. They even arranged the TV in her room so that the recording replayed itself again and again, to substitute the lullaby the absent son had promised.

He wasn't there. There had been no phone call, either. The old number was always answered by the answering machine "Hey babes, if ya want to talk to me, just leave a message." The first couple of times, he hanged up. Then, out of exasperation, he left a message. "Call us. It's urgent! Momma isn't well at all. Please just call us"

He waited. They waited. There was no response.

Another winter. The doctor had murmured in his ear that it would probably be Mother's last month. She was hardly awake anymore, and never took her pills on time. When she did wake, she couldn't tell the difference between him and the face on the glossy posters stuck on her ceiling. "Ah. Son my darling son I just knew you'd come back to see me What? No song for your dear mother?" She looked at him expectantly, hollow eyes gazing right through him. Bidi gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs, "Just sing something. Anything! She won't know the difference".

So he did. If some ungrateful, pampered prince could enchant her with his voice, then so could he. He started off with the only tune he was certain he could pull through. "- happy birthday to you. Happy birthday - " At least Bidi wasn't laughing, but wearing a solemn frown on her face. Prompted by her nod, his voice gained strength. "- happy birthday to you - " The song evolved into a celebration of all those birthday celebrations that she had missed in the past, while she was too busy chasing after her children to make sure they were alright. No wonder she never had time to bake herself a cake, though cakes were never lacking on their birthdays. If only they had remembered her birthdays. If only they had baked her a cake when she could still eat it... "- happy birthday to you"

He wasn't here. And she didn't even realize it.