Swearing towards the end
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Tom’s mother looked…washed out. It seemed as though someone had come along with an artists set, erased her colour and added deep lines to her face and dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair that was normally dead straight and sitting on her shoulders, shiny and smooth, was today pulled into a tight bun. It made her look old.
Before I could even close my mouth, which had opened instantly upon seeing her, she had stepped over the threshold. I remained holding the door open, my mind screaming at me to throw her out of it. But I was frozen still. The last time I had seen Tom’s mum was when my mum had dragged me round to her house to tell her that I was pregnant. That occurrence was over three months ago and I’d avoided her since.
“Mrs Pinnick,” I forced myself to say politely. “I think you should leave.”
Laura Pinnick acted as though I hadn’t even spoken. She glanced into the living room and seemed to be muttering to herself. Then she just called out, “Thomas! Tom!”
I heard the sound of a chair scraping back on wooden flooring and prayed that this situation would resolve itself.
“Tom,” Tom’s mother and I said in unison. Tom looked from his mother, to me, to the open door and back again.
“What-”
“Darling,” Laura’s voice sliced through the now icy air. She hurried over to Tom and draping her arms over her son she looked up to his face. “Are you ready to come home?”
“Laura.” None of us had heard my mum come down the stirs. She had changed out of her night dress and into jeans and a vest top. Her copper hair clashed with the bright green stitching on her jeans. Was she here to rescue me?
“Hello Miranda. Do you have any idea as to what is going on?” Laura’s voice was rigid with both dislike and intimidation. I couldn’t tell which one over powered the other.
“It seems that Tom would rather spend the night here than at home. Why don’t you come back tomorrow, when the both of you have had a little sleep and time to think?” Mum reasoned diplomatically, coming to stand by me.
Laura let go of her son and rounded on us. I backed towards the wall slightly, gearing up for a barrage of verbal abuse.
“I believe, Miranda, that it is not your place to tell me what I, or my son for that matter, should or should not do.” Her words were almost whispered, but to me her voice was ear-piercing.
“Just leave, Laura,” mum ordered forcibly.
“No!” Laura shouted. Her eyes bore into mine and I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that I was in my night clothes. “Your promiscuous daughter will not come between me and my son. Not again! Not ever!”
“Mum!” Tom cut across, his face flushed.
“Dragging my family down with you, Lyla,” she screamed at me, her body visibly shaking. “Corrupting my son and giving us a bad name! I wouldn’t be surprised if that thing isn’t even Tom’s.”
The words hit me physically. I could feel my body reacting to the blow; shutting down slowly. I felt sick.
“Get out of my house!” mum was screaming now.
I clutched onto the wall, exhaustion stopping me from joining in with the shouting. If I had not felt so fragile I may have reached out and slapped Tom’s mothers leering face.
Mum and Laura were only inches apart from each other, mum holding open the door and repeatedly screaming for Laura to leave. Tom had come to life and was pleading with his mother to go. But I doubt Laura even heard him; for her voice was the shrillest of all three.
“Look!” she hollered. And abruptly she snatched at my arm and dragged me closer to Tom.
Both mum and Tom silenced, terrified about what Laura was about to do.
“Look at her!” I stopped trying to struggle free and closed my eyes, willing myself not to vomit. “Filth! Filth and scum! Nothing more than a knocked up girl who wants to take my son down to the gutters with her!” And with that she shoved me forwards as though I had a horribly contagious disease that she was terrified of catching.
I could stand it no longer. I sunk down on the stairs, my head bent towards my knees, crying without embarrassment.
“I hate you,” Tom hissed, edging towards Laura’s red, contorted face. “Just piss off home.”
Laura went to argue, but something stopped her. With one last withering glare at us all she stormed out of the house, down the front steps and out of sight.
“Stupid bitch,” mum muttered as she slammed the door shut. I turned to see if Tom had heard my mum’s comment but he was staring fixedly at the door, his face no longer flushed but ashen, his expression murderous. He turned away.
Mum was watching him too, now fully recomposed. I slowed down my breathing, trying to stop the tears from flowing. I had to close my eyes again as a rush of light headedness came over me.
“Lyla, sweetheart, are you feeling alright?” Mum was leaning towards me, her hair brushing against my face.
“I’m fine,” I said, standing up a bit too quickly and having to clutch onto the banister for support. “Tom.”
Tom had his back to us and his head was turned downwards, making it impossible to read his face. He made no move at the sound of his name. I watched his back rise and fall as he breathed.
“Tom,” I repeated. “Please.”
But instead of turning around to face me, he walked out of the hallway and into the kitchen. The back door slammed.
I stared at the place where he had been standing and let images from the day flash by my eyes like a series of snapshots.
Entering the hospital, the cold jelly on my bump, lying on the grass, throwing myself onto my bed, watching TV, kissing Tom, answering the door… So much had happened in twenty-four hours.
I felt mum pull me into a hug and I only realised then that I had begun to cry again.
“I’m trapped,” I whimpered into her shoulder.
“No, honey, you’re not. You’re gonna be fine. Don’t upset yourself.”
I yanked myself away from my mother, wobbling slightly, smearing my tears across my face with the back of my hand.
“Upset myself? Didn’t you hear what she said? I’m nothing but filth! A simple whore in her eyes!”
“Lyla,” mum said sternly.
“Just leave it,” I wept. Then I stormed into the kitchen, intent on talking to Tom.
