The black and white film on the telly is just at the pivotal moment of upscaling it's level of drama since in approximate 40 seconds, the beautiful, red lipped blonde is about to run through hail and hell both to get to the lonely, departing protagonist and engage in violent necking.

The French Film is stuck in this same scene for the past 25 minutes since the only viewer in the house is busy in the kitchen which doesn't include any cooking.

The day is just narrowing past the bend of being an agonizing Monday and it is half past 7.

I can catch a glimpse of my mother who's eyes is fixated on the red telephone around the counter. Originally, I was scared by the prospect that modern telecommunication devices, such as this simple red wall hanging telephone is powerful enough to put her into a hypnotizing stare.

But since it's Monday, my mother is solicitously troubled by dad's return from the station and the telephone is granted more attention than me since dad was promised to call when he reaches Seine High.

Unlike me, the wired Gods of telecommunication have not been kind to Mum.

This was an ordinary scene of every weekend but for some reason, dad decided to make his much unexpected return on Monday just after he missed the last weekend train schedule. I suspect that some criminal reason is involved with this fallout of timing but since I have no wiretap to listen in to their conversation, Mum's frantic characteristics are the only tell that I am given to read the future by.

And so far, it isn't great.

For different people, certain aspect of comfort are presented in an altered manner.

For example, Clay gets a ridiculous fit of of anxiety just before he steps out to join the others in the debating podium, at the very start of every round. It has subsided from happening lately because lately he had been being coached by someone else but according to history, the acute signs of his jittery acts are displayed because he mispronounces the presentation line. Then, his chest rises up and down, in rhythmic controlled beats of a hippie song before his mind awards itself the comfort and confidence.

Clay's siblings, especially Cheryl had the brainstorm that gave birth to this solution. She is dauntingly knowledgeable, even at an young age which is older than us, but contrary to popular believes, she is not ugly nor wears double framed, high power glasses despite of being a geek.

Mum's omens of a possible restlessness is an usual thing to observe and the present scenery is the best to explain the misgivings.

Firstly, her work. Even though, she tells people "I'm retired from the whole print and pick business." and with a smile, adds the following sentence, "But I'm still crossing articles on the side."

To a stranger of our lives, this is completely believable on all platforms but to me, this is just a facade and a nonchalant cry for help.

Mum probably never wanted to pull the chute, bail from the editorial high horse ever and that elongated daydream still continues since she goes through the rough drafts and People's Opinion forum all week.

Mum gives retirement, a bad name.

Secondly, her unscheduled sleep patterns which is sitting low at a difficulty level since she snoozes off on the couch at some awkward hour in the morning or in the afternoon. This action of her is not as harshly criticized by me because she has aged even though she hasn't reached the " Old and frail " junction of her life but this is common for a woman in her mid 40's.

The third one would sit at the hard to detect tick on the scale because this presage, The French Films, are expected constants in both of her happy and passively moody turns of character.

But for this Monday, with the anticipated presence of dad, among other things, greatly suggest of her crestfallen solace.

I am keeping myself occupied because being stranded down home, has set me with only mum's movement to be entertained or indulged.

Except for Serena Bonneville, who in the last hour had made 6 laps around the yard to her home, practicing cardio and investing her concrete strength to it since I heard a series of loud, breathy pants slowly limping along the back porch.

Even though age is considered to be "Just a number" someone should really inform her that 66 is just a little late to be a professional runner or being in a marathon.

"Rachel M has a very solid opinion on drugs. Wanna hear it?" I bellow the words over the sound of the fan spinning leisurely on the ceiling.

It is far from being hot enough to let the ceiling fan swoon and mainly, the Calvary cold has been produced by the brown three blades. The windows are all shut tight and the brisk chill has set in everywhere.

I stuffed myself in the blanket I brought for Mum in the afternoon, going through the bundles of possible rejects of People's Opinion. The Universe must be watching me keenly since this week encouraged readers for their opinion on Premature Teenage Addiction.

I am trying to light mum's fuse about how her actions for my smoking should be like and in the lieu of reading, getting a proper gravity of teenage addiction in Seine.

"Uh-huh?" I grunt noisily across the space.

Mum takes her eyes off of the telephone for a second and without an answer in her look, goes back to her staring competition with dial.

The phone's dial is not blinking with an annoying cry. Mum is destined to lose this stare down.

"Alright. Here goes." I cough to prepare my throat for the oncoming news reporter's voice.

"Rachel M writes, Drug addiction is a common turmoil of teenage period of a person's life. And lying about it is also an usual thing to expect from the teenagers. So, I think there is no point of going through the whole seven bases of confessions and arguments. As I have read parenting guides, do's and don'ts, most writers waste the precious time in explaining what a friendly, casual bond a child and parent can create and nurture. To all those writers out there, the world is not as good and heavenly as they might think and lying to get out of trouble has been one of the inborn deceptions of mankind."

My mother is one of those writers who would rather bet her bucks on communication than straight interrogation.

I wait for mum to say something lovely or understandable. She does nothing.

"Keeping an eye on your children, the people he or she mixes with, the environments they spend their time in, is a great way to know and prevent the early use of drugs. It is a hard work to do, for all of us. But going through this hardship is what parenthood is all about. After all, who said parenthood is going to be a picnic?"

My pure smirk catches on out of respect for Rachel M, especially for the conclusion which added climax and the element of a challenge, intimidation to the pot.

Rachel M must be flying through the stone walls of her children's adolescence obstacles.

I wait for my mother to jump in the pit of her views. She does nothing but let a good long exhaust of her breath go wild.

"He's still not calling." She mumbles the words which slowly turn into a groan.

Right now, my mother is acting the part of frustrated teenage girls in horrible, unrealistic movies which claim to be about adolescence but ends up displaying manner less show of romance, not to mention softcore pornography.

Harvey is an avid fan of these flicks since he goes to movies often with everyone else when being home alone with your own "entertaining material" isn't climactic enough.

"I should go to the station and see what's what." She rejects the half mashed potatoes on the bowl as she enters the living room.

The slight golden bulb is set to lazy. Everything looks either gold or almost bronze like old artifacts.

I'm not replying to my mother.

"I should." She asks me as she snatches the jacket from the hanger.

I suffer from silence because a distinct reply, negatory or affirmative would affect her actions of this very moment.

I want to see what my mother does, in her own initiative. In her own desire.

She wears the jacket, over the evening gown and lets the collars hang away from her body as she slumps away to pace around the floor.

Mum looks full on ridiculous, like a misunderstood 90's Dracula who is not quite sure of how a Dracula actually looks like.

I'm struggling not to laugh. I shouldn't. This is a passive observation move.

I stay in character.

She suddenly swings back as she stands in the midway of the mouth of the kitchen and the living room where the narrow doorway has an imitate metal holder on it.

Someone turned on the plastic light on it and forgot to switch it off.

I wait for Mum to turn around to have me in her cone of vision or if not that important, at least in the periphery where everything is blurred and faceless.

She stands on the edge of the kitchen counter to again accompany the potato bowl, as well resume the staring contest with the dial.

Then I execute the one action that yells of someone's sad psychological state more than anything to my mother that actual words or coded transmissions of talking about " Premature Teenage Addiction " cannot do.

I sigh, even under the blanket, the chest bellows out like a toad's mouth for a full second and a loud huff as I slowly turn my head towards the stopped French Film, where the woman is stuck before she says, "Je t'aime, Dani."

Personally, I am uninterested in French Films because I don't enjoy reading the subtitles in great urgency and miss the full effect of cinematography. I know this line, because the subtitle has loaded itself on the screen before the woman is about to say it.

"That woman's absolutely. . . . absurd." Mum informs as her feet hastily prod the floorboard to the living room couch.

Simultaneously, I am pleased and afraid of my mother's unaware observation.

"Rachel . . . what's her--"

"Rachel M." I try to answer hushed, to portray my aloofness but the news reporter's voice has been turned on.

"Yeah, Rachel. . . whatever. Spying on children? That's. . . something. Not the first time I heard it though."

My mother sees everything like Apollo and like Apollo chooses to do nothing about it if not necessary.

"If it works, then . ."
"If it? " Mum snickers an insulting smile. She is insensitive when it comes to parenting facts and figures.

"Frey. The only thing her 'good method' does, is raise kids who snaps and does something really destructive. "

Mum instinctively flinches on the TV remote, letting the red lipped woman barge through the large, cinematic apartment.

She still isn't saying "Je" .

"Then people like Rachel . . ."
"M. " I assist.
"Yeah, realizes that their kids are running around, snatching purses and hanging out on that crazy Elvis Ridge with . . . who knows who. Then they understand their kids are too big, almost adult to 'discipline' into being good."

My mother pauses her words as well as the TV. The actress on the screen is stopped at an uncomfortable position with her hand shoving open a closed door

"Ever wonder what kind of people go to addiction clinics and re habitation centers? She's right. No one said parenting is for everyone."

She switches back to the frantic setting at a moment's notice as the feverish pacing begins its run.

I cast a lowered laughter.

Mum excels at being passive aggressive.

I can see my gene has done me right with character's transition from my mother.

"So, what about the right way? What would you do for PTA?"

I save my nouns to myself. My mother knows everything that has the possibility to be said at this moment.

"Hmm, yeah." She retracts to her original position of the night.

It was not an yes or no question.

"How would you talk to your children about addiction?"

In the adult world, smoking is an addiction but not considered as a drug since Meth, cocaine and other escapes are making everyone too busy to bat an eye.

"Frey, you are not . . ."
"Not what?" I push.

Time is of the essence.

"You are not addicted to smoking."
"How would you know?" I fear that mum is abusing the psychological telepathy power.
"I just . . . know. Everyone does things when they are young and stupid, like a mistake. . . but--"
"But what? I could be smoking 10 packs a day for all you know." I pause to lick my lips in regret. 10 is a bit too intimidating of a number to be real.

"You don't have the money for it."
"Maybe I'm stealing it from you."
"You don't. I checked my purse. My toffees would have been gone if you were scratching my bag."
"You don't look like the. . . you don't have the signs of a chainsmoker." She lets of a nervous laugh as the ladle slams the half oozed potatoes in the bottom.
"Besides, you are not that kind of a boy."
"What kind?"
"The kind to steal, lie and . . . things."

Our argument is halted for no reason.

This is the pause where the teams are huddled to hatch or discuss a plan before the rebuttal takes place.

I try to find inspiration from the environment.

The actress's power stance on the TV is enough.

"So, driving me to that. . . summer school and a class for an hour? Um . . what kind of punishment is that?"
"Frey, it's not a punishment. . . it's a . ."
"It's a what? I don't even know what I am supposed to do there."
"Did you read the pamphlet and all the choices? There are really good ones that you. . ."

The pone's dial cries in, an unforeseen constant in the middle of the equation.

Mum doesn't go through the trouble of explaining anything since the ladle clanks on the pot as the receiver is snatched.

"Hello, Gerard?" Her eyes are glistering with the killing suspense.

The real sigh adds my donation of CO2 in the air.

Equal affection is still far away from being equal and balanced in this house.

I swivel my head back to the T.V screen where the beautiful actress is still shackled by the frail wills of my mother on whether the moment is right to go on with the movie or the scent in the air casts a wrong omen.

Mum and I are being cast at a French film right now and one of the Gods of the Universe has pressed the halt button, lazily.

My mother's pleasures are heightened to a religion.

In my mind, it's used to be appreciated and admired. Now, I cannot help feeling her tight, notched rule of what to enjoy as a phony, fickle signature of a nervous woman.

My hand quits the action of pressing "Start" .

In the periphery of my eyes, my mother's hand drops the receiver as the red handset hopelessly falls down and tangles in colorless air.

The air is grim.

I hope to hear something which resemblances a heartbreaking news.

Dad might have been in an accident. The train could be tumbled down on its side, belly scratched, the injured passengers crawling out of the steam maker like undead entities, firetruck's growling like fireless dragons, police sirens biting the mellow darkness of the light.

I realize how much I actually miss the presence of Dad even though he is not a frequent Live in in my psychological attic.

"It's Clay. He wants a . . ." Mum waves the thin air as bellows a mouthful of stabbed suspense.

I cast a relief sigh, not to be misinterpreted with a funky one whilst untangling myself from the comfort of the blanket.

The comforter cloth secretes a familiar smell of ink pins, metal, old newspapers, a hint of some swooning perfume and smashed potato; exactly like mum.

I am having a hard time putting the words "Mum" and "Comforter" together.

"To be continued"