MOTEL CHILD (Haunted)

My Inheritance

I’ll get right into the story (as my high school life, non-existing relationship status, and overall awkwardness are not important). I live in Arizona with my forty-two year old mother, Janice-Leigh Bates. She’s a practicing seamstress at a local stop-and-shop across from the bookstore. She had considered counseling, but I think after her relationship with my father, Norman Bates, she wants nothing to do with psychology; I think it scares her. As for me, I’m eighteen. I’m nothing special, nothing typical, nothing new, and nothing different. Just Oliver Bates.

I go to Roadrunner High school; a very unattractive grey building with turquoise trimming and grey lettering. I try not to hate it as much as other students do, as I’m lucky to be going to high school in the first place. I don’t have any friends, to be honest, everyone has somebody and the loners aren’t bold enough to reach out to other loners, so, friends don’t exist for me. The teachers are always calling my mom in, telling her that I read too slowly and work too fast in arithmetic, which I score very high in. I got the hint that they wanted me to slow down because I finished at least thirty minutes before the bell rings and they want me to “conform” with the other students so that “I don’t make them feel bad.”

I’ve never had a girlfriend, don’t care for one. Anytime a girl ever paid attention to me, it was for her own benefits or to hook me up with one of their friend girls so that I would stop flirting with them. Though, the biggest reason why I don’t want to date, is because the last girl I crushed on, Amanda Wreath, totally led me on in believing that she cared for me and singled me out from the rest, when, in fact, she said that to all the boys. I wasn’t really hurt, just frustrated that she wasn’t who I thought she was. I got over it soon and placed my mind on my studies.

I had lived in Arizona all my life—we never moved because she had met my father. She was an intern at the mental institution during her psychology practice and became instantly intrigued by my father’s case. She was allowed to talk to him and study him like an insect. And soon, she fell in love with him out of pity and boredom. My father didn’t like my mother, in fact, it seemed as though he tolerated her. He did, however, treated her respectfully and didn’t hurt her with the anger he was so prone to bubble into. And, as for them conceiving me, that story remains a mystery and is left to my imagination. I still am convinced my mother snuck in one night after stealing the entrance key. Though, the true story still lies behind the curtain.

In sad truth, my parents never married one another, as the staff and police did not allow it, but mother has a stubborn will and did everything to keep my father sound and sane. She paid for his medications, his housing, his food, his entertainment, even more so than she would do for me. But after he exploded into a split-personality escapade and threatened that he would eat her if she left him, my mother finally moved away about two hours from the hospital. Not much of a distance between them, but I suppose it was enough to discourage them from communicating to one another as much.  

I know you’re excited to know about the house we’re living in…let me tell you, it is gorgeous with its rusted appliances, peeling paint, exploding pipes, ragged carpeting, moldy ceiling, and, well, what do you expect from a trailer park? It’s awful. I hate it. I hate it more than high school. In fact, I sleep on the benches outside of the high school just to avoid going home. My mother isn’t into cleaning, so our house can go for weeks without proper maintenance. I sometimes fix the bathroom and sinks whenever there’s a risk of leaking or flooding. We can’t afford a plumber, so it’s all trial and error for me. We have one computer that we both have to share, and I can only have school folders on the desktop so we don’t junk up the hard drive.  

My room is the extension of her room, separated by a bathroom curtain with dolphins on the front. We used the guest bedroom to store our hardware and sports equipment and or boxes we haven’t unpacked yet. It is miserable, I’m not going to lie, but what can I do? Nothing. Nothing except take care of my mother and make sure she doesn’t smoke or drink too much. It’s when she drinks does she talk about Norman Bates. I sometimes use those moments to interrogate her about him, ask her why I’m forbidden to see him. But the answer is the same,

“Oliver, you will not go to that mad house! He’s a dangerous man; I was stupid to even see him…even fall in love with him!”

I sometimes take that response as a disappointment to my existence. I can see in my mother’s eyes that she can’t stand me because I remind her of him. My stuttering mannerism, my eyes, my smile, my dark hair, and chiseled, boyish features resemble too much of the father I’ve never met. She once showed me a photo of him before she lit it on fire: I looked just like him. I think, because of having the majority of my father’s genes in me, she hates that I remind her of him, yet, I bring some comfort to her because I look like the man she had once loved.

Last night, right after a canned soup supper, my mother poured herself a fourth glass of wine (the only enjoyment she could afford for herself) and sat me down. She pushed up her flannel sleeves, cuffed her jeans, and pointed a limp finger at me. In a drowsy voice, one that was somewhat comedic, she said, “Oliver, I want to tell you something.”

I nodded my head, folded my hands, and braced myself for what was to come. Every time she sits me down, it’s usually to tell me about another bill she couldn’t pay, or another thing that needed fixing before the weekend. But this one, this one changed both our lives. Whether it was a mistake, or a positive turning point, it was still a huge responsibility. I remember clearly the hazed look in her eye and her crooked smile as she continued,

“Norman left you something. Something that I haven’t seen yet because I promised I would let you be the first.” There, she stopped to reach into her back pocket. As she fidgeted for whatever item that was to join the conversation, she said, “It is his pride and joy, and I think he would want you to have it.”

I sat there, my hand extending towards her as she dropped a pair of silver keys into my hands. The key ring was rusted, but the keys sparkled. Not many thoughts ran through my head; I guessed they were keys to his treasured trinkets, or to a room that he considered his sanctuary.  But from the look on my mother’s face, it was more. It was his motel.

“Why?” I asked, fondling the keys.

“He ran it when he was twenty-four. He told me it was wonderful place where good people came to stay. He also told me that was where he took care of his dear mother, who suffered from an illness. Norman told me, before I left him, that he wanted you to restore it and take care of it. To keep the only thing he loved alive.”

I don’t know why I agreed, it must’ve been because I’d never been given such a responsibility and that I was afraid that if I rejected, I would never get such a chance again. “Of course, I will, Mom.” It was my turn to possess the keys. I slipped them in my back pocket, patted them once to assure myself that they were indeed there. After she told me the story, she dozed off. I dutifully carried her to her room and tucked her in bed. On my way out, I grabbed myself a piece of fruit and threw myself onto the couch.  And since that night, the keys have been with me.

Though, now I have them attached to a military chain around my neck, as I didn’t want to lose them in the public Laundromat. I felt some pride to wear them, a connection to my father. I think, by wearing them, I felt like I had a better chance of asking my mother to see him. In fact, I vowed to myself that after I restore the motel, I would go and see Norman Bates myself.