Every time he visited his mother he would be annoyed by the large photo on the fireplace.
The photo showed his mother, himself as a curly, shy toddler, and Cyril in the most virile, charismatic stance, standing next to them and commanding the scene. Cyril Black, was probably, at the time, the best known Irish antiques dealer of all times.
What Oliver hated the most about the photo was the expression of utter admiration on his mother's face, not hiding at all the fact she was besotted with him.
The photo, commanding their living room, as Cyril had done the image itself, bothered Oliver and he did not understand how his father lived with it.
When he got older Oliver asked him and he replied with a hearty smoker's laugh.
'I am the one that took the photo! Oh, your mother and all the women then were mad for Cyril! What times!', he paused to catch his breath and to wipe his eyes with a huge fabric handkerchief.
He could never transition to paper tissues.
'You have it all wrong Oliver, that photo is there because you are in it, not because of Cyril. I mean, yeah, she might hold a nice memory of that moment, but it is because we were all together. I took the photo remember!', and he went back to his newspaper leaving Oliver still disliking the photo.
He remembered seeing his mother looking at the photo as a child, really looking at it, and the expression on her face was one that she never had had when looking at him.
She had been a good mother but she never was affectionate or nurturing. She cared for him, fed him, raised him, but he never felt that she was one hundred percent connected to him, like he would see other mothers hug his colleagues when saying good bye before they left for summer camp. They had this expression of love and suffering on their faces. His mother had an expression of relief and that made him, in a way, resent going to camp.
She should not be pleased he was gone.
All that was well in the past now, and in her later years she had become kinder. She loved his children and would sometimes show towards them tenderness she had never shown him. Annoyingly, despite being forty something, Oliver found that, that still had the capacity to bother him.
He would scold himself then and he would be too ashamed to talk about it with anyone, even to his wife. He hated to be a Freudian cliche, although he did not know much about Freud's theory, Oliver knew that it was somehow all about the mother.
And now, she was sick in the next room. The dining room converted into a downstairs bedroom for ease of access and movement.
He did not want to go in but knew he had to.
At an impulse he grabbed the large photo and crossed the hallway to the converted bedroom.
She was there, the woman who had commanded all his life with her aloofness.
Now she was small, almost lost in the whiteness of the sheets. He went next to her and placed the photo so she could see it.
Her eyes lit up and with them, at the same instant, Oliver's annoyance sparked.
'Cyril ... ', she extended her hand to touch his face, but it dropped powerless.
'My love ...', her voice was barely audible so Oliver was not sure he heard correctly.
Quite a few years later, when he finally decided to sell the house, Oliver found a tattered old notebook among his mother's things. He'd never seen it before, but he instantly recognized in it his mother's neat and tight writing.
Although well into his middle age and with enough life experience to handle most things, Oliver had to sit down when he understood what it was.
It was a journal written as letters to Cyril Black.
'What the ...', Oliver was dumbfounded.
While he read, his world crumbled around him and was rebuilt into a totally different reality he had no idea existed.
One of the entries said:
'My Love,
I miss you more than I could ever express. Every day without you is hell, but I find comfort in the fact that all this is for Brucey! You should see him! He has gotten so big and handsome! Of course I don't say anything of the sort because I do not want to infuriate him.
All that matters is that our baby is safe. Last night Brucey was telling me he would like to become an astronomer and stare at the stars all the time. Isn't that wonderful? It reminded me of our nights of love in the lodge when you visited.
I miss you with every fiber of my being!
Always yours, Hazel'
Oliver was beyond confused, he was the boy dreaming to be an astronomer, but why was she calling him Brucey? Their baby? This was beyond nuts!
Oliver went through the entire journal and was shocked to discover a story of love and loss, of shattered dreams, of indescribable pain. He looked for replies from Cyril anywhere and then he understood the foolishness of his ways, the letters had never been sent.
The journal said that he was Cyril’s son, born our of a deep love between himself and his mother, but as each were married, had responsibilities and a divorce would have hurt them, they both continued with their sham lives.
What shocked Oliver was to find out that his father, the gentle, good man he knew apparently was a monster coercing his mother into the most horrible things and controlling her.
Oliver’s world was shattered.
How can you accept that all your life was a life of illusion? Smoke and mirrors? Love withheld to protect you? Oliver felt his heart beating too fast and then he did not feel anything as he collapsed on the floor.
The doctors said he had a panic attack, he needed to take it easy, which of course he did not. As soon as he felt better Oliver put all his energy into digging up the past and after much effort he was able to schedule a meeting with one of Cyril Black’s daughters.
As they were sitting down Oliver found himself studying the woman’s face trying to find any resemblance to his own.
‘I actually do know who you are.’, she said in a calm, pleasant tone.
Oliver was not expecting that, he was sure he will have to provide all sorts of explanations.
‘Yes, my entire family does. Your mother was what we would call nowadays a stalker …’
Oliver almost chocked on his hot tea. Now this was too much!
‘What?’, his tone was not calm or pleasant, he was surprised at how high pitched his voice was.
‘I know, mad right!’, and a disapproving tone accompanied her words. ‘Married woman with a child to take care of!’
‘Poor daddy, at some point he was thinking about moving us to America. Nobody would believe him, I mean nobody! Although he was this massive celebrity!’
‘What happened?’, Oliver was meek as if taking on himself his mother’s guilt.
‘She would follow him, show up at his shows, at the house, phone calls, letters, claims she had a child with him, and no matter how much he tried to reason with her she would not go away. It was ridiculous to be fair!’
‘How did it stop?’, Oliver was now a broken man.
‘No idea, it just did. One day she did not show up, the another day passed, and bit by bit we got back to our lives and she was gone. But oh boy, what crazy times!’, she sipped her tea seemingly unaware of the pain of the man in front of her.
***
The new owners of the house were determined to replace all the old floors and when they were lifted in one corner of the living room they found a box of letters from somebody called Cyril to a woman named Hazel.
Tears streaked their cheeks when they read of how much he loved her, but how he could not leave his family and career, society dictated so much of their lives then. Such a sad story and he seemed to have loved her so much.
They tried to send the letters on to the previous owners but were unable to as they had moved away. They needed a new start it seems.
‘Yeah, life can surprise you sometimes.’
He smiled.
‘Not life dear, people. What color do you want the upstairs to be?