The Rocker

I wanted to go home. I wanted to be anywhere but Mr. Johnson’s classroom. The gray-haired nuisance had humiliated me for the fifth time this year – this time he had snatched my blank homework from my hands, and upon seeing it, had continuously reprimanded me. When I thought the eruption was finally over, the toothless fiend spat out one of those clever jests that simply robs one of their dignity. “Well maybe if you would stop pickin’ at your nose and start paying attention, you would at least have a passing grade, you lazy rat!”

After seeing my head fall to the desk for the seventh time today. I’ve never picked my nose unless in the deepest solitude, and even then, only when dealing with hygienic matters, so you can see that this man is outrageous and hurtful. Additionally, pesky ol’ Gandalf had ruined my chances with Sally, who was snickering the whole time – probably at the cranberry that was my face.

I took the shortcut home today – a desperate measure to escape the lingering embarrassment.

To avoid further ridicule from the other kids, I made the journey through a smaller neighborhood that resided on the hillside. I lived at the top of the hill, where my family’s great Victorian house stood formidably, distinguished by several honed towers with majestic, cylindrical turrets. My gate was now within sight – a craft of rusted steel that had endured years of rain and storm. There was close to no glint of the metal, for the masses of vines covered much of the gate’s profile. At the entrance of my welcoming abode, a pair of menacing gargoyles of horribly contorted shapes perched atop two accompanying spires, casting silhouettes that could cause any unsuspecting suburbanite to think twice. They didn’t startle me, however. Well, nothing really did.

Upon entering the house through the large oak door, I proceeded to my room and began a long examination of Monet’s water lilies to relieve myself of the traumatizing embarrassment that had occurred an hour before. While flipping through the thick papers of the big hardbound book, my thoughts wandered into the lush paintings, the sounds, the smells, and the atmospheres. One painting of a bridge over a small pond of water lilies delighted me a whole lot, as it reminded me of my childhood, when my father and I would stroll across the park, gazing at the scenery of lush grasses and beautiful lotus flowers much like those in the painting.

I started to recall memories of my late father, who had worked as an art dealer for years in Paris. He had had the best connections to fine art, and the book on Monet joined hundreds of others on my shelves and the many fine side tables in our elegant home, along with actual originals by the masters adorning our walls. He died when I was just ten years old, and it is a touchy subject, especially for my mother. So much so that I believe our relationship has suffered a great deal from it.

Five years ago, on a day quite similar to this one, my father returned home after a six-month business trip in Florence. He was utterly exhausted upon arriving on our doorstep and we practically dragged him into the library to the rocking chair as he gasped for breath. I was horrified by the sight of my father – I’d never before seen him in such ill condition. While my mother scrambled to get some ice and water, I gently rocked him on the chair, back and forth. Before long, the sound of his breathing had come to a slower, more even rhythm. As I continued to rock the chair, my father settled down a great deal. When my mother returned with the ice, I told her it was not necessary. Together, we watched him rest in the old rocker. He seemed at peace. My father was a collector of all kinds of art, and the rocker was one of his most valuable antiques – it had a seat of rattan and a redwood framework. He had purchased it many years ago from a vendor in Prague, and it has not lost a single shaving since. My mother and I left my father alone in the library to rest – he was rocking himself, in a manner that almost seemed too serene.

Hours passed, and while my mother prepared dinner for us, I went out by the lawn to paint – it had always been a hobby of mine. I was mixing a dash of royal blue and crimson on my palette when I heard my mother screeching ignominiously from inside the house. Deeply alarmed, I retrieved my brushes and rushed back inside. My mother was in the parlor, and she asked me if I knew where my father went. I said that I did not.

Days went by, and there were still no signs of him. In my mother’s panic, she had called the police officers, her friends, and our neighbors. The search went on for weeks on end, but in the end, not even a miserable, pathetic “sorry” was uttered to my heartbroken mother.

She was sobbing, crying because she could do nothing, weeping because her heart was experiencing a terrible, terrible pain, mourning against such an injustice inflicted upon her, shedding great waterfalls of tears, for she had lost her life-long partner.She was never the same after that.

Some nights I heard her crying in bed, and some nights I would hear her whispering to herself. Some days she wouldn’t wake up, and some days she wouldn’t go to bed. She tried to talk to me, but I never responded. I couldn’t. My guilt was immeasurable, and for a month after my father’s disappearance, I sat on the verandah every evening, staring off into the distance.

For a time, I would not eat, sleep, or talk; my eyes seemed glued open, and my heart beat faster and faster, searching for nutrients. My mother tried hard to make me eat, but I refused her every time, until one day, I conceded to a plate of haricot vert and mutton with plum sauce. Time went by slowly after that. A word was not exchanged between the two of us for the first month, and it became routine after that. Sometimes we glanced at each other in the hallways but would immediately look away. My mother started going outside less, restricting herself to her room for most days. As time passed, I noticed that her health had started to worsen. Bringing her what she demanded every evening, I would notice that the number of pill bottles was growing. Her coughs woke me up at night. It was not until last year that I finally reconciled with her. 

A sudden sound shattered my thoughts, and with a loud thump, I shut the book. I began to listen. Creeeak. Was it my mother? No, it couldn’t be, as she was always asleep when I returned home from school and would not awake until evening to provide my dinner, which she believed to be quite the burden now. What could that possibly be? It was silent now. With an irritated groan, I reached for my book bag and retrieved my art supplies. Creak. There it was again! What was that cursed noise? I bitterly went down the stairs and upon entering the common room, expecting to see my mother, I saw the ancient rocker, swaying back and forth. Perhaps there was a breeze moving it. Before I could approach the chair, the sound of my mother’s rough, hoarse voice called for me from back upstairs.

“Teddy, could you come here?” she croaked, with a loud cough.

“Just one moment, mother.”

“No Teddy, please come right now,” she said, crankily.

“Wait, just one – .”

“Please.”

“Fine.”

I rushed up the stairway and through the hall, past my room and my father’s study, and into the grand master bedroom. I softly knocked and pushed the door open. In the center of the room was a unfathomably large bed draped in fleur-de lis brocaded velvet curtains. The room was lit by two flickering tapers, which perched on either side of my mother’s bed, and great narrow stained glass aligned to the alcoves on the outermost wall of the room, adorned with intricate designs as faint beams of the setting sun passed through. An elegant, crimson carpet covered the ancient floorboards that absorbed the warmth of the crackling fireplace, which was guarded by a wall of entangled metal. My mother’s body was covered in blankets and all but her face, which was flushed, wrinkled, and pudgier than usual, was visible. She brushed her coarse grey hair to the side of her face and, in a stern manner, beckoned with her frail, skeletonic hands to me as I walked in.

“What do you need, mother?”

“Could you pass me the phone? It’s on the desk by the door.”

I handed her the heavy candlestick telephone and as I was about to leave the room, she called for me once more.

“Oh, come back! It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“What? Did you pay the bill?” I scowled. After all, our wealth had been dwindling ever since the death of my father, and ever since my mother lost her job, it had been declining more than ever.

“I don’t remember. Maybe check the receiver.”

“I’ll be back.”

 I left the room and went back down the stairs. Before heading to the basement, I took another glimpse at the rocker. It had stopped moving. Perhaps it hadn’t ever moved in the first place. I strode towards the rocking chair to investigate it, but as I was about to touch the artifact, I remembered my impatient mother. Perhaps I should go check on the receiver box. I lit a candle and ventured down the stairs, and upon reaching the basement, a feeling of uneasiness enveloped me. My fear of the dark had remained ever since I was a child. Something blew, extinguishing my candle. On any other day I would have brushed aside such a matter, but today I decided to question it. How could there be wind, if there had never been any windows in the basement? Perhaps I had left the front door ajar. I relit the candle, hoping to get it all over with. With haste, I examined the wires, which all seemed to be fine, except for a few frayed ones. To solve the problem, I ventured into my dad’s workshop, which I used as my art studio now, and began to fling open the drawers, in search of extra wires. This went on to no avail since I discovered that all of them were in fact empty. How could that be? I was here just yesterday, painting a beautiful landscape of the hill. It must’ve been my mother.

On returning to my mother’s room, which was flooded by darkness, I lit a candle by the bedside. When the room was illuminated some by the little yellow flare, I noticed that she had set quite the large and snug blanket atop herself on the bed. Despite the seemingly comfortable scene, she was very unwell. Her coughs had grown violent, with a harsh cutting sound to each one, and her face was engulfed in such paleness that one could identify her as a ghost.

“Teddy, could… could you get me some ice for my head, dear?” groaned my mother.

“Are you well?” I asked.

“Yes Teddy, please get me some ice now.”

“Yes, mother.” I exited the room.

As I crossed the dining hall to grab some ice from the kitchen, I passed the library door and glanced at the rocker. It had not moved. I put aside the thought of it and proceeded to the cooler to fill up a small pouch for my mother – the ice was melting rapidly.

***

“Mother? Your ice is ready.” I softly knocked her door, for she was loathe to have me burst into her private quarters, even whilst completing an errand. Some time passed, but there was no response. I entered the room and saw that the candle had burned out.

“Mother? Are you there?” Again, I was met with silence. Something cold sank into the back of my throat, which made me tremble a little. Using my hands to feel for the match, I relit the candle. The room was, as I feared, empty.

“Mother? Mother?” I shouted out. Where is she? Where did she go?

“Mother! MOTHER?” I desperately rushed out of the room, through the hallway, and down the stairs. The kitchen was empty, the dining hall was empty, the lavatories were empty, the parlor too, and the bitter, icy feeling had resurged. Dread. I hurried to the basement and scoured every last room corner, choking back a moan.

My discoveries were bleak. I yelled and yelled for my mother until my throat was hoarse and weak. It was no use.

“I’m sorry. Oh, I’m so sorry mother.” A single tear droplet tumbled down my cheek and onto the floor.

Wait. There was one place I hadn’t checked yet – the library. I rose once more and scampered up the stairs. There it was. The rocker was… rocking. And my mother was gone.