The Missing O

I had an odd relationship with my mother. When I looked back on our life together, my childhood, her motherhood, I never felt totally negative about it. The things I remembered most weren’t unhappy memories. Whenever I passed a patisserie, and smelled the sweetness, I thought of summer holidays away in the French countryside. When the weather was bright, with a cool wind, I thought of my mother in a navy polka dot swimsuit on a beach, playing with me in the sand.

She’d taken me all over the home-land of my father during the younger years - the good years - and I often wondered what she was looking for. Was it for my father himself, the only true love of her life? I couldn’t imagine that this would be the answer. I never remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find her crying, or pining over an old photograph of him. In fact, she rarely mentioned my father, unless necessary, and when she did so she did it with such a casual air that you might not think she was talking about the man who walked out on her when she was eight months pregnant.

Anyone else would be bitter, but not my mother.

I’d known from an early age that my mother believed in the whole ‘live in the moment’ and as if ‘everyday were your last’ type of bull shit. At least she did in the good days. She didn’t see her newborn baby as a burden upon her young, single life. She saw me as a companion, someone to love and be loved by as she stomped the streets of Europe.

When I grew into my teens, and our relationship had really started to deteriorate, she took me to Paris over a two week half-term break. It was a last ditch effort to return to being the best friends that we had once been, but even before we’d boarded the plane we knew that it was helpless.

She’d really saved for this trip, treating me to breakfast and dinner in quaint, fancy restaurants every day, and then a full on swanky meal at night. She even let me have a glass of red wine with my steak. She bought me expensive make-up, an array of dresses for the summer, heels to match and trip to a spa where we had our eyebrows waxed, nails manicured and hair cut. If we hadn’t have been so fucked up, and too far gone to return even for a week or so, it would have been the best trip we’d ever had.

But because of our problems, it was the worst. That was the last time I’d been to France, with my mother or at all. That summer I took my pretty dresses, half-used Chanel make-up and moved into the dingy apartment with Charlie, and a little baby Kaitlyn.

That had truly severed whatever thread of hope either of us had possessed of keeping in real contact. My mother migrated to Bordeaux, nearer to her own parents, and I never saw her again. We wrote of course, and at first we’d both made some form of attempt to keep civil. But time passed, and my mother changed. She grew bitter, and so did I.

Usually my mothers letters began in nearly the exact same way. A cold, stale introduction, such as “Morgan, your grandmother’s birthday is coming up, so I thought I’d best to remind you…” or “Morgan, we need to discuss the New Year’s family party. I understand you won’t be attending…”

But this time, after having to read the same paragraph a few times over, I was stunned to see that this one had a totally new tone to it. One that I didn’t feel comfortable with being confronted with.

Dear Morgan,
it’s been months since we have written and I have realised that soon we will surely lose contact entirely. I understand that I have made no more effort than you to maintain a relationship, so do not think that I am putting this all on you.

I’m getting older Morgan, we both are. You’re life is only really just beginning, whilst mine is slowing down. I should be witnessing the changes in your life, just like any mother should with her daughter. I want to see you grow and evolve as a person; I want to see you reach success and live out all the dreams you have planned; It’s sad to know that I don’t even know what your aspirations are.

I cannot express entirely how I want to resolve this with you. I am hoping that maybe we can give each other one last fighting chance, and maybe you will let me be your mother again. Will you put our differences aside, maybe just for one visit so I can begin to get to know the person you have become over the years during my absence?

I love you, no matter what has happened. I hope you consider what I have said and write back and that you and your close loved ones have a wonderful Christmas.

I didn’t really expect the letter to be long, but still it was shorter than what I had imagined. My mother never really was one for dilly-dallying or fluffing things up to make them appear prettier than what they were. We had an ugly relationship, her and I. She knew it, I knew it. So she saved us both the bullshit and got to the point. I could thank her for that much, at least.

The brown envelope had been waiting, standing out to me whenever I saw it on the kitchen surface as if it had taken form of a body and was sitting, butt naked next to the toaster screaming at me to open it. When I finally did and pulled out the expensive, thick paper and caught the scent that was only carried with my mothers penned letters, I felt a sudden sadness that I wasn’t prepared for.

Oh, mum, I’d though, seeing her handwriting for the first time in months.

To be honest, I was tired of the crued formality we had going on, so reading the letter had been a task that I had anticipated but hadn’t been exactly at the top of my agenda. Maybe that was why I’d waited until four days before Christmas to open it.

After having read it twice I handed it to Charlie, who simply scanned it with a bored expression then stiffly handed it back.

“She’s getting desperate in her old age,” she’d said, and I’d agreed silently, just holding the paper in my hands.

I knew I’d think about the letter for hours, even when I didn’t want to. I wished that we could just sort this out one way or another. Either just leave one another be and put to rest this dead relationship we’d tried to preserve, or suck it up and try to make ammends. Seems as though my mother had steered towards the latter.

“Maybe,” I mused, folding the letter back into it’s brown packaging. “Either that, or she’s planning something.”

I followed the woven pattern that my purple gloves had been knitted into, studying the frizzy fibres that twined together, over and over. I wouldn’t usually find something like this interesting. In fact, I didn’t at that moment, it was meerly something to keep me from over-thinking whilst I waited.

The gloves failed in the purpose I’d tried to fit them with. I thought about the canvas for what was only the hundredth time, wrapped up and wedged between the leg of the table and my foot. I hadn’t meant to buy Oliver a Christmas present. It sort of happened by itself.

One moment I was walking through Urban Outfitters, browsing the Home section for no good reason at all. The next I’d bought a small picture of a bright Orange octopus. I knew who I’d bought it for, but it wasn’t until I’d gotten home and taken it out of the bag that I realized what a stupid thing it was to do.

Charlie had spotted it, a corner hanging out of the promiscuous paper bag. Giving it one look, she cocked an eyebrow and left the room, not saying a word.

She’d stopped asking about Oliver now. I didn’t know whether it was because I’d near bitten her head off the last time she’d done it, or she’d heard something from Matt.

It was hard not to wonder, what with Matt being his best mate and living with him and all. I so desperately wanted to ask him if Oliver had mentioned just one word about me or why he’d taken up this silence. I could of asked Charlie, but I was too proud. I didn’t want her to realise the extent of how much I cared about all of this.

I’d gone to the café that weekend, not really knowing whether he’d turn up or not. It had been the party last night, I’d known because Charlie had tried to get me to go with her and Matt. Not to mention Tom ringing me twice, both times of which I’d let go to voicemail. I didn’t need him to talk me in to it.

But now I almost regretted not going. At least I’d know where I stood with this whole thing; whether to give up with Oliver and except that he wasn’t going to take any of my shit. However, there was still that part of me that thought this had been blown way out of proportion.

I waited half an hour - if he was hungover he’d be late for sure. When the coffee I’d ordered for him had gone cold, I knew he wasn’t coming. It was strange to me how much that fact freaked me out.

In the car, instead of pulling right towards the more common area of Sheffield, I turned left. Irrational moments did not suit me, nor did spontaneity. My hands were twitching on the steering wheel, my thoughts scattered. I considered turning round at least seven times on the way, but the anxiousness that felt like bile just resting in my stomach, waiting to come up, kept me driving until I remembered the way and pulled up outside the apartment complex.

I took the present up with me - I didn’t really know why, the thought of giving him it was painfully embarrassing, even to imagine. It wasn’t why I was here, but if it went tits up at least I’d have an excuse.

The hallway smelled like fresh paint - although I saw no evidence of refurbishment - and with the hollowness my hope already began to sink. When there was no answer from the door, it filtered out completely. He wasn’t even fucking home.

“Hey, can I help you?”

Upon turning I saw who had spoken. Straight away it was pretty obvious that he knew Oliver. If it hadn’t been the fact that he was just coming out of the apartment next door, he was wearing a Drop Dead jacket. His hair was long and brown - almost like a sharp, stinging reminder of who I was looking for. This guy didn’t quite pull it off in the same way though.

“I’m looking for Oli,” I said, realising how weird it was to use the short of his name. “Do you know where he is?”

The guy gave me the once over, looking confused, “They’ve already left, Love.”

“Left for where?”

The guy stepped closer, still eyeing me in that same way, like my questions were the most absurd he’d ever been asked. Like I should already have been told the answer.

“For tour. With the band. They won’t be back ‘til February.”

And that’s pretty much the moment I started being pissed off with Oliver.