Four Mothers: A Short Story Collection

By RJ Crayton

Four stories. Four mothers. Four crises. One great read. 

Our notions of motherhood run the gamut from the mythical SuperMom to the dreaded Mommy Dearest. None is entirely true, as all mothers are both perfect and flawed. Four mothers tells four stories. 

In The Beads, Iram is a mother coping with crisis -- a child in a coma -- when something happens that affects her entire outlook. 

In Almost Perfect, Bitsy wants her grandson, whom she is raising to be perfect. 

Tilda, the mother we meet in As Luck Would Have It, exudes luck from every pore, but she has one problem - her daughter's seeming lack of luck. 

Felicity is relishing her overbearing husband's absence on a business trip, when her Two-Day Break suddenly turns into a nightmare. 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: RJ Crayton
• Release date: Mar 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781502288875

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INTRODUCTION

Most of the stories in this collection focus on mothers. Each one is personal, because I wrote each tale at a time when a particular scenario (such as a child choking or rolling off the bed) was weighing heavily on my mind. The stories have the common thread of motherhood, and yet the four mothers depicted in the stories each have their own issues. Some love their children wholeheartedly, but have deep insecurities. Other mothers in the collection are deeply flawed, and that comes across in their parenting style.

I always think the backstory behind stories is interesting, so for this book, I created an appendix for each piece. I briefly explain the backstory of each tale and, in two instances, provide a glimpse at parts of the story that did not make it to the final version.

The collection is called Four Mothers because its central focus is the lives of four women who make parenting decisions that have significant consequences for their children. There was another story I’d written that I considered putting in the collection, only it didn’t quite fit. A mother plays a prominent role, but it’s not about her, so the story was not a perfect match for this collection. However, I liked it so much, I decided to include Lynch Party as a bonus story. It’s more graphic than the other tales, so be forewarned. I hope you enjoy the collection.

I

THE BEADS

The Beads

Iram had always known deep down that parents who wronged their children went to Hell.

The first time she’d heard the notion clearly expressed was seared into her memory. It was in the seventh grade. One of the Catholic girls had sought her opinion. Not a classmate with a good-girl complex. No, this was a girl whose uniform skirts were hemmed an inch too high and whose top three buttons were always undone, exposing the pubescent cleavage blooming on her chest.

I know you’re not Catholic, the girl had said in a hushed tone, glancing about for potential eavesdroppers. But, I just was wondering if you guys believed this too. She threw another furtive glance down the corridor and, when she was certain no one was approaching, continued. Sister Mary Catherine said if you have an abortion, on Judgment Day, God will ask you to stand before Him to determine your fate. ‘Heaven or Hell?’ He will ask. Then your aborted baby will enter, look first at you and then to God. Slowly, your baby will lift his tiny blood-soaked finger and point you to Hell.

For Iram, the story had finally codified her notion. Sure, the nun had her reasons for telling that girl that story, but the particulars weren’t important. It was the overall theme that mattered. It had put Iram’s notion into unmistakable words and even starker imagery — hurting your own child resulted in the ultimate punishment: Hell.

Yet, Iram had always thought Hell would come after death, that it occurred long after you committed the wrong. Despite eternal damnation, she had always assumed that you could live out your life normally. Not so, Iram had realized, as she saw no end to the interminable Hell her life had become.

Iram leaned close to her daughter’s hospital bed and lay her head on the mattress. A few strands of Iram’s straight black hair fanned out across the girl’s shoulder.

Nadia was two years old. Thirty-two months, to be precise. She had been in this bed for 52 days now. The doctors could not explain what had gone wrong. But Iram knew. She knew that Nadia’s inexplicable coma was entirely her fault. The weight of her guilt kept her tethered to the chair beside Nadia’s bed. It kept her from straying too far from her daughter, like an invisible chain with only a modicum of slack. Only enough to go to the restroom, to pull down the Murphy bed at night and sleep. Just enough, though very rarely now, to go to her own home, check that it had not burned to the ground, and get a change of clothing.

Iram lifted her head and sat up in the chair. She looked down, taking in the girl that now lay before her: black curly hair, cheeks that used to be chubby and full of youthful glow, now sunken and pale. Nadia’s eyes were closed and she lay perfectly still, except for the tiny rise and fall of her chest, indicating that her heart still beat and her lungs still pumped air in and out. Iram drew in a breath and then blew it out slowly. Monitors measuring heart rate and breathing beeped steadily in the background, and Iram could only wallow in the guilt that her actions of seven weeks ago had led them here.

Mommy and Me jewelry was supposed to be fun. They’d made a bracelet by stringing beads on an elastic cord, then tying the ends together. Iram had known she wasn’t as good at tying knots as her husband, who’d been a Boy Scout. Yassir knew the appropriate knot for every situation. However, she’d felt confident the knot she’d tied would hold, even though the bracelet was a bit too large for Nadia’s dainty wrist.

Callous and selfish as she was, Iram had taken a phone call while Nadia held a doll tea party at a miniature table with a teddy bear, Raggedy Anne doll and stuffed giraffe.

Tovah, Iram’s friend since grade school, would be visiting the following week and had wanted to hammer out last minute details. For most of the call, Iram had sat on the sofa, watching Nadia set out plates and teacups, blow imaginary tea cool and then sip it.

But then Iram had needed to run to her room to grab her old address book, which had the last address of a mutual friend. A quick glance around the room confirmed the outlets were covered; all the furniture had rounded corners that wouldn’t lead to a nasty head scrape or poke out an eye. Nadia never jumped on the sofa, so that was fine. The TV was on a shelf that was too high for Nadia to reach. Yassir had bolted the shelf to the wall to prevent it from toppling. Everything was fine.

Iram stepped out of the room and easily found the address book. It had only felt like she was gone a minute, although Tovah had told the entire story of her sister’s debacle-ridden return trip from Israel, so it must have been longer. When Iram returned, she’d found Nadia lying on the floor, silently struggling to pull air into her lungs, as no sound could slide past the bead obstructing her airways. The girl’s olive skin was turning a sickly shade of blue; the unknotted, empty string lay on the floor, and all the dolls had beads on their plates.

How many had Nadia swallowed? Iram had no idea. It could have been one bead or 10 blocking her windpipe. It had been nearly three years since Iram had taken the prenatal Infant CPR and Choking class, but in that moment, the instructor’s words echoed in her mind, as if he was standing right next to her: Clear the blocked airways.

She stuck her longest finger in Nadia’s mouth and then swept from right to left, trying to dislodge whatever was stuck. After several swipes at nothing but the warm wet squishiness of Nadia’s throat, Iram finally felt the round hard bead. She swiped twice more, managing to dislodge the pink oval.

Nadia seemed to be getting air, but was not responding to Iram’s pleas to awaken. She called 911. The woman Iram spoke with swore she had dispatched help, but the wait seemed eternal.

When the ambulance arrived, the EMTs slipped an oxygen mask on the girl, which looked way too big once settled over Nadia’s face. Iram called Yassir from the ambulance. He said only that he was coming and hung up. Iram knew that he had already apportioned blame for this to her; he was 100 percent right. When Yassir arrived at the hospital, he