Family Matters

• Isobel Stoodley, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2011

“That’s it!” she screamed, pushing open the door with a tremendous creak! She raced up the beige stairs, her bewildered mother poking her head out from the kitchen.
“Lucy?” she called out. She heard the ominous creak of floorboards.
“Leave me alone!”
Lucy’s Mother sighed, and began to ascend the stairs slowly, approaching the ticking time bomb with due caution. Lucy could hear the groan of the stairs and yelled out a warning.
“Don’t come any closer.”
Or what? Her mother was tempted to reply, but decided against it. You don’t approach a bomb with a stick of dynamite.
“Sweetie, why don’t you come down and we can talk about it. Was it something at school?”
Lucy’s door opened a fraction.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you mum? It’s always some stupid teenage angst thing, right?” The door snapped shut as quickly as it had opened.
Before her mother had time to reply, Lucy had opened her door and was storming down the stairs. In her hand was her battered red suitcase, bulging at its ancient seams.
“Lucy...?”
Lucy was level with her now, her mascara running. She took a deep breath before walking down the remaining stairs. She hesitated, the smell of chocolate chip cookies, the stained apron Lucy had given her, the rose lips that had kissed her goodnight...It was familiar, comforting, home.
Lucy’s eyes glinted with the steely determination.
“Do you only think of yourself? Did you ever think of the effect it would have on me?” Her mother looked confused, lost. Her hand was gripped tightly on the banister, a ghost hand.
Lucy sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
She took another step towards the open door, the autumn wind carrying stray golden leaves across the threshold.
“It’s great that you’re happy, but I can’t handle it any more. They say things, everyone. It’s against nature. For years I believed you, but I can’t do it anymore. I’m done.”
Her mother realised what she was saying, her alert posture collapsing. A shadow, she followed her daughter, tears welling.
“Would you really choose society, over your mother, your family?”
“Your family, you mean? It was never mine.”
“Where will you go?”
“Dad’s. Debbie’s driving.”
Her mother’s head hung with heartbreak, tears flowing freely.
“I’m sorry you feel this way. Maybe one day-”
Beep! A car tooted its horn.
Lucy glanced back. “Goodbye mum,” she croaked, before running.
* * *
“Sweetheart?” Hours later, Maria entered the house, her secretary-smart shoes squeaking as she tiptoed through the still opened door. Lucy’s mother, crumpled on the stairs, glanced up; her red, puffy eyes speaking volumes. Maria embraced her partner, stroking her hair, as the tears poured down her own face.
* * *
A well-cut man entered, closing the door with a solid thunk. He looked down at his wives, loss and betrayal echoed on their faces, and gathered them up in his arms.