It was a cold, blustery morning in the middle of November, well before dawn as I made my way downstairs to make tea before the baby woke up. Dawn would not come for another few hours, but that was the way of winter. I wrapped my shawl tightly around my shoulders. The kitchen looked just as it always did, with the stove on one side and the ice box on the other. I piled wood into the stove and then, pulling out a match, I struck it and started the fire. One day I would switch to electric, but there was no money for that now.
I filled the kettle with water and got to the business of heating it for tea. Rummaging in the cupboard, I found some cookies that I had baked the Sunday before, as I had for every Sunday that I could remember. When the kettle whistled, I pulled out a pot, put the leaves in, and poured the water over. I prepared my milk and sugar while it steeped, making quick work of the entire endeavor. There was no time to relax with a nice hot cup on a frigid morning. Little Johnnie would be awake soon and once the baby was awake, the day was pure chaos.
On the table went two mugs, one for me and one for my husband, and two plates. I put one cookie on mine and two on his. He’d be down any minute for a quick breakfast and then on his way to work. I smoothed my dress as the tea finished steeping, and then carefully poured the steaming liquid into each mug, before topping mine with a bit of cream and Steve’s with a large spoonful of sugar and enough cream to turn the tea milky. It was a running joke that he didn’t even like tea, with how much he had to doctor it.
Sitting down, I prepared to enjoy the small amount of silence before the hectic day began. I took dainty bites of my cookie, knowing full well I’d have to cram the rest in my mouth as soon as the screaming began. I held the mug of steaming tea in my hands, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. They were incredibly painful this morning, which was unusual. There must be some weird weather. Or maybe I was getting old—my grandmother had always complained about the joints in her fingers hurting as she aged. I guess it came for us all.
I waited a few minutes, the tea getting cold. A few more minutes, and twilight started to brighten the sky. Normally Steve would have been out the door by now. It wasn’t Saturday, was it? Silly me, I must have forgotten the day of the week! Oh well, best to leave him alone to rest. Lord knows he needed it, the hard-working man. But the baby hadn’t stirred either. The thought stopped me up short.
Deciding I had best go check on him, I slowly stood up, my knees protesting, and began to climb the rickety stairs to the nursery. Carefully and quietly opening the door, I looked in the room. Johnnie’s bassinet was gone, replaced by an adult-sized bed and a wardrobe. There were white, beeping, alien-looking machines in the corner of the room, which normally would have terrified me, but there was only one thought that was going through my head, repeating over and over. Where was my baby??
I rushed from room to room, a flurry of activity, screaming at Steve to help me look. Johnnie was nowhere to be found. Shaking, I ran to the bedroom to give Steve an earful for ignoring my pleas, but he wasn’t in bed. Hadn’t he been in bed beside me this morning? He wasn’t in the bathroom, either. Where had he gone? Had he taken Johnnie?
Carefully making my way back downstairs, ignoring the pain in my knees and my hips as I did so, I went over to the phone, picking it up and using the rotary to dial the police, but there was no dial tone. The phone was plugged in, why wasn’t it working?
A knock at the door interrupted my investigation of the telephone. Maybe it was the police! I went to answer, but before I could, the door swung open.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” a man said as he made his way into my home. He was dressed strangely, in blue jeans and an odd, hooded sweater with the word Nike across the front. What did Nike mean?
“You can’t be in here.” My voice was shaky and frail with fear. I hardly recognized it.
“Mum, I’m here to help you,” the man sighed before going into my kitchen. Mum? I was not his mother; I was entirely too young! This man must have some sort of sickness, some illness of the mind. There was Provincial Mental Institute at Oliver that had opened only a few years ago. I had been frightened to buy a house so close to it, but Steve had assured me that it was plenty safe. Had this man who was so casually walking through my house come from there?
This stranger in my kitchen walked up and opened the cupboard that I kept my mugs in, before grabbing one and pulling it down to pour himself a cup of tea. I walked over to behind the sofa, attempting to put some distance between myself and this strange man. He could be dangerous. He could have taken my baby. Perhaps his odd clothing was a uniform of sorts that they gave to those in the mental institute. That would explain it.
“Did you take my baby? Where is he?” I tried to add some authority to my voice, but it still came out shaky. What was wrong with me today?
“Your baby?” The man looked confused at first, then sad. “Is your baby missing?” he asked.
“Yes, he is. Did you take him? I won’t ask again.”
“No, mum, I would never.” There he went calling me his mother again. I needed to set the record straight, make him understand what was going on. His mind was sick.
“I’m too young to be your mother. Look at me! We’re practically the same age.”
The stranger sighed and stepped towards me.
“Don’t come any closer!” I shouted with false bravado. This man needed to know that he was in my house and I was in charge. He stopped and held up his hands in surrender, as if placating me. The man who had broken into my house and still hadn’t answered if he had stolen my baby was attempting to placate me! This was too much.
“Who are you and what have you done with my baby?” I screamed, tears starting to pool in my eyes as I ran back to the middle of the room, ready to fight.
“Mum, it’s me, John. I’m your son. I’m here to help you take your meds. See?” he asked, holding up a bright carton that he had grabbed from one of the drawers in the kitchen. I looked at him, completely shocked. There was no way this grown man was my baby.
“Hold out your hands,” he suggested, his voice gentle. I did so, and then I saw that they were covered in wrinkles. They looked as old and frail as my grandmothers’ had. Bringing them up to my face, I felt paper-thin skin where I had expected plump and firm cheeks. The skin was wet; I realized I had begun to cry.
“Where’s my husband?” I choked out.
“Dad’s gone, Mum. He left. But it’s ok, we don’t need him. I’m here to take care of you!” The man, the stranger, looked as if he were trying to be cheerful, but his eyes held so much pain. My heart dropped at the sight of those eyes—they looked so much like Steve’s.
“I don’t think you can,” I confided in him. I didn’t know what was going on, but there was no way a stranger who thought he was my son could take care of me. Something was very, very wrong.
“Today’s a bad day,” he agreed before continuing. “Tomorrow will be better.”
He walked up and handed me a few capsules that he took from the container, along with a fresh mug of tea, telling me to swallow them. I didn’t know what else to do. I was in pain, I was confused, I was tired, and he was being kind, but I was still afraid of what he might do to me. I swallowed them and sat down heavily on the couch.
“What would you like to do today?” he asked, that false lightness back in his voice. He sat down next to me before I could answer.
“I’d like for you to leave,” I replied, glaring pointedly at the spot on the sofa where he had not been invited to sit.
The pain that flashed across his face was almost unbearable, but he pushed it down again quickly before standing up. “Okie doke,” he said, before walking to the door. He grabbed the knob, but before opening it he turned to me and said, “tomorrow will be better. I love you.” And with that, he left. I had my house back to myself. Hopefully Steve and Johnnie would be home soon.
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