One Coin Three Faces

By Cyril A. Peters

boy aged ten, traumatised by personal events, searches for a surrogate family to belong to.
In lifes journey through to adulthood he discovers friendship and love, bigotry and hate.
In a quest for answers he turns to the Law and the legal profession to balance the scales of his unstable past and a turbulent present.

...I knew our lives had changed forever. There
was little likelihood of us returning back to our former status as a family. I felt the warmth of tears down my face and tried not to sob, though this was a natural reaction. I walked towards my mother and buried my head in her clothing. She cried piteously. I cried with her as we held onto each other dearly. Life, for us, would never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Nov 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499030747

Cyril A. Peters

Cyril Peters holds qualifications in criminology, world history, and indigenous cultures. He is a jazz musician. His other books are: Metempsychosis (by CAP); Ignoble Imitation by Cyril A. Peters; The Swan, The Demon, and the Warrior by Cyril A. Peters

Book preview

…WHO CARES BUT US?

W INTER DRAGGED ON in a torturous manner. Each day I waited for my stepfather to return. One day it dawned on me that he would only appear when he chose to, if ever. I would have to stop anticipating his arrival back home. At times I wished I could stop thinking about him. Sadly this was impossible. It felt strange. When he was with us I hardly ever spared him a single thought unless he happened to be with me or at home with my mother.

My mother Mia Qvist had developed an unspoken denial or perhaps a sense of fatalism. She never mentioned his name again. Each time I commenced a conversation in respect of my stepfather she interrupted, often uncharacteristically rudely, until I stopped.

Nonetheless Mia had not stopped loving me; that much was obvious. In truth I respected her for the fact that she did not act overly possessive towards me. I was not another person she might lose if she did not cling to me in an overprotective manner. She allowed me the freedom to express my views freely, other than conversation relating to my stepfather. We discussed everything under the sun, or, as distant as my limited experience would allow me.

My mother and I grew closer during those dreary winter months. I believe Mia could never substitute my stepfather with an alternative form of love and did not pretend she could. Hers was a brand of love and understanding that was unique to her and I commenced to appreciate that fact.

One day, when the weather was particularly bad and the wind howled outside our kitchen window, I witnessed her weeping. Though her back was turned to me she must have seen my image in the window pane as I too saw her image. I was standing to her rear. With great dignity she wiped her face dry of tears. I barely heard her sob and learnt that grieving is a matter of the heart; not necessarily a matter of public display. I approached her tentatively, my hands behind my back and my throat dry though not for reasons of thirst.

Do you still love dad, Mia? I asked her.

I did not know how else to commence a conversation with her under the circumstances. I could not understand if she wept because she missed him terribly or she wept for herself. I had never witnessed personal loneliness before and hoped never to encounter it again. I had always known my mother to love her husband. Even in their most awkward moments she looked at him with tenderness. Nevertheless our lives had changed with his departure and I did not know if her affections towards him had changed as well.

She looked down at me standing by her side.

Did you love your dad? she asked challengingly, her brow arched emphatically. You do know that he was not your real father, or have you forgotten?

Such a statement was not unexpected information; that she should mention it was beyond my understanding. I had always known he was not my biological father and hardly raised curiosity about the man who really was. It was hurtful the manner in which she raised her questions. My mother was never cruel to me or towards any person. Yet her altered manner suggested she was capable of damaging questioning.

There was a look of uncertainty about her. Perhaps, though I was her son, she did not know how I would answer her.

I surrounded her waist with my arms and held her close. I was prepared to forgive her for any hurtful question she was likely to ask me. Before I replied I wanted to reassure her that I loved her as much as I had ever done before. The warmth of her presence was comforting. It exemplified the bond that had always existed between us.

Yeah, I love him just as I will always love you, I answered honestly. My stepfather was not a past tense and I was not prepared to consider him as such. Perhaps prevailing sentiments towards him would change later; I was uncertain what my future feelings for him might be.

Really, she commented dryly.

Yes, really mother; on both counts. I have always tried to see him as my real dad. You know that! How can I not continue to love him? There was certainty in my voice. I was not concocting a desired response to suit the occasion.

She considered my emphatic statement for a few moments before she spoke again.

I do love him, too; I guess I always will, she whispered simply and sobbed. It broke my heart to see her do so.

At a time I needed someone desperately, she almost whimpered, he was the only one who was there for me. She was manually cleaning utensils though being only the two of us, there was not much to clean.

I abandoned her side and sat at the kitchen table where once we had all shared our meals as a family. I visualised my stepfather sitting across, beaming his wide Brazilian smile at me.

However, I had not been altogether abandoned. My mother, I knew, would never desert me; there was enormous comfort in that.

He’s not coming back, is he? I questioned her hesitantly, feeling horribly despondent and valiantly attempting not to allow my eyes fill with tears.

Who isn’t coming back? she responded instantaneously and harshly. I was taken aback. How could she pretend not to know, I wondered, who I was speaking about? We had been discussing him mere moments ago. Once again, as she had done repeatedly, she refused to discuss my stepfather openly and at length. Her unexpected reaction in attempting to deny his existence was disturbing. I could not fathom exactly what it was that she held back from me or if she refused to let me into some family secret. I was her family and for the moment I was all she had left. However, I was aware she was considering foreign shores and her immediate family to which she once belonged.

We could travel back to my homeland if you like, she suggested between sobs. Your grandparents would love to be near you.

O, really, I stated rather bluntly, annoyed that she should raise such a possibility at this stage of my life. "So why haven’t they bothered to find out if I