The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 12

Monday arrived. Lucas was awake before his alarm clock. Delighted at the prospect of heading to school for the first time after a weekend of his mother's nagging. A weekend never passed slower. Not answering his phone got him lectured endlessly about the dangerous of ignoring his mother's calls. It was irresponsible, careless. Both days filled with this drivel. He understood her anger but complaining for two whole days straight? A few hours, even one day was plenty. She always blew things out of proportion. I need to know where you are, Lucas, she said with tone mixed with terror and rabid anger, always pick up when I call, do you hear me. As if it was a life and death situation. He thought about a documentary he watched about a Marine veteran who'd returned from deployment and was struggling with readjusting to society, to civilian life, dealing with terrible anxiety and sleepless nights, suffering from something called Post-Traumatic Stress—maybe she had that, and was taking it out on him?

He opened the window shades. The rush of morning light illuminated the heap of untouched math homework on the desk. That'll have to wait. He dressed and walked to the dresser and for a pair of socks. The diary's vanilla scent greeted him pleasantly, rising through the repository of underwear and socks. He grabbed the diary, and read a passage:

-January, 2 1693-

Tonight, the Mayfield's arrived unexpectedly with their son, little six-year old Davey. He was dying, stricken by the damned flu. The desperation on their faces, I'll never forget, as they carried their boy's limp body. He was barely coherent, unable to keep his eyes open. His breathing was labored, gasping, the awful sounds of grinding lung flesh. Oh, the heartbreak on their faces. In between his rattling breathes, he mumbles, somehow finding the last vestiges of strength to call out for his mother before falling back into stupor. They pleaded, if I could do anything to alleviate his suffering. The tears in their eyes, and twisted faces, I could not in all righteous conscious turn them away. And yet, by accepting the care of their child I will bear immense risk. I understand this. The Mayfield's have always been good to us, good, trustworthy and courteous folk. I agreed to look after Davey. My husband fiercely disagreed, of course, and presents a valid claim for not bringing on unnecessary risks. I understand his concern, and yet, sometimes I wonder if he has a heart. I don't enjoy seeing this cold aspect of his personality, and it strikes me how easy he decides to deny a child a chance of life, a child who has done nothing wrong, a child whose only want is a guiding and protective embrace, especially in a time of need and desperation. It is unacceptable. I cannot be deemed worthy of life myself, if I do not at least try to spare this child his undeserved suffering. My mind is set, and replete with determination. I will save this child or I shall be struck down.

Something in her pledge to forgo her safety, and provide care to this Davey, in spite of the evident risk, struck him as warm, familiar—motherly. Suddenly uneasy he tossed the diary into his bag, placed his phone in his coat pocket and headed towards the kitchen preparing for more lectures.

She called out to him. Unsure if her tone was friendly or foe. He rounded the final step.

"Breakfast is ready," she said, smiling.

He entered the kitchen, bacon crackling, everything off to a good start. She had a plate perfectly prepared for his feasting pleasure, fork and knife neatly laid out on either side of the plate, complete with a full glass of orange juice. Peace had prevailed.

"Sleep well?" she said, hiding the strain in her voice.

"Yeah, I think I'm getting used to the creakiness of this place," he replied, shoveling a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He chewed and studied his mother. Watching her wade back and forth almost aimlessly, from the sink to the stove, carrying a plate in her hand but not putting anything on it.