THE GRAY skies are darkening as the mother shifts her gaze from the wall clock to the window and back. Her son is already three hours late and he is not answering his cell phone. It is raining outside and he has forgotten his umbrella. Lines grow visible on the mother’s forehead as she sighs, her hand smoothing out page 29 of her son’s thick black notebook, which she found beside the umbrella.
Where could that journal be? the son asks himself as he passes another block. He is running as fast as he can so he can be home in time for dinner. He ignores the steady downpour engulfing everything in sight. There’s nothing he can do, really—his socks are soggy inside his worn-out rubber shoes, his polo clinging on to his skin, his long hair dripping in a messy ponytail, the hem of his jeans dirty because of the mud lifted by his shoes from the wet asphalt. He hears a mocking laugh and looks over his shoulder. There’s nobody out on the street but him.
The mother looks out on the street and finds no one. She sits back and resumes reading, her thoughts disturbed and her chest tightening, as if her son’s writings are hands gripping her heart.
For a moment, the son lets in the thought of his legs giving up. But there is no way he can stop. The laughter is persistent that he wants to run until he is free from it. The rain is still pouring—the backpack he is shielding from the rain and the things in it are wet—and his wristwatch ticks to 6:15 p.m.
The mother has read five more pages in the span of fifteen minutes. She takes off her glasses and closes the notebook, her eyes blurred with tears. She rests her head on the back of the rocking chair and waits in silence, her mind wrapped around the disturbing thoughts and what has become of her son.
The drenched teenager makes it home. The creak of the door alerts the mother and their gazes meet. Both pair of eyes are filled with worry, but for different reasons. The mother takes in the pitiful sight of her son, while the son is staring at the thick black notebook on his mother’s lap—the very reason he searched every classroom he had been in that day, putting him three hours behind the time he was supposed to be home.
***
That day started late for him. Waking up with only several minutes before class, he immediately had a quick shower. He was scurrying around his messy room when his mother entered and handed him a cup of coffee.
“Where’s my bag, Ma?” he asked irritably.
“I took it with the rest of your laundry,” she answered. “That bag is so filthy, and close to giving in. Next time I’ll go to the—“
He sighed, clearly exasperated. “So where did you put my things?”
She pointed at the study table he barely used. He scratched his head and opened the closet to get his backpack. She was about to go, but she turned and said “Your father expects you downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
He absent-mindedly nodded, not looking back at her. He heard the click of the door’s lock as he gathered the things within his reach. His father, from whom he inherited his impatience, honked the horn only a few minutes after his mother left the bedroom. He groaned, swung his bag on to his shoulder, and got out of the room.
After a couple of hours—when the dining table has been cleared and the maid is already sweeping the floor of the living room—the mother went upstairs, retracing the path she takes everyday. She opened the master’s bedroom door and got in to start her morning routine.
She smiled as she looked around—the bedsheet was already fixed, the blanket folded nicely, and the pillows arranged against the headboard. Her husband left his clothes neatly piled on the edge of the bed. She peeked at the bathroom before getting in, and as expected, the towel he used was already on a hanger. She dropped his clothes on the laundry basket and went out.
She gave the room one last look before leaving. As she marched down the hallway to her son’s room, she took a deep breath.
When she entered, filthy shoes scattered all over the floor welcomed her eyes. She shook her head and lined them up on the rack beside the closet. She picked up his dirty clothes along the way, and laid them down the swivel chair he rarelu uses. The messiest of all was his study table, which he merely used to hold readings and paperwork acquired over the years.
She shook her head at the disaster in sight. She tried to think about how she was going to organize the materials on the table. Books on the left, notebooks next to it, and papers in a folder, she decided. She sighed and began sorting his things.
She placed his mathematics workbooks over the edge of his bed, and saw his umbrella. Under it was a thick black notebook.
She frowned. Since he bought that notebook, she has never seen him without it. He was very protective of it, even hitting the back of a younger cousin’s head for scanning its contents. Curiosity piqued as to its contents, she lifted its cover.
The first page said “Distorted Cerebrum: Do NOT Read On.” With the room still messy, she walked to the nightstand and put it down, turning her attention back to the task at hand.
She finished tidying up a few minutes before the maid called her for lunch. Going back upstairs for her much-awaited siesta, she remembered the notebook and went back to her son’s room for it. She sat down on his bed, leaving the door half-open. She rested her back on the pile of pillows, put on her eyeglasses, and began to read.
One of the things that made her proud of her son was his flair with words. He had won in many writing contests since elementary, the most memorable of which was an essay he wrote about her that earned him first prize back in third grade. But more than the recognition he had brought home, she was most happy for having such a down-to-earth and thoughtful son—one who wrote a poem on her 36th birthday, a short story on mother’s day six years ago, and a letter for every special occasion.
The amount of stories and letters written in scented stationery began to spiral down three years ago, when he started acting like a defiant teenager. He started going home late, locking himself up in the room, and refusing to join in family trips and gatherings. She supposed that it was just a phase that he had to go through, so she just let him be.
But reading the contents of his thick black notebook changed her views about his transformation. His handwriting was undoubtedly shaky, his choice of words void of the peace and joy that, in all the years that she and her husband have been parents, they tried to provide.
I am going absolutely mad, the paragraph began. The voices in my head tell me to do things that I never would have thought of doing—drown in the tub, stab the maid in her sleep, step up on a stage and scream to all the passing students. I know that something is wrong with me. These voices, why do they keep on bugging me?
With whom? the mother asked herself. Then she recalled just two nights ago, she heard him from the hallway. She peeked through the door—thinking that he was arguing with one of his friends on the phone—and saw him talking animatedly to the wall, all alone. She called out his name and he stiffened before turning to face her glaringly.
On the opposite page were drawings, very different from the hearts and smiles that she used to receive. His illustrations now consist of sad faces, red “X” marks, a distorted image of a brain, several faces with red horns atop their heads, among others.
She closed the notebook and took a deep breath. There seemed to be a heavy weight on her shoulders that refused refused to leave even when she stretched out. She stood up and took the notebook with her. He was bound to be home soon. She wanted to understand him. Needed to understand him. Closing the door behind her, she decided that this afternoon would be the time to bring down the wall that seemed to grow in between them.
***
Hours after her son made it home soaked from head to foot, she sits on the sofa, following his movements as he makes his way down the stairs. He changed into clean, dry clothes. As he comes nearer, she catches a glimpse of the framed pictures on the table adjacent to where she is sitting. The boy in the pictures wore a sincere smile on his face. The young man now towering over her has a somber look on his face that has been a fixture for the past three years.
She pats the cushion beside her and he sits down, his eyes on the notebook resting on her lap. She makes him look at her with her finger beneath his chin.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, stroking his cheek.
“For what, Ma?” he asks, despite obvious reasons.
“For not knowing,” she answers. A tear makes its way down her cheek and surprisingly, his thumb is there to wipe it away. “I thought it was just natural.”
“It’s okay.”
She knows that it’s not. It never will be. Even with the aid of medicine and therapy, her son will not be the normal, jolly person that he was before. Voices belonging to the familiar people in his life, as well as to strangers, will infiltrate his thoughts, suggesting bizarre things that he might find the urge to act upon. He will see things that are not there. He will continue to talk to an empty room and not utter a word to people who want to know about his feelings. It might even come to a point when he will care less about his appearance. Her son will never be the same, because of the monster that is picking on his mind.
She notices the way her son plays with his fingers. She takes note of the way his eyes cannot find focus. She catches his shy glances. She stares intently, her mind recalling the chubby infant she gave birth to five years after her marriage. She reaches for his cheek and he tries to smile. They can only do so much, but she will be with him through this bad dream. He timidly takes her hand in his, telling her in silence that this much, he knows. Rose-An Jessica M. Dioquino
