Are You Okay, Elliot Hart? by Kate S. Martin

Author:Kate S. Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creative James Media

Chapter 17

Elliot

After stopping at Mr Peter’s store to buy Mum a bar of chocolate, I navigate the streets home, smiling at strangers on the way. There is a thin covering of snow on the ground, and I stare at all the decorations in the house, the big Christmas trees, the lights in the garden, signs saying Santa—stop here. I feel like the character in It’s a Wonderful Life, the film me and Mum watch every Christmas Eve. What a day! I keep thinking of Felicity and smiling from ear to ear. The shadow still follows me though, the constant worry, a ghostly figure nipping me on my shoulder reminding me Mum is sick, but it’s smaller and quieter today. I continue to ignore it and, if its ugly head pops up, I squish it down, like the stall at the Easter fair. The one where you hit moles with a hammer, but they keep popping up.

It’s Mum.

She’s the mole.

The constant worries on repeat: What if she didn’t have a good day like me? What if she’s been in bed all day? Can I cope if I walk in happy but then she’s sad? Will she burst my bubble? Is that selfish? Am I going to hell? I’m not very religious, but I do look up to the sky and have a silent chat with someone as I approach Ivygreen Road. Please let her have a good day. I try to make it happen by picturing her painting in the living room when I arrive home, wearing an apron splattered in different colours and a brush in her hand. As I stroll up our path, here I am for the second time today, holding a door handle, too nervous to walk inside.

“Mum?” I quietly close the door behind me and put my bag down. “Mum?” I want to explode and tell her all about my day, the smiles from strangers, singing at the Oliver auditions, dancing in the library with a beautiful girl called Felicity, but I contain myself. I’ve decided that, if I recount the events slowly, I can relive the day all over again and again and again. “Mum? Where are you?” A newsreader’s voice can be heard from the living room asking if we’ve completed our Christmas shopping. “Mum?” I hang my coat up, leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs, and walk in. The television is on, but the room is empty. The female presenter is mocking dads who will rush out on Christmas Eve for a last-minute gift. I switch her off and notice a ripped-up photograph lying on the floor. Picking up one piece, I can see Mum’s face and realize it’s the photograph of Mum and Josh’s mum that was stuck to the painting, the one at the bar.

The pesky mole is popping its head up again.

“Mum?” Sounds come from upstairs, and my shoulders relax. “Mum? You okay? You had me worried then—” The noises get louder, gurgling noises, like the sounds the toilet made last month before Tom came around to fix it.

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