When she opened the door she thought her eyes were playing tricks. Through the gap she looked out at a face she hadn't seen in over half a decade. A face she'd adored more than anything in this world, last seen under a very different set of circumstances. Her boy; herMatthew...
But that couldn't be. It only happened in dreams, in nightmares. So when she'd collapsed in the hall and everything had gone black, it only lent more weight to the argument that it was all in her head. That she'd made it all up because yes, even after this length of time, she still missed him so, so much.
She'd heard him say something, but by that time darkness already had her. And now that she was rising from that deep pit of despair and pain she was even more convinced the events that put her there were a product of her imagination.
Irene resolved to open her eyes, get up, and pop the kettle on----to try and put this whole episode out of her mind. But that was going to be incredibly difficult, because as she turned her head and looked at the chair facing the couch, she saw him again. He was sitting there with his hands clasped, staring at her. No, that wasn't strictly true; his eyes weren't so much staring as burrowing into her. She turned away again, quickly, not able to meet his gaze, nor accept what must be the truth. That Matthew was in the room with her, right now. Unless she was still dreaming? Could that be it? Irene pinched the loose skin on the back of her hand, nipping it tightly and hoping the pain would deliver her back to the world she knew. Back to sanity.
She didn't fully turn, but caught him still sitting there in the periphery of her vision.
Seconds passed like hours, until finally she knew she had to speak. "Who... who are you?" Irene asked. "What do you want?"
"I..." he began, and she felt compelled to look at him now as he shook his head. "I'm your son." The man said it so certainly that for a moment she almost believed him. For one thing he was saying the words in her son's voice.
"No... no you're not. You can't be."
He nodded. "But I am."
Irene sat up against the cushions, where he'd placed her, and brought her legs around with a slight crack of the bones. "You look like him----"
"I amhim," he interrupted.
"You have his face, but..."
Oh sweet Lord did he have her son's face. It was exactly the same, every line, the dimple in his chin, the crowsfeet that were beginning at the corners of his eyes even though he was barely into his thirties. Those hazel eyes were the same too, and the way his hair made him look like he'd just got out of bed in spite of trying to brush it flat. All the same, all the same. And those clothes... were the shirt and trousers part of the suit they'd buried him in, or just very, very similar?
"Why won't you believe me?" It was a simple enough question and yet staggeringly complex. "You know, deep down, that I'm telling the truth."
Irene could feel tears starting to form in her eyes. "You're..." she managed before she began to cry. The tiny beads of water crawled down her cheeks, running into the rivulets created by her wrinkles and breaking up. "You're... you're..." She couldn't get the word out, and when it did eventually slip free it came only as a whisper. "Dead."
He frowned, saying nothing. What could he say? If he was her son, as he so vehemently claimed, how could he deny that? Yet here he was, in the 'flesh,' in her living room----that was a good one, livingroom----sitting in the armchair he always used to occupy when he visited. "I can't explain it," he finally offered. "But I know who I am, and I know that I love you, Mu----"
Irene held up her hand. "Don't. Please don't."
He got up, putting his hands in his pockets. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the net curtains and peered out. Then he looked down at the photo in the frame on the windowsill. He lifted it up.
"Put that down," said Irene.
He held it out instead to illustrate his point. It was a photo taken at least ten years ago, of Matthew with his arm around his mother. "Look," he said. "This is me... this is me here with you."
"No," said Irene again. She was crying freely now.
There was a noise at the back door and they both turned. A shadow appeared in the hallway, small and dark, followed by another: this one very much alive. The jet-black cat froze when it reached the doorway, the swinging and creaking of the cat-flap still carrying into the living room.
Irene was half standing, looking from the cat to the man holding the picture.
"Tolly?" he said.
The cat had something in its mouth. It looked like a toy at first, but when the animal dropped it onto the hall carpet they could both see it was a sparrow the cat had stalked and caught, just like it always loved to do. The feline----named after Tolstoy, because of its long tail----was now locked in a battle of gazes with him. He took a step towards the creature and its fur stood on end, hackles rising. On some level it could sense there was something wrong. Was this really the man it used to curl up to, making itself comfortable in his lap while pressing its feet into his thighs as if making a nest?
One more step and the cat hissed, spinning around and shooting off in the direction it had come, leaving its prey behind. The man stood and looked across at Irene. She knew exactly how the cat felt----didn't want him coming anywhere near her.
"Mum," he said.
"Don't call me that!"
"It's who you are," he insisted. "You're my mother."
"I was Matthew's mother. I... I don't even know whatyou are."
He looked wounded.
Perhaps she was losing her mind. Was that it? Were these the first signs of Alzheimer's? Or a brain aneurysm? Was she conjuring up this whole scene because she wanted to see Matthew so badly, at this time of year especially? Was this all her doing? Irene shook her head. No, this was real; the man in front of her was real. And she had to figure out some way of dealing with it before she really did go insane.
"I'm Matthew. I'm not an hallucination," he told her, seemingly reading her mind.
"I don't believe in ghosts," Irene said.
"I'm not a ghost either," was his reply. "I'm solid, as solid as I was in this photograph. See?" He reached over and grabbed her arm and she nearly fell back onto the couch in an effort to escape him. But there was no force in that grip; it was merely to illustrate his point. "I carried you back in here, remember?"
Her eyes were wide and white as dinner plates. He let go of her, slowly, and Irene was profoundly aware that she was trembling.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just, well, I don't know how else to convince you."
"T-Tea," said Irene, her mouth a straight line. "A cup of tea..."
The man smiled. "Of course, tea. The cup that cures." He said it like he knew that was her mantra. Like he knew that all the problems there had ever been in this house had been solved over a cup of hot, steaming tea. "I'll go and put the kettle on."
Irene almost laughed then, a nervous laugh. Her dead son, or at least someone who purported to be so, was now offering to go and brew up. She nodded and watched as he put the picture down on the coffee table and left the room. From the kitchen she heard cupboards being opened, the tinkling of china----he knew exactly where to look. Then the sound of the kettle being filled with water.