Lost Prose - Chapter Four

One day fed up with everything that was going on, I walked into our living room to talk with Billy who sat on the new leather couch. His abdomen was exposed, and with a Q tip in one hand, he used the fingers of the other hand to pry open his belly button. He dug out tiny black lumps and dropped them onto a tissue by his side. Mom’s chattering on a pre-recorded talk show came out the speakers of our new flat screen TV.

‘You look like Mom…but a younger…less sophisticated version.’ Billy said massaging his neck. The maid’s loud singing of what sounded like a lullaby in an African dialect, floated into the living room.
‘Do you think I can write like Mom?’ I queried watching my Mom smile beautifully and hating her.
‘Not in this life.’ Billy chuckled. ‘Okay, seriously, I guess it’s possible…you might have inherited her skill or gift…whatever.’
‘Do you think I can write a book as good as Ten storeys high?’
‘If you want me to be frank, I don’t think so.’
‘Mom stole my book.’ He turned to look at me, his expression quizzical.
‘Abigail, don’t say that. It’s not funny.’ He turned and headed in the direction of the kitchen. It was then I decided that the worst thing to do would be to divide my family. I had to find a more mature way of handling this. I apologized to him later. I told him that I gave Mom one or two ideas, and I wished she had acknowledged that in her book. He nodded and promised not to tell anyone if I let him stay up later than usual.

I never confronted my mother like I had planned to. I let her be. I think there are some things you should just let be. This might not be one of them, but I took it as such. No one knew I had written the book. I did not have an electronic copy; I did not have anyone who could vouch for me. Ten storeys high by Abigail Schroeder existed only in my head.
I have tried to put everything behind me, but that’s nearly impossible. Every new person I meet usually talks about how my mother’s book touched them; how I must be proud of my mother; if I could arrange a meeting for them with my mother. I’m writing something now. It’s complicated but nothing like Ten storeys high. I’m working very hard on it, and I am not worrying about making the New York Times bestsellers list. I want to write books that will touch people, reach them, entertain and free them. When I was young, I scrawled in my diary:

“I would love to possess the gift of moving people with written words.’

Maybe I already possess that gift considering the success of Ten storeys high. I have not forgiven Mom, the way she acted disturbs me very often. If truth be told, every time I go over my uncompleted manuscript I wonder “Is this new book like a can of soda without the gas?” It haunts me and I don’t know why. If there is a measured quantity of love that a newborn child has for its mother before it comes to know her, that’s the exact same measured quantity of love I have for my mother right now. Love, because she gave birth to me.

This short story is part four in a four part short story series. Click to read parts one, two, and three.