Simply opening the capsule is easy. When the door lifts up it’s quite theatrical due to the frozen smoke. I wonder if I should be recording this. It seems like something my mother, the new mellowed-out one that will take to bridge and cardigans, might want to watch alone and get a bit misty-eyed to on nights when Brady and I have gone somewhere romantic and timeless: here is where my daughter pulled me from the fog of purgatory. Here is where I achieved room temperature.
Mother’s expression and skin texture looked unseemly even through the frosted glass, but without any kind of cloudy filter, she is very, very grizzled. The veins in her face are prominent and green, with a slight purple tinge I can only describe as zombieish.
Suddenly a vague memory hits me of a time she made me siphon gasoline as a child—she dismissed my resultant oral sores, saying if I really wanted to feel some pain, I’d close an eleven inch knife wound up with gunpowder and a cigarette (she had done this in São Paulo, though I can’t remember the circumstances). Waking her up might be quite a mistake. My panic deepens as my eyes move towards her sharpened teeth. At least, I’ve always assumed she had them sharpened. Nature doesn’t seem fond of mixing 45° enamel inclines with mammary glands.
As the ship’s control panel lights glimmer and flick across the shiny arrowheads of her incisors, it’s hard not to feel like everything about her emanates a strong Do Not Touch vibe.
The reanimation directions are far more involved than just popping the door open, which I’m sure often had to be done for routine maintenance. Though I don’t know how much routine maintenance was given to my mother, seeing as her T-Zone appears to be blistered yellow with a thick layer of permafrost. A wave of pity overtakes me, and I know what I must do. This time, things will be different: I’m an adult, I have a wonderful boyfriend, and Mother will have to be grateful that I saved her from her sentence.
I proceed with caution, first tying her body up with a series of athletic tube socks, which I have an abundance of. Though I’m no slave to the work-out (in fact I don’t think I’ve ever, really, engaged in any type of cardiovascular activity beyond scrubbing) I love elastic. Perhaps due to the fact that I was not hugged or encased in warmth nearly enough as a child. Perhaps due to the fact that my non-sociopath parent was murdered by the non-non.
Eventually, the fluids start kicking. I do mean this literally. Restraining her was a good idea.
The legs are the first to return, followed by the upper-torso. There are lots of bubbles. The gases that came out of her have a smell somewhere between Clorox and broccoli. At first her body appears to be dancing, hippie-style in reckless abandon, too drugged out to allow for symmetry of movement and timing. These seizures then pick up the pace with chest undulations. There’s a small window of time when I become afraid she will short-circuit and leave me with only the smell of burnt hair and some additional emotional baggage.
She vomits several liters of a gelatinous maroon substance before speaking.
“You double-crossing prick,” she belches. “Give me back my magazine.”
By magazine, I know she is not referring to any sort of home interior journal.
“Mother,” I say, “it’s me. You’re safe. You don’t need any bullets. The year is 2045.”
Her eyes, perhaps, still have some ice crystals passing over the retina. Maybe all she can see is blurry light. She might even think that this is the afterlife, and I an angel.
Suddenly I feel her gaze lock upon me like the scope of a long rifle.
“It’s you? Jesus, you turned out homely. Let me see your rack.”
“Mother—”
With that she reaches out to physically explore my bosom. Realizing she’s restrained, she quickly bites through her cotton fetters with rodential flair.
“This place is a shithole.”
I can feel the age-old resentment beginning to boil as I watch her rooting around my tiny cabin, no doubt searching for instruments to fashion crude weapons from. When she opens my utensil drawer, she lets out a judgmental “tsk.”
“Maybe, Mom, I would live in a nicer place if I hadn’t gone to a government work-orphanage at the age of nine when you were incarcerated. Not just incarcerated, frozen. Beyond writing letters, even. Did you know that they didn’t even tell me you’d been frozen? For the longest time, I left mail for you on my nightstand, thinking the supervisors picked it up during our morning chemical showers. I’d get long letters back and it wasn’t until you started coming on to me in them and asking me to meet you in the boiler room that I realized Robby the Janitor had been stealing my outgoing mail and taking on your share of the correspondence.”
Mother has found my only pair of pantyhose (admittedly, I don’t dress to the nines much) and placed padlocks into each foot. She begins spiraling these around like nun chucks.
“Mother, no weapons. I mean it. I didn’t have to bring you back to life.”
This gets her attention. She comes over and places her fingers along my throat in a way that brings instant and absolute pain, along with the inability to move. “You’re getting too big for your britches.”
She then opens the refrigerator and eats for three hours straight. Around hour two I decide to go to bed. I don’t say a word about how the distracting light, the wasted power, and the flatulent sounds of plastic condiment containers spurting their last drops are keeping me from pleasant dreams. What I do say in my head—a telepathic whisper of sorts that I hope she will hear, considering the possibility that maybe being not dead but frozen for several years opened some window of her mind to the supernatural—is this: my britches are indeed so big, Mother. I’m a forty-three year old woman with a weakness for reconstituted fudge.
I wake to Mother (nude) holding a loofah scrub (mine) looking not so happy. She was frozen before the hydrogen ration card mandate and does not understand why the shower won’t operate. Since I cannot ask for additional ration cards to support a prematurely thawed felon, I’m forced to dip into my meager stash of them. She asks how long they’re for.
“Three minutes,” I warn. “Don’t get caught in the dry with a head full of bubbles.”
She hoists up an arm that appears to be covered with sawdust. “I’ve got more dead skin than you’ve got ugly. Give me another one of those things. Three minutes isn’t even long enough to sand my forehead.”
I tell her, “just this once,” then when I hear the water start I put all my remaining ration cards into a front-zip stomach purse designed to prohibit pick pocketing. I bought the purse for travel, specifically for when Brady and I will honeymoon in Rome.
While Mother’s in the shower, I sign on to let Brady know that I’ve unfrozen her.
FluidTransfer69: U guys catching up?
I’m a sucker for simplicity and would rather not explain that since waking, all Mother has really done is fully deplete my living quarters and put me in a choke-hold.
CargoBabe: Yes.
That night I decide that if things are going to move forward emotionally with Mother, it is I who will need to instigate the healing process. I watch on as she uses my fold-down dinette table to practice punching through wood.
She needs no practice.
“Mother, when you killed Father, that really hurt me. Especially the having to watch it.”
“I didn’t tie you up and glue your eyes open.”
This is true. Mother has a way of making everyone else seem in the wrong.
“Did you miss me? All those years you were frozen?”
Mother’s left cheek is somewhat illuminated by the moon, which is visible across the windshield. She’s sweaty and her cheeks are pink with exertion. I watch as her expression remains unchanged while her fist sails through four solid inches of oak.