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Norman’s four. The only thing he comprehends is that everything’s dark around him, and that his mother’s perfume can’t cover the smell of old things. His nose is itching, and he really wants to sneeze, but mother asked him to be quiet as a mouse, so Norman just buries his face in her hair a bit deeper. What he knows is that they’re hiding inside a big old closet and playing some sort of a game. Mother’s kneeling beside him, his chin is on her shoulder, and they’re holding each other. He puts his best into breathing as quietly as he can. So does she.
‘Shh, honey’ he hears her muddled tremble of a whisper at his ear. ‘Shh, honey, be quiet’.
The sound of something being loudly crushed comes from outside the doors along with muttered cursing. Norma shivers, startled. Norman presses his cheek against hers; she’s crying. That doesn’t seem to be such a nice game at all, but mother strokes his hair tenderly, and his worries come away. She whispers something else in a tired, almost begging voice. Some of the words Norman has heard many times before, but never quite understood the meaning. Fucking bastard, just go the hell away. Go away, please. God.
‘NOORMAAAA!’ a slurring drunken roar suddenly breaks through. The next moment Norman feels like the world outside explodes: the bedroom door is kicked open and smashed into the wall with an unimaginable crash, having obscured Norma’s loud gasp. The roar comes nearer, almost deafening them from right outside the closet.
‘NOOOORMAAAAA!!!’
Norman shivers, too, and puts his arms around his mother’s neck. She pulls him closer, holding her palm on his head in a protective gesture, and presses her lips against his shoulder, afraid of betraying their whereabouts with a sob or hectic breathing. They hear something break. Then come the threats to find them, then ‘I swear to God, if you don’t come out right now!..’, then… They hide, even when the bourbon-fueled roars leave the room, followed by the sound of knocked down night stands and shattered photo frames. They stay in the darkness, where nothing exists for Norman, apart from the feeling of his mother’s closeness, her perfume and her whisper, burning his ear.
‘It all gonna be good. It’s all gonna be good, honey. Shhhh.’
Norman’s ten and it’s his birthday. Better yet, Norman’s ten, it’s his birthday, and his father won’t be home. Norma’s hardly able to contain her own joy, when she sneaks into her son’s bedroom to smooch him awake and promises him a real party. Though this party, as always, has to be their secret, so shhh, not a word for now. Norman doesn’t mind. He’s quite used to hiding their happy moments from dad.
Father leaves home some time after noon, so before that Norman is forced to behave as his usual, not-laughing, not-making-loud-noises, not-drawing-attention self. He nearly goes mad, trying not to fidget and look interested in his toys. The clock hands are dead stuck to one place under his hypnotizing stare. He decides to be strong and wait, then he despairs, then mans up and sets on waiting once more only to later think how he’s the most miserable person in the whole wide world – all that within just 2-3 hours. But when mother closes the front door, her radiant smile becomes the best reward for his sufferings. The smile and her laugh, when she swings her arms around him, covering his face with generous kisses. She has an incredible laugh. It’s a pity she never laughs when father’s home.
Exhilarated by their own freedom, they decide to bake a cake. Just like that, fearlessly, knowing that at any other time the idea would have been met with a harsh ‘no’ and a snappy lecture on how they’re not millionaires to be spending money on such ‘dumb shit’. Dylan hears their lively voices and hauls out of his room: a scrawny, dark blond teenager in a rebellious leather jacket that he refuses to take off at home. He leans at the banisters, looking at his mom and little brother from above.
‘You really needn’t ‘ve bothered, you know, my birthday passed like 4 months ago’he comments on the kitchen fuss with a sarcastic smirk, remembering his own ordinarily crappy ‘special day’. Norma shots a guilty glance at him; dawdles on an answer, cleaning the cream off the spoon with her finger and licking it.
‘Well, you keep telling me how old you are for all this,’ what was meant to be a defense sounds more like an accusation. ‘At least, for Norman it’s still important’.
The teen shakes his head and chuckles, amazed by how many excuses this woman can come up with. He knows, he feels that it’s not about age and that nothing will change as time passes.
‘Whatever, Norma’. He runs down the stairs and out to the street, not caring enough to hold the door behind him. It slams. Norma watches him go with a helpless and discouraged look on her face, thinking how everything just keeps going downhill between her and her eldest son, and Norman hates his brother for that. For stealing his mother’s thoughts. He pulls her apron for attention and doesn’t stop until she’s fully his once again.
And then they celebrate, listen to old records and dance in the living room. Dance in the living room, what an outrageous thing to do! Father would have made a scene, but he’s not there, and they’re stealing a whole evening of happiness together. Their secret.
‘I love you, Norman’. A warm smile pays off any other day when she doesn’t smile.
‘I love you too, mother’.
He likes that formal ‘mother’, because Dylan always tries to come off so independent and grown up by calling her by her name. Norman thinks it’s stupid, but then again, he’s quite content to be the only one who calls Norma ‘mother’. That’s a nice feeling. It means he doesn’t have to share her with anybody.
Norman’s almost eighteen, and his temple is pierced with a sharp pain, as if someone’s drilling into his head. It’s cold in the basement, but he’s hot with anger. Tools are quivering in his hands. The half-finished work annoys him with its half-finished-ness, and he desperately wants to stab it with blades and throw into the garbage. Norman manages to keep calm. Right until he hears her.
‘Honestly, you can be so possessive sometimes’.
Irrigated voice comes from the top of the stairs. Oh, he knows how mother just can’t leave it be until she pours it all down on him, even if he gives up answering. They’ve been teasing each other mercilessly the whole day, and both are rather wound up. The invisible drill pierces his temple once more. Norman’s grip on the scalpel toughens slowly, his knuckles whiten.
‘Why, because you’re obviously never possessive, Mother’, he knaps every word loudly, with a sarcastic smile.
He hears an angry scoff, and then Norma drums her heels down the stairs; lips are rouged and tightened, eyes glaring. She herself feels that one more word and they’re going to find themselves in the middle of yet another fight, and she doesn’t want that, but her son’s overly friendly voice gets the best of her. Truth be told, sometimes she’d just prefer raging it all out in an argument than endlessly mocking each other. At least, she’s good at screaming.
‘You know what, Norman,’ her finger points at his chest in an accusing gesture, ‘if ever I gave you shit about your girlfriends, I…’
Norman bursts into nervous, shrieking laughter so loudly, that she halts in mid-sentence and leans back a little.
‘Oh no, Mother,’ he spreads his hands and smiles tensely, still holding the sharp instrument. ‘I’m the last person to come into your consideration. It’s so much easier to drive a couple of girls away for good by yourself, isn’t it? A couple of girls who just wanted to be friendly with an idiot who moved to this godforsaken place!’
Why on earth did he remember them now? Ah, what does it matter! She treats him like a silly boy, and the way she dismisses his words with a wave of her hand just makes Norman all the more furious.
‘Oh please, Norman, I know exactly what’s going on in their heads at this age!’
The distorted smile fades completely, and Norman smashes the scalpel onto the table. Then, putting his trembling hands in pockets, he walks around it and comes up to his mother, all straightened up and tense as a stretched string.
‘Well, I know men, Mother,’ he leans down to her from his height in a somewhat confiding way, as if letting her in on a secret. ‘And I know what they’re thinking of when they look at you.’
Norma seems to shrink under his stare, feeling his words form an unpleasant clump inside her stomach. Somehow, they disturb her. She wants to snap and show him that it’s not that easy to shake her self-control, but she feels vulnerable even in her attacking pose of preference, with her fist on her hip. The sharp Well, then, enlighten me, by all means! never leaves her lips. However, the cocky comment is, perhaps, reflected on her face, as Norman holds her shoulders and looks into her eyes.
‘They look at a wonderful, clever, funny woman, but ultimately want just one thing from you,’ he’s almost pitiful. ‘I just don’t want you to get hurt’.
His words hit the nerves. Norma scans her son’s face for a while as if trying to see who gave him the right to say these harsh, truthful things, and then fights his hands off. Though, to do this last one, she has to struggle quite a bit.
‘Why, Norman? Why do you think I’ll necessarily get hurt? Why is it that you can only see disasters everywhere?’
‘Because no one will ever love you like I do, Mother.’
She’s only able to let out a helpless sigh, not even knowing what her answer could possibly be. Her lips try to form the beginning of a phrase, but the phrase itself gets lost and sounds refuse her control. She’s confused, as if for the first time realizing that simple truth that has been growing between them this whole time. She doesn’t even have energy to argue. She doesn’t want to, really. That would be pointless. Instead, she gives up a staring contest, shakes her head and fetches her phone. Norman rolls his eyes, taking it to be another one of her phenomenal and endless means to ignore reality.
‘Now, what are you doing?’
‘Cancelling the crap outta it’, goes snarky reply.
He grins sarcastically, almost with regret.
‘Don’t be so dramatic, Mother. It’s a date night! Why would you cancel?’ he asks and then meets her look. The long, the what-did-I-ever-do-to-you-that-you’re-breaking-me-like-this kind.
‘That’s why, Norman’, she vaguely points from him to herself and back at him, and repeats his words slowly. ‘That’s why, because no one will ever love me like you do, will they?’
She sighs heavily as Norman observes her. Then blurts out the rest of it, the words that she doesn’t even wanna stop anymore, she’s that tired of thinking them and never bringing it up.
‘Norman, I think– I think we’ve been together for so long, we’ve loved each other for so long, that maybe– I don’t know, maybe we’re both a little bit in love’.
A long pause occurs. Then Norman comes closer and wraps her in his arms, part-making, part-letting Norma rest her head at the crook of his neck and clutch at his shoulders from behind. Then he sways her a little, and hides his unsure smile in her hair.
‘Maybe we are, Mother.’
Norman’s nineteen and he’s in complete and utter darkness. His eyes are closed, but even if he opened them, he wouldn’t see a thing. He doesn’t want to, either. This darkness has such a familiar flair to it that being afraid becomes unnecessary, he remembers it from childhood. It has his mother’s arms swung around his neck, her wavy breath and her intermittent mantra. Shh, honey. Norman reaches to kiss her neck. Turns out, the perfume he loved so much as a child wasn’t perfume at all, but the scent of her skin.
He knows he’s impatient. Norma’s hand, half into his hair, tightens its grip as she tries to hold him down a bit, driving her nails at his skin. Shh, honey. Easy. He slows down obediently but then, unable to contain himself, lowers his head to kiss her collarbones and that soft, pulsating place in between, and he could swear he hears a smile in her little rhythmic gasps. Norman wants to be closer still, hold her tighter. His one arm holds the weight of his body over hers, with the other he draws her to himself, hand flat on her back. Neither can really be moved, so he traces the tip of his nose up her neck to brush locks of hair aside and kisses her right under the ear – something he just recently learned she likes so much. Norma gives out a voiced sigh. Sure, she figured out all those pleasant little tricks a long time ago, but now they turned into theirs. Their little secret, like when Norman was little.
A distant street-lamp colours the room amber. Norman opens his eyes, but still sees only broken kaleidoscopic pictures. Honey gleams in his mother’s hair. Her half-closed eyes, half-opened lips. He covers them with his – the darkness has a warm taste. Norma doesn’t really try to hold him down anymore. Quick and hungry kisses mix with attempts to gulp some air, each touch is a grip. The desire of closeness tosses and turns on the inside, expanding immensely and threatening to break the rib cage. Embraces are so tight and greedy, as if their lives depend on them.
‘I love you, Norman.’
‘I love you too, Mother.’
Fingers, buried in hair. The scent of heated skin.
‘I love you so much.’
Norman’s twenty-three. He knows that as a manager he simply must leave the house and go down to the motel, but he doesn’t want to. Bad things happen when he leaves.
‘Don’t be silly, Norman. Who do you reckon should clean the rooms, then?’
He gives her a gloomy look from under his eyebrows and fumbles with a bunch of keys. Norma is standing by the stairs leaning at banisters, all groomed up, full of light and brooking no contradictions.
‘We don’t have any guests, Mother’ he tries to protest, but she won’t have a word of it.
‘What does it matter if we don’t? Guest’ll come, and what then is gonna come out of our reputation when we have to put them in God knows when made rooms?’
We don’t have any reputation either, Norman wants to say, because no one even knows about us, we’re so far aside from the main road. But he knows that this discussion is only going to end up with him feeling guilty about not respecting Mother’s business and trying to make up for it. Thus, he tries to get at it from another angle.
‘Mother, I really don’t want to go and leave you alone in the house.’
‘Norman, honey,’ she smiles softly, comes closer and laces her fingers with his. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’m always gonna wait for you here, okay?’
He can’t resist her when she’s like this. He can’t resist her altogether, and, to her content, he sighs and nods. Without taking his eyes off her, as if he can’t get enough, he squeezes her hands in his.
‘I love you, Mother.’
She flashes a soft amorous smile and reaches to give him a peck of a kiss on the corner of his lips.
‘I love you too, Norman’.
He walks at the porch with a heavy heart and in a sullen mood. Doesn’t want to look back, but looks anyway: the sun is so bright that there seems to be nothing behind the door glass but the bleak darkness. Voiceless. Empty. Norman jerks his shoulders and turns his back on the door, crumpling a pile of fresh towels in hands. He hates leaving the house because outside it gets so much harder to forget that Norma is long gone. He hates the feeling of her loss. It claws at his insides like the feeling of a nightmare that you keep having but never quite remember.
Thus, making a run down the steps, Norman sets himself firmly at returning as soon as possible to the calmness of the only place where he’s not torn apart by nightmares and staying there. And he’s just as sure that this place is with his Mother.
Always with Mother.