The Man on the Moon (The Man Duology)

Chapter 20

It was if I was right there with her. As my mother told me her story, I became utterly immersed. When necessary, a variety of different emotions painted her entire face. The fear that she felt in those selected moments were projected from her memory, and ran down her wrinkle-kissed cheeks. Before she revealed everything, Hazel quickly boiled the kettle and poured the hot contents into two mugs -- one with an ordinary tea bag in, and the other with a decaf one. As she danced between her kitchen counters, her mind clearly raced. Although she pretended to be a chirpy, precious woman making tea in her pyjamas, she was about to cause a hurricane -- and she knew it, too.

Eventually, after a decade of stirring our drinks, Hazel floated over. With a massive smile, partly false, stretching across her face, she planted the piping hot decaf mug into my palm. As she let go of the handle, I caught a glimpse of Hazel's iconic red nail polish. This was definitely the woman in the first video tape -- my mother.

My brain buzzed with questions. So many questions. And answers. So many answers. My mouth almost couldn't keep up. Every time I tried to speak, something would go wrong. For example, I tried to ask about why she was never there for me, but I choked on my tea. Unlike ever before, my tongue tied itself into a perfectly neat bow. Now, nothing about me was neat. And, if this moment didn't depend on me saying something at least, I would be proud. So many words had not been said in the 16 years that my mother was silent, that you would think our chins couldn't stop wagging. Like two dogs meeting for the first time, we should have been basking in each other's company. But we weren't -- and that is something we had in common.

"The first thing I should probably say is I'm sorry," Hazel admitted, nervously tapping one of her rings onto her mug's handle. "Eleanor, I had no choice."

"Mum," The word stuck to the back of my throat, like a paracetamol that had lost its sugar coating. As expected, my eyes were already watering and begging for me to sob. "It's oka-"

"No," Arrogantly, she cut me off. "Nobody should take their child's childhood away from them for their own benefit. Although, you can be the judge of who took it from you." As Hazel took a deep breath, you could hear the anxiety linger on her lungs. "It all started when your father discovered the essence of alcohol."

As Hazel told me about my father, I could picture the scenarios in my head. She described everything vividly, from what they were both wearing to the way their furniture was tailored, so that I could get a clearer image. Their old living room was nothing like Dad's now -- Hazel claimed that the colour scheme was black and blue. Two wine-stained, blue love-seats, lined with silver beads, were sitting around an old, battered TV and stand. A few framed photographs were collecting dust, like stamps, on the coffee table -- one of my mother in the hospital after she'd given birth to me, another with their current dog as a puppy, and the last one of my parents kissing on their wedding day. Cringing at the thought of them actually being together, I desperately wanted Hazel to skip past those details. Although she didn't dwell on the fact that they were married, her eyes were tinted with a sense of sadness. Did she miss him?
Prior to abandoning me, Hazel distinctly remembered the night before. Dad, or Nick, had been drinking with his work colleagues, been all over the barmaid, and posted the night all over Facebook. Once he stumbled through the door, Hazel (or Mum) was cradling me into her breast, attempting to put me to bed. She had a sour expression painted on her face as she rocked me back and forth, while shouting at my drunken father. As she remembered his stern face and waving finger, Hazel had to wipe several trickling tears from her eyes. At this point, I settled my hand on top of hers, as a sign of support. Showing her gratitude, she flashed a kind smile in my direction, edging back to her story.
"That night," She was breathless. "Was the most terrifying of my entire life. I don't think I have ever been so scared..." Looking down, she fiddled with her hands. "After I waved my phone in his face, being paranoid about this stupid barmaid, he wiped the entire coffee table. The frames were broken, the glass... It was so dangerous. My only instinct was to keep you safe, so I tucked you into your cot and returned to him."
Hazel ducked her head, caressing her chest. Subtly, I heard her struggling to breathe.