Mother's Paintings

A Short Story

(This painting, by my wife, was the inspiration for this story. Don’t blame her for what follows...)

She had a fresh fish, still fighting for air—or water, rather—on the table, resting upon a now stained, white piece of paper. She held it, firmly, so that the struggling fish could hardly move. Where did my mother get this fish, I wondered. And how had it arrived there on the dining room table, still alive.

“Go to your room,” she said, without looking up.

She always seemed to know when I was watching her. I dragged my feet as I walked back up the stairs, hoping that one day she would follow me. She never did, but I understood. It wasn't my place to get in the way of her talents. They are gifts from God, after all, and to neglect them would be evil. My desire for attention came from Satan. I knew this, but I always struggled with it. Charlie always kept me company. He was a friendly cat. I was lucky, really.

When she finally called me down for dinner there was no fish, just some water and bread. Near the food, on the same table, was a new painting. It looked just like the fish I had seen before. She was neglecting her food to gaze at her work. She always looked at them. This one would go on the wall next to the others. Had she brought the fish home only so she could paint it?

“Where is it?” I asked her, but she only stared at the painting. I pressed her but she denied there being any fish. Then it struck me that I was only imagining that the fish was real. Her paintings are that vivid. She must have been in the middle of painting it, and my mind played tricks.

That’s what I thought, at least. Until a few months later, when Charlie disappeared, and a new painting of the cat lay on the table. The resemblance was striking, and the cat was nowhere to be seen. My mother seemed uninterested in looking for him, her attention was fixed on her new painting, and she dismissed me with a wave, only vaguely encouraging me to look for him. But that painting... the eyes looked vast and sad. They all did. Somehow, even the fish’s eyes had that look.

Still, I doubted what my senses were telling me, until my friend went missing. I only ever had the one friend. Most people were creeped out by me, and especially my mom, but Thomas came from a miserable home, and he thought I had it pretty good. He was spending the night, as he’d done many times before, when he went missing. We said goodnight but by the morning, he was gone. There was a new painting on the table, though. It was my friend, Thomas, with a sad look on his face. My mother’s attention was now on him.

The police questioned her. A child went missing in her care, after all. And she gave very short replies, always seeming interested and happy to help, yet unworried at the same time. She should have been more worked up about it, I thought, but her calmness was oddly disarming. Still, one detective would not leave her alone. He wanted to ask more and more follow up questions, but he too ended up in a painting.

“Mom. Why don’t you ever paint me?”

“Would you like me to, sweetie?”

“Yes, I think I would. I don’t think anything could make me happier.”

And so she did. And here I live, on the paper, on the wall. But it’s not what you think. She didn’t trap me. She freed me. From the prison that was my former life. That sad look on my face? That’s only a mask. Behind it is a smile that will never end. She sees me now.