Back To Life

“David, breakfast is ready, baby.”

His mother’s voice came from the kitchen. He tossed the book he had been reading onto the bed and rushed out of the room.

“I’m starving,” he said and wrapped his arms around his mom’s waist. Her fragile, thin body was hidden beneath a long summer dress. Her bare arms, though, were marked with scars that still hadn’t healed. David sat at the table and grabbed his fork.

“Pancakes. I want five.”

As his mom placed the pancakes on his plate, David’s eyes drifted again to the big, ugly scar on her left arm. Tears rose in his throat, nearly choking him, but he swallowed hard and pushed them away. Instead, a wider smile stretched across his lips.

“Here you go,” she said. “Five pancakes for my boy.”

She smiled, too. He noticed that the more he ate, the brighter her smile became. So David made sure he finished every single one. His stomach felt like it might burst, but as long as it made Mom happy, he would eat and smile.

“Mom, when you were away, Granny said I could eat as many sweets as I wanted.”

“Oh no, did she?”

“Yeah. But I didn’t eat any.” David looked at her, his mouth full. “I knew it would upset you.”

She turned away, and David saw her wipe her eyes. His heart sank.

“You’re the best son ever,” she said as she turned back to him. Her smile didn’t reach her red eyes. David desperately needed to make her happy again.

“I want more pancakes, Mom,” he said, sliding his plate toward her.

Later that evening, when Mom tucked him into bed and read to him, David gently stroked her hair, studying every scar on her skin. His chest ached with words he wanted to say. He imagined whispering things like, You’re still beautiful, Mom, or I love you no matter what, or Your wounds will heal soon.

But instead, he whispered, “When I grow up, I’m going to find the man who did this to you.”

He saw tears fill her eyes again. This time, he didn’t try to smile.

“David… I’m so sorry you have to see and go through all this, baby.”

“Don’t worry about me, Mom,” he said softly. “I’m already eight. I can protect you now. I will.”

She hugged him tightly, and in his mother’s arms, David felt ready to do anything to make her happy again.

The office on the fifth floor had large French windows. On sunny days, the room filled with bright sunrays, and the white walls made the place feel spacious. A large ivory armchair stood near a bookcase. In the corner across from it was a desk, and on its wide surface, there was nothing but a keyboard, a mouse, and a monitor. The wall behind the desk was covered in diplomas and certificates.

Sitting in the armchair, David’s gaze roamed from one corner of his office to the other. His achievements, his hard work, and the memories of sleepless nights were fresh in his mind. He checked the time. The watch on his wrist showed 7:30.

“One more hour,” he whispered, his voice breaking the silence of the place. “She shouldn’t be late.”

David got up and walked to the window. A flicker of disgust tightened his features, as if the gray weather outside had a physical stench.

The day was gray. Wind bent the trees as if making them dance in strange movements. Rain fell heavily, flooding the streets. He watched people rushing along, hiding from the rain under umbrellas or roofs.

He walked to the white door and pushed it open. The aroma of the candle he had lit earlier embraced him. Deep breath in, eyes softened immediately.

“Jasmine,” he whispered. “So soothing.”

He lay down on the small sofa, usually reserved for his patients, and closed his eyes. The cushions seemed to swallow him whole. Like a patient who came to get therapy, or just to spill everything out in front of a stranger, David’s thoughts materialized into images. Some of those curved his lips into a satisfied smile, others made him frown.

He opened his eyes, and the white ceiling pulled his thoughts back to the day he first saw his mother in the hospital room. With a sharp swing of his hand, he shook the unpleasant memory away, got up, and walked back to the desk. He took a thin folder from the drawer.

A small, unimpressive CV. He looked at the photo a bit too long. A young woman with long brown hair, fair skin, and an extremely lively face stared back at him. His fingers traced her name as he read it in a low whisper.

“Cristine Robertson,” he murmured. “Let’s see how useful you can be.”