move
tyler odeneal

And even though it was dark, she always caught her reflection in the television peeking from her closet. She sat up and watched herself, and if she stared long enough, sometimes she would begin to shift. And sometimes, she would see someone else. And her son would see his reflection on the television too, but at a different time—she got up, checked the front door, sat in the dark until rays from the sun slowly illuminated the living room. And the television towering over her like a God in the living room flashed and flickered on.

 

Usually, she started the day with a cup of coffee. Coffee, with little sugar and so much cream that it resembled milk. But she hadn’t done that in a while. There was no need for it. She glanced over at the kitchen counter, the faded white coffeemaker with its grease-stained exterior staring back at her. Instead, she tinkered with the television remote.

She tuned in to the local news—another shooting not far from her home—glanced out of the window at the grass in her front yard—dry, fading. After a while, she’d flick over to her morning talk shows, but she had convinced herself that she didn’t like gossip or people who gossiped. Instead, she would flick over to Ellen. Ben, her son, who always came over to clean, take out the trash, and rub his mother’s feet, knew better than to question her, even when he knew she was lying.

 

The sound of knocking at the door startled her, and for a moment, she contemplated a knife. Instead, Rachel grabbed her medication case and slowly arose from her spot on the recliner that she loved. “Morning,” she said, barely glancing at her son. She opened the door and spun around, making her way back across the shag carpet. It was a faded purple, dark and stained in places, even after Ben had cleaned it. And she’d had arguments with her son about replacing it. Rachel had gotten sick a few times, and Ben blamed the carpet, commenting on how it held decades of dirt. His mother had made a fuss, eyes low like a cat, but refused to be swayed. Ben thought his mother hated the carpet, and she would agree. But Rachel said that she’d grown accustomed to it, that it was what she knew.

 

“Hey, Mom,” he said, struggling to close the door. He dropped a few boxes near the entrance and trotted over to the kitchen; its aging tiles were brittle and dull. Ben carried a cup of coffee he’d bought and turned to face his mother. “I found a few more boxes for Sunday.” The woman struggled with her medication case, her gaze sailing between the television and it. Her son moved toward her and gently grabbed the case from his mother’s frail hands. The pills rolled into her palm, and Ben almost neglected his routine of allowing the brown, rusted water to flow out of the faucet until it became clear. Rachel drank, placed the glass back into her son’s hands as if he were a maid, and frowned. He thought to himself that maybe if his mother had behaved, she’d still have her nurse. But Rachel had accused the woman of stealing– twice. The thought made Ben sigh, and Rachel was confused as the sigh was audible to her.

 

“Well, thank you for the boxes, but we still need more. God knows I’m ready to get out of this place.” She rubbed the sides of her recliner. “You know,” Rachel began as soon as there was a commercial break, “You know, I could have made you coffee.”

 

“It’s fine, Mom,” taking his place on the loveseat. He nearly strained his neck to see his mother from where he sat. Her large recliner loomed at an angle from the couch, nearly engulfing the tiny woman, and so he would turn his head to speak to her. He gazed at her, her short gray hair curled and frizzy at the ends. Sometimes, he felt like he was in the Oval Office, and she was some president, his mother. Jefferson or Jackson, perhaps.

 

“No, it’s not fine. You don’t need to spend money on things we already have.” Rachel leaned forward, gearing up for a debate. Her hands tightly clenched the armrests at her sides. The sound of the front door of the apartment building echoed up to where they were. “They need not run in and out,” she said, smacking a hand on her chair.

 

“They’re children, Mom. And soon you won’t even have to worry about them,” Ben said, partially relieved: his mother’s focus had shifted to another matter. The two of them gazed out of the large picture window at the front of Rachel’s apartment. The window was wide, and the white paint along its frame was peeling and flaky, revealing the brown brick beneath. As a child, Ben thought of the window as a picture, a movie of the outside world, but for his mother, it was just a window. The glass itself had a crack that spanned the length of it. Rachel had blamed the children. She said there’d been an impact against the window—a ball, maybe—and it was there when she arose from bed to discover it. Ben had nodded slowly at his mother, even as she avoided eye contact with her son.

 

The two of them watched as the children ran across the lawn of the apartment building. They gathered in a group, then separated and ran about. He watched their faces, smiling, laughing, the summer sun adorning them. A game of tag, Ben supposed. A tall girl stood near the curb, her dark brown hand pressed against a young tree. 

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Home.

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#

The city had planted trees a few years ago, and Rachel had detested every branch. She’d passed the trees, so angry that she’d pulled on their branches as she made her way to the apartment entrance. A larger branch sprang forward and struck her at the top of her head, young, green leaves sweeping her face, knocking her to the ground. The sun had beamed, so she placed a hand over her eyes in search of her son.

 

The children from the apartment seemed to surround her. A boy of about twelve extended a cautious, walnut-colored hand, but Rachel refused. Instead, she gathered herself, dusting the grass stains from her khaki pants. Ben slowly shut the door of his pickup truck, walked over to where she was, and helped his mother up from the ground. “I don’t want to live here anymore,” Rachel spoke the words to Ben, saying them loud enough for the children to hear. Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let a single drop fall. Rachel tilted her head toward the sky. “I don’t want to live here anymore.”

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#

“Those kids,” Rachel began. She stopped and waved a hand dismissively. “You know, their mother leaves them at home,” she said, her tone nasally. “Alone,” she added for emphasis. The woman’s view swiveled between the television and the lawn where the children were, “and they are so loud. Always loud, they are.” Rachel grabbed the television remote and turned the volume up louder than necessary.

 

“They’re kids, Mom. Kids are loud. I know you remember how I was.” Ben leaned over and glanced down the hallway toward the bedrooms. And then he recoiled, a grimace covering his face. He’d been reminding himself to stay away from asking his mother to remember. “And their mom? She works all the time. She seems like a hard worker. Like you.” Ben had seen the woman in the hallway. He’d smiled at her and sometimes even made conversation—the woman with the curly hair and hazelnut lips. When Ben shook the woman’s hand and placed his lighter-complected hand against hers, he thought of his Black father meeting his White mother in the sixties and how they received wide-eyed glances even though they resided in the North. Of his mother’s family scoffing at the man he knew as Daddy. Of his grandfather, who loved his father as if he were his own son.

 

Rachel laughed a forced, harsh laugh.

 

“That woman isn’t like me,” she interrupted herself, “they aren’t anything like us.” She scoffed at the thought. Her son winced at her words, faced forward, and fixed his eyes on the television in front of him.

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#

After a while, Rachel rose from her spot at the recliner and made her way to her bedroom, with Ben grabbing a few of the boxes he’d accumulated. She glanced over at her son and smiled in a way that only she could. It was a smile he’d known before, eyes seemingly glossed over whenever his mother reminisced about the past. Ben detested his mother’s stories. He managed a smile.

 

Rachel reached a hand toward the thick, wooden shelf in her quaint bedroom closet. She’d been packing, so items were in piles on her bed. Above his mother’s head, an item seemed to shimmer in the dark of the closet, and only when Ben moved closer could he make it out. On the shelf above them sat an old television. It had been buried before, covered up by more beautiful things.

 

Rachel reached and pulled at a string hanging from the closet ceiling. A lightbulb flickered on, exposing the television even more so—bulky, with a round screen and a wide frame. What seemed to be faux wood paneling covered the exterior of the thing, and its knobs were worn, a faded pink in color. A pair of antennas, rigid and uncompromising, sprouted out of the top of the television set. Ben could make out his reflection and his mother’s—a third figure just beyond the two of them seemed to loiter in the corner of the room. Ben turned quickly. There was only his mother. 

 

“Your grandfather gave this to me as a gift when your father and I were married. April 4, 1968.” Ben couldn’t believe his mother still had the old thing. That she had held onto it all these years. He was sure that it was useless. He turned away and picked up a tightly folded shirt from the bed.

 

“Your grandfather was a great businessman,” she continued, still fixated on the television. “And even though these things were very popular at his store, he still managed to get us one.” Ben glanced over at his mother, examining her thin face.

 

“It’s true,” Rachel insisted. She moved slightly in her son’s direction, causing him to flinch. “He owned a store. And he sold the best of the best. Everyone loved to buy from him.” Rachel paused, her eyes scanning the closet. “People would brag about how affordable he was.” She motioned for her son to move and, at the same time, held onto his arm as she found a place to sit on her bed. “He would sell to anyone, which was unheard of at that time. Even in the North.” She paused. Her voice lowered and trailed off as she spoke. Rachel waved a hand in the direction of her neighbors across the hall. She waved almost as if dismissing someone from the room. “And your grandfather, he loved your father. He was the only man I ever saw my father hug. He also asked your father about his Afro and why he thought it was appropriate for a wedding. And your father asked my father why he was wearing so much hair gel. I cracked up.” 

 

Rachel snickered to herself in the present. “I miss him.” Ben wanted to ask who. His father or grandfather or both. Instead, he turned toward the television and imagined black-and-white sitcoms about postwar-era perfect suburban families. The piece of machinery shined, almost as if winking at him in the dark of the bedroom.

Ben marched out into the living room, past his old bedroom, and down the hall. He stopped at the bedroom only to get a view of a set of encyclopedias that sat on a shelf his father had hung. He remembered reading and discovering the world. His mother had complained about the cost, but his father—this tall, brooding man with wooly black hair and walnut-colored skin—just grinned as he gave the books to his son. Ben was his quietest self in these moments, his mother, pale and thin, passing in his peripheral as if a ghost.

​

Rachel sat in her recliner, staring at her son. There was silence for a while. “I spoke to the woman at the senior apartments,” said Ben, half smiling. He made his way into the kitchen, washing a dish he’d used the day before. “She confirmed you’re moving in on Sunday, so we’ve got four days left to get everything done.” Something tiny and brown moved quickly across the countertop. Ben came to a halt, a chill running through his body. The mouse stopped at what appeared to be crumbs and darted again across the countertop, sliding between the broken tiles lining the wall.

​

“Mom,” he began. He paused and turned to face the old woman.

​

“What?” she barked at him. Ben was interrupting her soaps.

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He sighed and bit his bottom lip. “Never mind.”

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#

The sun peaked out between dark and lively clouds as Ben returned to his mother’s apartment building. He passed houses, fences of varying kinds, grass growing freely, homes boarded up and abandoned. He passed an old corner store that had gone out of business after the owner, an immigrant crafting a better life, was killed during a robbery. Everyone loved the elderly store owner, and the man loved the sight of Ben because he reminded him of his own son. And so, there were candles, teddy bears, and deflated balloons at the store entrance. After decades of operation, the store owner had hung his head, offered all the cash from his register, and was executed still. The light from a muted television, reruns of 90’s sitcoms playing on a loop, painted the man in an array of colors as he lay dying on the floor. 

 

Ben marveled at the old bricks that made up the exterior of the apartment building that his mother owned. Most of them seemed crooked or cracked, or both. He’d made attempts at fixing things, but he knew the structural problems within it were far worse than the tattered outside.

 

Ben knocked and waited, checked his phone, and when there was no answer, he knocked again. Finally, his mother opened the door, a towel draped over her head. “What’s this about?” Ben began, but Rachel had already started.

 

“There’s a leak. Can you believe it?” she said, her voice high, shrill. She plopped down in her chair and adjusted a plastic bucket that sat next to her. Ben moved over to where she was and gazed down at the bucket. It contained a bit murky water, so he pulled at its handle and made his way to the bathroom. The water swirled down the toilet, placing him in a momentary trance. “I know it’s them,” she snapped, pointing a thin finger toward the ceiling. “Every time they flush the toilet, it happens. I can hear it.”

 

“So, there’s a leak that needs to be repaired.” He opened his cell phone.

 

“Well, yes. But…but if they wouldn’t flush so much, it would be fine.” Rachel’s tone had morphed into an almost childlike whine. “You know, I had to shower again. The water leaked on my head,” she said, pouting. Ben watched as his mother frantically dried her short, gray hair, the woman’s cloudy blue eyes drifting out of the front window. Silence. 

​

“You can’t expect folks not to flush or shower. What is wrong with you?” 

​

“So you’re taking their side?”

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“Side? There is no side. Just right and wrong.” Rachel opened her mouth. Silence. 

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“Let me figure things out.” Ben continued tinkering with his phone. “Like I always do. Christ.”

 

Rachel’s face shifted, eyes lowered. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Get out.” 

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Ben attempted to apologize but could feel the words buzz the edge of his tongue. He didn’t. “Get out of my house. Get the hell out.” Ben turned and pulled at the front door, which needed fixing. The door swung open, nearly knocking over the television, towering like a God in the living room. Rachel gasped. And Ben was gone.

​

#

The next day, Rachel called and called, but Ben’s phone went straight to voicemail. She sat up and stared at her reflection in the television, unmoved, and back at the house phone glowing in her hand. Rachel knew that the move was almost near, so she’d begun packing as many boxes as possible. Rachel thought more and more of her own father. She gazed at the faux fig tree that sat on her windowsill. And when thoughts gave way to worry, she prayed for an easy transition. Rachel had long pondered the idea of trading in her old home for a new one.

 

The place where she was going was in a suburb of the town, so far out that it bordered another city. She had lived in the old apartment for at least fifty years, which sat in a Rust Belt city like so many others throughout the Midwest. Things had changed; businesses were gone, and many neighbors had taken flight to other areas of the town. She cleaned as much as she could and searched underneath her bed for tennis shoes and storage containers. And then she remembered the old television resting on her closet shelf.

 

Ben told her that he would remove the thing, and that she should take care of the lighter household items. But Rachel insisted, grabbing a stool and balancing herself enough so that she could begin. Her thin fingers probed the television, this thing that had sat for years in that very spot. Rachel tugged and pulled, and eventually, the thing moved a bit. Again, Rachel tugged at the old machine with as much strength as she could muster. The television, this entity that Rachel had utilized to see into the outside world, sat near the edge of the shelf. She thought she could see her young neighbor on the television or her dead husband, the reflection of walnut-colored hands outstretched, bright brown eyes staring into her cloudy blue pupils. But she was alone in the old apartment.

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#

Ben awoke the next morning, lying in place, eyes on the ceiling. In his youth, he’d longed to be a writer, and even though his father had encouraged him, he’d let go of that dream, his mother scowling in her chair. After years of rejection, he’d dropped off his old typewriter with other junk in a barren field, frozen with snow. Ben sat in the dark, his curtains pulled, neglecting to eat or even brush his hair. Orange medication bottles on his countertop glared at him—mood regulators and antidepressants, which he rarely took. As night loomed near, Ben decided to get dressed and go out. Certain that his mother would call, he silenced his cell phone and grabbed his keys, moving out into the cool, dark air.

 

The blare of his alarm the next day grew in his ears, his unconscious mind granting a bright Sunday morning. He’d stayed out late, drank, and even danced. He sat up in bed, his head pounding, so he took time showering and getting dressed. He thought of his mother sitting in her recliner in the living room, television remote in hand. Her eyes were tired yet glued to the screen. Ben had surprised his mother with the television a few Easters ago. He’d later tried to convince her to get cable and Wi-Fi to expand what she watched, but she’d declined. Rachel found pleasure and comfort in what she already knew.

 

When he finally arrived at the apartment, he knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. After a moment, he called his mother, each call leading to voicemail. Ben searched his keyring for the spare key his mother had given him in case of emergency. She’d placed a purple cap shaped like a home on the key so that he wouldn’t forget which one it was. He rolled his eyes at the thought. Then he laughed to himself. And the door put up a fight, but he finally made his way in.

 

Ben’s voice, unsure, called out to his mother, telling himself that she must be napping. Instead, he found her on her bedroom floor. A pool of blood had seeped into the purple carpet surrounding her head like the halos of saints on stained glass. And the television’s black screen, splattered in droplets, faced upward toward him. Ben sat in the dark of the room, staring into his reflection in the old television. Almost as if seeing himself for the first time in a while. His eyes shifted to his mother, who he loved. He reached out to touch her—cold—knew that she was gone.

 

He caught his breath and, in a daze, slowly walked out of the bedroom. 

​

He sat on the loveseat, searching for his phone in his pocket. Fingers shakily dialing 9-1-1. He placed the phone on the loveseat next to him and sat silently, his hands folding in his lap. 

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Staring out of the picture window in the front of the apartment, the crack that stretched through it was almost not there. Instead, he watched as children ran back and forth across the lawn, which had regained some of its color. And the children playing and running and the trees—all more colorful than they’d been in a while. The television in the living room seemed to fade into the walls surrounding it and Ben—his eyes fixed on the outside world.

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A game of tag, he thought.

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Home.