A Pill under the nose : A solution to a problem that is too close to be visible, for the moment. 

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"And is this a book?"
"Yes and that's post office quality wrapping paper."
"And what's inside it?"
"It's called a mystery."
"Wait, Frey. What were you doing at the post office?"

The clock has been successful at stuttering through the evening and the minute hand is swinging at the edge of 9 at night.

"Where's Dad?" I ask in complete indifference whilst the yellow halogen overheard shines down upon me with no help.

"He's in the tub." Mum asks.

The following sigh is too breathy to ignore.

I stop squinting at my palm but keep the façade of my observation to myself from the thought that, mum could be abusing the power of sighs to grant attention.

I am both embarrassed and happy of certain aspects of mum.

"At this hour? It's starting to get cold."

"I dunno. He just said he felt like it." There is the entrance of a second sigh that falls at an appropriate angle to frisk aside a loose strand of my mother's hair.

I know that mum is aware of my awareness since she doesn't pursue a look at my general direction.

"Maybe it's habit. Who knows?" I bellow the word out as the orchestra of living and dead furniture; the spinning rotor of a screeching fan, the thin buzz of the telly which is displaying a Newsflash on inaudible volume, are all tuning to a low hum.

"Do you like the book?" I inquire in a general tone to play aloof.

It is a test, a double divergence to relay the message 'That I can see you see me and I'm waiting for your next move' to her.

"So, it's a book. "
"Depends on the reader." The sentence cracks upon without a signal.

I can feel Peter Carpenter messing around the attic of my mind. His brown sweater and equally earthy smelling pants waddling through the aisle of the shelves in my mind, moving the furniture around to make place for himself.

Family is a scary prospect of childhood.

Mum has been around the kitchen with her work and the undeniable proof rests scattering across the whole area. Without looking, I pat around the dry counter and the pen clangs on the un-smoothed tile.

I'm demonstrating the fact that adults, especially parents are the sole pillars of a family, the support beam, the bottom line foundation who are capable of taking care of themselves in any situation stated in the marathon of days.

I am examining the stress test of mum to judge the effect of her troubles.

She does not laugh in response and the track of her throat which was playing her all time favorite song of sighs has demoted to a halt.

I'm skeptical beyond the usual limit to believe everything that elderly people feel obligated enough to share.

The receiver's pressed against my face, cold and dry and ready to be tapped with digits but I have forgotten the number, as usual.

The telephone's head clacks to the crease and hangs questionably in balance as I disperse from the scene.

I kick the wooden chair which is innocently sitting near the dining table. It wobbles but doesn't fall down.

I'm creating the false idea that I am currently contributing my teenage angst to the home décor.

I quickly sweep around the edge of the stairs-landing where the unused table, a wooden plank (often used by dad to roll his medical desks down the stairs and sometimes by mum for unknown reasons), decade old suitcases that smell like the previous century. The elements of half dark and half yellow halogen are all deprived of private space as they lean and knock each other.

Except for the newspaper pile, which is sitting in worldly comfort and a sense of clean accomplishment.

I creep the tip of my head, around the corner to allow myself an angle of mum's image.

Slumped neck, half torn book in one hand which sits dead on her lap, the other is busy tightening the grip of a Number 2 Pencil.

Her palm is closing and opening. Turning into a fist. Then a wave. Into rock. Then a paper.

The loud thump on the upper floor board, followed by the sound of a door closing startles mum back to her default state.

She is making empty eye contact with the telly where the rerun of an old soap opera is being discussed.

I can make out the probable cause of this untimely unhappiness.

It's Dad.

My father is a beholder of many traits of personality. Some are impressive beyond description. He is one of the few doctors to have worked with famous associations of Chicago, Arkansas, Summertown and finally Seinefield. He is always annoyingly searched for since a dozen phone calls disturb the peace of our home as people from everywhere and sometimes with strange accents, call to get a hold of him and leave a message at best.

My father puts the C in careerist.

One of dad's lesser complimented features would be his taste in oatmeal. This was recently discovered information because on the second night of the family union, Dad expressed his humorous annoyance to the diner lady who took too long to bring the " Oatmeal and toast. "

I was too engrossed with the compressed and dissected thoughts of utilizing my teenager years to their best; to vomit the remaining crushed beans out of my mouth.

Dad has spent a full week in the house, confined and sheltered in the word 'Home'.

'Apollo' a.k.a Julia who's my mum, has seen this and connected the stars in drastic lining and figured out a sad ending to what seemed like a heavenly seven days.

Contrary to popular belief, heaven can be found in daily doldrums.

All the signals aligned all through the week, through the ticks of clocks; I could spot the necessary mess of a woman who was holding onto the actual presence of her husband, not an image, or a frizzy coughing phone call.

The amount of loose paper around the house was reduced, mum was seen in her temple as Dad recited some poem in a comical cockney accent, both laughing to red cheeks, shining tears.

They sat down on the patio whilst I was battling my weight against the creak of the floorboard to hide my existence.

I suspect that some omen of dad's possible departure flashed across her wide, spotless gaze at some point in this morning or last night.

No pretty red lip actress of a French sonata is on the telly, no anxious Charles Dickens on the coffee table, no cubed tomatoes in stuffed bread sandwiches.

This is new.

I am interested in getting involved.

"It's a Key." I announce as I walk through the kitchen opening, to soften the blow of a surprising entrance.

"Uhm. . . what?" She tilts her head to camouflage the eyes.

Geographically, Mum's at a disadvantage, with her face illuminated to its full potential.

The halogen is not in the mood for shadow.

"It's a Fitzgerald." I halt to offer a hand gesture.

I'm impersonating the persona of a game show host.

"A Scott Key Fitzgerald."

Key is Fitzgerlad's lesser known middle name.

Mr. Carpenter is well aware of every author's biography under his roof and makes point in distributing his knowledge.

"Oh--hmm. Yes, Key."

"Did you read any Fitz, mum?" This is the period of stalling before a physical contact is established.

I'm stuck between two plausible choices.

Scenery One includes me sitting down before her in close proximity and requires myself asking difficult yet necessary questions about her mental state.

Scenery Two presents us in formal spacing whilst I encourage her morale with the feeble effects of small talks.

"In high school."
"Which one?"
"Gatsby. The Great Gatsby."

She pauses to lick her lips.

The roll of conversation is downhill.

"I hated it then."
"Why so? The guy at the shop said only good things and then--more good things."

I laugh and continue to perform the bouts of enthusiastic hand signals.

"Mostly because of the teacher. And grades seem to cheap things up."

My mother has distinctively sharp canines.

I can sense success in the method of small talks since they have decided to show themselves in the process of a smile.

I climb on to the couch where the large cardigan of mum has claimed much space.

Mum doesn't retract her long, unconventional indoor clothing.

She's distracted but not enough to spot my move.

"Did you read it again later?"

"Yeah, a few years after graduation." Mum chuckles. I check to see if her ignited laughter in bloom is caused by the TV or from the recollection of her fond memories.

"Sally stayed with me for 2 weeks then."

The footsteps upstairs relentlessly harass the wood board for a second or two, before disappearing.

"Or was it 3 weeks? I can't tell for sure. You would have loved Sally. She was almost--maybe a little older than you. And she loved books. Especially--literature. "

This is not the suitable moment to inform mum about her lack of knowledge of me since I don't enjoy books as much as this Sally.

"Oh, Sally." Mum's chest rises as she lets her body lean back on the border of the cushions which are overused and stiff, like a really old carpet that chaffs your feet than comfort it.

"She's a dreamer that one. Silly."
"Silly, Sally." I chuckle. Mum joins.

My ears are replaced with a German Shepard's pair. Every crackle of words and the frequency of the smirk are under a microscopic optic.

"Why don't you tear the full thing out?"
"Uhm--yeah."

The wrapping paper is as cheap as train station coffee which is just a quick throw and mixture of coal soot, whiff of station garbage and no more than one sugar cube.

"I'm sorry about the presentation--You wrap the gifts. I just slapped the tape and ran away before the guy at the desk got too anxious."
"You didn't have to buy a book."
"I didn't. The guy at the shop wouldn't let me leave if I didn't buy one." I catch the familiar thin buzz of an ignored television program.

"I basically paid my own ransom."
"Where were you?"
"Middle Market."

Mum restrains herself from an answer even though I'm expected to be scolded.

Her gaze is pointed at the title at hand.

The headline is drawn in White Oxford font, the background is crafted in a Mandarin Orange hue.

"This Side of Paradise?"
"Do you like it?"
"Well, I haven't read it before."
"So, that's a plus."

I have memorized the next few verses and sentences, mostly because Carpenter insisted on rehearsing the lines as if he was given the appointment of a good voice of approval.

"It captures the whole 'Jazz Age'. The era."

I am just about to enact the spread of my hand which donates to the big picture that will do justice to whatever the time period when 'The Lost Generation' lived.

"The Lost Generation, eh?" She chirps with a smile hanging too loose and just enough to feel like an insult.

"How did you know that? Come on, you must have read this before."

My hand is tussling with the long wing of the gown.

The pillow is working as a border wall, standing between my mother's warmth and myself.

"It says on the back."
"Oh. Shouldn't have said that."
"Killed the mood, didn't I?"
"It's alright. You know, the guy at the shop. Mr. Carpenter?"

"Yeah, what about him?" Soft words are trying to spare the enthusiasm.

I am disregarding this factor.

Morale officers don't pay any attention to worries and woes.

In their eyes, all things unhappy are all things imaginary.

"He agrees with you. About your whole Tolstoy . . . . attraction."
"Oh."
"And the frustration with 'War and Peace'."
"Really?"
"Yeah. But he does disagree with your views on Sevastopol sketches. He thinks you love it sometimes and hate it--because you don't see the curve."
"That's--an interesting point."

The thin buzz of the television is back, as the fan's screeching is tonging over the walls.

If things get too silent, we both would be able to hear Mrs. Bonneville, doing her 5th lap of cardio around the house.

I'm out of tricks. My mother's disposition has been replaced by an emotionless statue who had been sculpted by a man deprived of ardor and commitment.

"Thanks, Frey."
"No, yeah. Sure."
"I didn't think you would . . . well, there's no occasion."
"I'm a fan of the element of surprise."

The second bump in the conversation has been unexpected, always.

According to one writer on 'People's Opinion' : "The key to any healthy relationship based on the quality of communication."

I'm thinking if Mum, in her fragile state, would be able to console me about the juvenile, ambiguous friendship that Jackie and I seem to harbor.

"Oh, by the way, Charlotte called in the afternoon when you were out."

Mum's abusing the unsupervised power of telepathic interlink.

She could be one the prime causes that work against human privacy.

I swallow huge gulp of discomforting answers in tow which I am destined to throw up when my mother's tongue start asking all sorts of question.

"What--did she say? Does she have--" For a second, I decided to refer Charlie as "He" rather than "She" but it will add fuel to the premature fiery guilt that I have something to hide.

Moreover, it wouldn't talk because a telephone conversation surely requires both person hearing each other's voice.

Mum is prime descendent of Apollo.

She sees everything.

"No, she doesn't have any book of yours. She said it might be someone else you were talking about."
"Oh." My cheeks puff as I nod understandably.

My mother isn't looking at me. Her gaze is fixated past the television where a row of shelves are holding the precious memory of our family.

A picture of Dad and some other men are smiling in the half darkness, mum's image of talking to someone else in a deep posture. In the photograph, her shirt is tussled around the collar where a little bit of skin and the sight of a chink of a collarbone is showing.

My year photo with a navy blue sweater and an uncontrollable laughter which added an excess layer of fake mustache over my lip. Harvey was responsible for that untimely smirk.

"--she also said that she's sorry. Her father was out early and she had to take the bus. She got lost after it entered Middle Market. Then she met her friend--something --yeah--so she's sorry she missed it."

For a moment and the moment lasts longer than I expect it to be, I understand my position in this family.

I imagine the picture of a brief family tree which has suddenly appeared on the wallpaper that I'm looking out.

I see my father's portrait and his characteristics pop up next to him. The word "Full time careerist and part time husband" flashes in blinding neon lights.

Then my mother's facet etches itself on the old butter color paper. Her face falls between the shade of beautiful and stressed as the words craft themselves on the surface.

"Restless in Retirement."

Then I see myself, connected just between my parents with a dot to show the bridge of descendant.

Mrs. Muhr teaches Genetic in the same format of lines to properly portray the generations.

"Glorified emotional care taker and full time liar."

My mother's lips are moving and her head is tilted to an angle that promotes a conversational point.

All I can hear is white noise and Mrs. Bonneville's heavy thumps on the floorboard.

"Did I ever meet this Charlie?"

Someone is speaking, in my mother's voice.

"Frey, are you listening to me?"

Mum's voice bellows in through late echoes and twinges of frequency bouncing around the air.

She looks worried as the personal edge of brooding sadness and thoughts of future has been replaced by me.

My mouth's agape.

Mum is making a face that indicates her doubt of my conversational or more broadly, talking skills.

"Charlie? What about her?" I mouth. Currently, I wish my life was a vintage, black and white film where the sound if non existence and the dialogue lines pop up on black background as subtitles.

My emotions are as confused as my mind.

I feel something which has the potential of being a synonym for melancholy.

"Nothing . . . exactly. I just . . it was new, I guess. I never heard you talk about her."

The aggressive smirk threatens to seep through my lips and put its corrosive emotion on display, especially for mum to see.

The conversations my parents have on a daily basis, ( in reality the word daily defines weekly ) include a lot of informative topics which depend on both of their favorite subjects.

"Meribeth's the new head of the finance page, now." Mum rolled her eyes in rapid succession as she subtly insulted her former colleague. I laughed to show that I support her alter ego, a mirrored Julia who's filled to the brim with self confidence, doesn't care about what society thinks, brave enough to publish topics such as atheism, homosexuality, obvious parental mistakes.

"Issac dragged me to Pharma. That son of a gun, he finally did it." My dad was looking extra proud as if Issac was his son who had been accepted to a college of my father's dream and destined to be successful as well as married.

If our daily conversation was to be written down in a format of a screenplay, it would be a neck aching task to go through all the lines before my social interests and undisturbed show of emotions are explained.

"She's into movies. Like you mum. But her taste is broad. She went to the last year Sundance film festival because her grades were up and her parents couldn't say no. Charlie probably wants to be a producer or a director in the future. She probably worked with Dollar Films once but I have to check that fact before you believe it."

"Oh." is all my mother says in reply.

Her smile seems fake and adulterated. I am quite accompanied with this disposition because on some rare occasion when I saw my mother tearing up at some prepared heartbreak of a romantic movie and made a sarcastic comment, the similar smirk appears as she explains the reasons why this could be the end of the couple's love.

"Maybe, we should go together. Watch a film. At her house or the Dollar Films. She has dozens of old movies. You two would get along. She also reads the People's Opinion daily. She knows you're my mother when we first met because of the name on the front."

Charlie has never questioned the identity of my parents, neither I asked about hers. But my mother doesn't need to know all of that because, to her, People's Opinion is like a love child which she only loves dearly but no one else admires or appreciates.

I am back in the shoes of a morale officer.

During war, it was the duty of the War Office, the small writer's forum they had to craft information, achievements, fake financial reports to cheer and encourage the soldiers to avoid an inevitable information.

I lie because I care, not because of propaganda purposes.

"Really? She sounds interesting. Why don't you invite her home?" Her smile has conquered more acres across her face.

It's a nonchalant but necessary aspect of this family that I am a good actor.

"That sounds like a great idea. I could ask her to bring some tape, films."

"And her parents could come too. We could get to know each other better. And maybe some of your friends. How about um--Clearance. Yeah?"

"Sure. We should do it this week--you know--next week the whole school starts and."
"How about this Friday?"

The phone screams out, hindering the bullet point of our encouraging conversation. We both flinch at it but none of us makes a move.

"Let it ring." I try to perform a shrug to show the independence of my ignorance.

It comes of strong, like a command.

I do not have a side glance of my mum's image, since she is already in mid motion of picking the phone up as her long bodied gown slithers across the couch.

It hisses at me like a snake.

"I'll get it." I take the charge as my mature teenage legs professionally performs a vault over the coffee table.

I do not tip, not startle the 3 mugs on the wooden platform and in the process of the cavort, only disturb a page of the newspaper as it frail and falls onto the floor.

I brush the tip of mum's shoulder as I throw in the supportive pat, just for the sake of it.

At the moment, mum's playing the part of Kenny, who's self esteem dies whenever he messes up the swing or stumbles across well placed bumps near the second base.

I try to replace mum's beautiful red hair with Kenny's half ginger strands, the contour of her face with the potato shaped curve of Kenny's big head.

During her childhood, mum had somehow, managed to split the skin of her chin during a friendly game of volleyball. Therefore, pre-adolescence has presented her with a permanent mark of identification.

My father enjoys this historic relic of mum's cradled immaturity since in their intimate moments of silence, I can sometime see his index finger feeling around her jawbone in search of the skin's scratch as mum enthusiastically reads a piece of her writing till she becomes too annoyed and swats his finger away playfully.

Mum finishes a flat smile as she retracts herself back to the couch.

Yet, I am far too away from succeeding in transforming my mother's persona into a successful woman but she has executed a mellow smirk in lieu of a frown.

Progress is progress, matter not the length.

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To be continued . . .