As I stand and think about whether I should leave the oven on, a mass of memories pop up. I decide to turn it off. If I let her die, I would end her suffering, and I have no wish to help her. Let her suffer. Let her battle her own shitty life. When she can no longer handle it, when she finally gives up, then she can end her life herself. I will not help her.
As I stand here and say my last goodbyes to you, it is hard to keep my thoughts in the present. I think about everything you have done to me and everything you never did for me. Mother is just a word.
Without a sound, she takes out her gear and tries to open the driver’s door. Her face clenched, she looks around her, ever on guard. She gets the door open, gets in and closes it quietly. She tries to start the engine. Successful, she immediately turns the heater on high and lets the warmth hit her hands which cover her mouth. Quietly and carefully she lets the car roll. When the house has disappeared from sight, she hits the accelerator. The heat begins to spread slowly throughout her body and a tense smile appears on her otherwise expressionless face. She laughs forcefully, but it is false and hollow. She turns on the radio and, screaming to the blasting music, she drives way too fast out towards the airport.
She drives as if intoxicated. She owns the asphalt. With yet another forced laugh, she aims directly at the street light, before straightening up the car right at the last moment. Over and over she plays “chicken” with the street light. Her eyes grow moist, but she dries them as if it doesn’t matter. On a long straight stretch, she floors it. With a firm grip on the steering wheel, she lifts her body up towards the windscreen and screams, then slumps back into her seat. The tears run freely down her cheeks, and she lets go of the steering wheel to dry them away.
You would see Louisa out walking in town with her mother. Like a wounded animal, following its owner, always with its head bowed, always compliant. She walked with small, hurried steps, shifting her weight between each foot. Stopping when her mother stopped; walking when she went onwards. Pulling on the sleeves of her coat, she scanned the ground intensely, but without really looking. There was no longer any Louisa left in Louisa. When people greeted her, she would laugh like a small child. But the laughter was toneless, not a child’s. A cold, empty laughter. The laugh of a crazy woman.
I remember clearly one day, when my mother picked me up from school. I wasn’t very old. When we went outside, I couldn’t zip up my coat. The zip on my coat began to taunt me: it wouldn’t work as it should do. Scared of making my mother mad, I tried frantically to zip up my coat. The more I tried, the harder it got. She had already gone a few feet when she turned around and saw that I had not followed her. When she got back to me, she grabbed hold of my coat by the chest, lifted me up and began to shake me. Stupid, useless, kid. It was during a break-time in front of a load of kids who were out playing. She shook me so hard that my coat was ripped to shreds along the zipper, and the down began to fall out over the playground like fake snowflakes. I cried: not because of the pain, but out of shame.
I have always known my mother’s rage. Her recurring breakdowns. The number of pills she took rose and fell like the tide. There were periods when she would be drained of energy and strength. Her mother had apparently suffered from this too. I didn’t know what this immense exhaustion was. I couldn’t understand it, but I bore witness to it every single day. I was just a child.
It was me alone who took care of the household chores. My mother never cooked, she never did the washing up, she didn’t do laundry, she never took care of anything, including me. She could spend an entire day on the sofa. She must have been really tired. In the beginning I would refuse when she asked me to do something. I thought I could say no, thought I had a choice. I quickly learnt that I was wrong. Her wish became my command.
I met a man. He was quite a lot older than I was, but that didn’t matter, because I loved him. Fari was a nice man, he had an education, a steady job at a fish-processing plant, and that made me feel safe and secure. I really felt like I had met the man who I would spend the rest of my life with. When we moved into our own home, we started a new family. We had three children, one after another, and I was going to be a good mother. My children would not have to go through what I had endured.
At times—and I am so grateful for being able to see this—I find myself being too hard on the children. When this happens, I always make sure to apologize to them, to look them deep in the eyes and promise them that I will pay more attention to my behaviour in the future and be better at controlling my temper. I don’t know why I sometimes act like this towards my own children. I can never really put my finger on what it is that makes me do this.
I hurry home as soon as I get off work. It’s become a habit for me to hurry, even if there is nothing in particular I have to do. I have a husband now, we have our own home, but still I can’t seem to shake off old habits. Perhaps I ought to do some cleaning before I go and pick up the kids.
When I step in through the door, I am surprised to see my husband’s work overalls and large rubber boots in the hallway, but also glad to know that he is home already. I dash into the kitchen. It’s empty. Then I hear a sound from the bedroom. As I get closer, I’m met by voices and other sounds. I open the door and my “Hello” is replaced by a scream. Like a punch in the face I see my husband… with my mother. Her nakedness has infiltrated his. They are like a patchwork quilt; legs locked around each other, his hands all over her back, even on her flabby, wrinkled buttocks. Pearls of sweat dot her bare neck. Despite her long hair covering his face completely, I still know that it’s him. The scar over his knee glows white and mocking up at me.
I scream and try to get my mother out. Point towards the door. I am no longer the master of my own body or my conscious thoughts. Both of them are busy getting dressed. I become immersed in the nightmare, I feel only disgust. Neither of them attempts to apologize. They just want to get out. Fari takes a long time to put on his sweater, but my mother has disappeared. With an imploring look on his face, a “Let me explain”, he reaches out for my arms. With my entire body I ask him to go to hell.
As soon as the front door has slammed shut, my body starts to shake wildly and feel weak, and I fall down to the floor and break down in painful tears. I sob so fiercely that I can barely catch my breath. In the hope of waking from this nightmare, I scream my lungs out—I don’t give a shit if the neighbours can hear me. I could somehow have expected this from my mother, but from my husband? Never. I would never have imagined that he could do this to me. I hit myself and imagine that it is Fari, that shit, who I’m hitting. I want to beat him until I’m not angry any more. Right in the gut. Or the head. I can almost feel his nose as it crunches under my fist, and the warmth from the blood as it streams down his face. I reach for a cushion, press my face into it and scream as hard as I can as the tears keep running.
Some days have passed, but I am still exhausted from the rage I’m feeling. I take care of the kids alone, I will not fail them. I’m not that kind of mother. I am not ready yet to see Fari. Fuck Fari. When I get off work, I pick up my two eldest from preschool and the youngest from daycare and head home. They are whining and impatient. I decide to make their tea early so I can get them into bed as soon as I can. They are fighting in the living room. I hear a little bump, someone’s fallen, two of them are shrieking. I ask them to say sorry to each other, to come to an agreement. I am patient. Gentle. A good mother. They turn on the TV.