Mother May Be (Part 2: Finale)
“Urk…” The detective’s vision becomes blurry by the time he wakes up, as his voice becomes hoarse when he talks. “Where am I?”
Where is he, indeed. He’s lying on a bed, but not the lumpy, hard one that he got from a thrift store. As his vision clears, the detective sits up and sees the room more carefully. Unlike his place, this one has wallpaper containing yellow flowers, along with paintings that seem—-how can he put it more delicately? Chic. Yes, that’s what one of his coworkers put it when she talked about her new apartment (and even showed pictures of what it looks like).
“This isn’t my room,” the detective announces in alarm. “I need to get out of here.”
“Morning, sleepyhead,” the detective hears a familiar female voice from the hall. And it doesn’t take too long before she comes into the room, holding a tray full of food and drink. Detective Peterson’s eyes widen before Agatha’s cheery disposition. “Hope you don’t mind me making some breakfast for you.”
“A-Agatha?” He groans, rubbing his face before eyeing on the woman. “I-I’m in your home? But how?”
“You don’t remember?” When the detective shakes his head, Agatha’s expression doesn’t falter. “You passed out in the bar. I don’t know where you live, so I took you to my home so you can rest. I’m so glad you’re okay, though.”
Too glad, the detective notes before he can speak up, making it light in his tone. “Well, I’m flattered that you’ve taken care of me. Though, I think it is time for me to go—-”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Agatha waved her hand dismissively. “I called your workplace, saying that you’re unable to work. Now you can have a couple of days off to yourself.”
“Y-you did what?” The detective’s eyes widen more. How could this woman—-whom he just met—-would know which police department he’s working? So he then clears his throat and manages to smile. “You know, I really don’t mind working, now that I’m ready and determined. All I need is my—-Urk!”
“Oh, my!” Agatha rushes over to his side, her hand rubbing the back of his head. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
Now Detective Peterson appears startled when this woman called him “sweetie.” She can’t possibly be embarrassed when she called him that, could she? All he can do is let it slide and not let Agatha be concerned. “I’m okay, miss. It looks like my legs are asleep or something. Maybe I need to walk around so my legs would be awake.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I’m a nurse, and I don’t think it sounds good.”
So many surprises, Detective Peterson thinks sarcastically. He’s tired of surprises since this morning. But to make his tone light, he responds, “You know what? Since you’re a nice lady, I won’t say ‘no’ to your cooking. Fair enough?”
Now the middle-aged woman has an eager expression, pleased by Detective Peterson’s decision. “I’m so glad. You will enjoy a home-cooked meal.” Patting the detective’s shoulder, she continues, “I’ll be back in a bit, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Okay, sweetie?”
With that, she walks away, humming.
Here she goes again, calling him “sweetie.” Peterson is not used to being called that. Maybe Agatha didn’t mean it out-of-intention. Or maybe—-in Detective Peterson’s theory—-, she’s lonely since there’s no one here except for him and Agatha. Poor woman.
Looking down at his bowl and glass, the detective appears to be uncertain; the woman gave him too much food since there was oatmeal, bacon, and eggs. And the container is nothing more than a sippy cup, which, to the detective, was ludicrous.
But he shouldn’t complain, and the detective must finish it. So taking a bite of the oatmeal, the taste of brown sugar is oh-so-sweet, yet somehow, he wants more of it. And the bacon and eggs are cooked to perfection, even though there is a hint of grease. Peterson had nothing wholesome or home-cooked since—-well, ever. The only food he tried tasted like ash or plain. So he takes some more until he can finish them all, along with the orange juice. It’s as if Agatha has a motherly touch for cooking, and it was good.
“Ah, I see you have finished your food.” The woman comes in with a soft grin. Before, her white and brown hair was down, but it looks like she put it up in a bun. And a white apron is draped around her waist, covering much of her light green sweater and brown khakis. “Did you like it?”
“Very,” Detective Peterson confesses after taking his last sip of orange juice. “I never had a home-cooked meal that’s ever good.”
She chuckles—-in between a light and hysterical one. “Oh, I’m sure your parents were wonderful cooks.”
Slowly, Peterson’s cheerful demeanor chips away, replacing it with a grim expression. “Actually, I only have a dad, and he was never a good cook.”
“O-oh, my.” The middle-aged woman presses her hand over her chest, crestfallen by the detective’s revelation. “I’m sorry about your loss—-”
“She’s not dead,” he cuts in. “That’s what my father told me, but I presumed she is since my mom never bothers to come around. But I don’t bother with me not having a mom.”
“Has your father ever been hard on you?”
The detective nodded, stunned by the woman’s question.
“You’re not the only one who can figure things out so quickly like you, Allan,” Agatha says, trying to sound light-hearted, but there is a hint of sadness in her tone. “But I’m sorry that you had a hard life. Why, if I raised you, your life would be nothing but sunshine and rainbows.”
When Agatha puts it that way, it makes the detective cringe. Maybe his life was bittersweet, but he doesn’t complain. He tells himself that he’s okay, and things could’ve been worse if he wished for something different in his life.
“Look,” the detective says after clearing his throat. “It’s nice of you to give me so much since last night, but I really should go. I’ve overstayed my visit, and I don’t want to bother.”
“Aww, you can’t be leaving so soon.” Agatha pouts playfully.
“But I must leave. Besides, I have so much work to do, cases to finish.”
Agatha shakes her head. “Come on. You need to lighten up. And don’t you remember? I called the station, stating that you’re unable to work due to an illness. I’m sure there are police officers who can cover and do their work for you.”
Whatever the woman is trying to do, it’s making Detective Peterson peeved. So with a stern tone, he exclaims, “Thanks for your help, but I’m okay. I don’t need anyone looking out for me. So if you can tell me where my phone is, I’ll be happy to call them and say that I’m ready to go back to work.”
“Oh, I must’ve forgotten to mention your phone.” Slowly, Agatha crosses her arms, her face turning into a grim expression. “It’s broken.”
“What do you mean ‘broken?’”
“Well…” The middle-aged woman looks at her nails as she answers, “Somehow, there was a mishap with it. Let’s say there was an accident with it.” She said the word “accident” with a hint of menace, but the detective needs to keep his expression neutral.
“Fine, then. May I use your phone?”
“My pleasure, if you can.”
Peterson lets out a derisive snort. “Let me guess? Did it have an accident, too?” As he tries to sit up, the detective blanches when he can’t feel his legs. “M-my legs. W-what happened to my legs? I can’t move!”
“Oh, sweetie. I told you you needed rest, but you didn’t listen to me.”
Peterson’s brow creases when he narrows his eyes. “What did you do to me?”
“Whatever do you mean,” she gasps, which the detective notes that it’s a facade.
“Stop pretending and tell me what you did to me. I never met you before, yet you’re treating me like a son. Then, for some reason, I woke up to notice that I can’t move my legs. So you better have an explanation, so help me—-”
“Don’t you dare raise your tone on me, young man!” Agatha interjects, raising her tone in return. “I’m your mother.”
Once more, he makes a derisive snort while shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am. You’re not my mother because she is long gone before I was born. And ma’am, if you don’t explain to me what’s really going on, I will take you down to the police station with a gun on your head.” Detective Peterson feels through his back to find the gun, but his mouth feels dry when the weapon is no longer there. “Damn it. My gun!”
“Oh, about that—-” The middle-aged woman approaches the detective, cocking her head to the side while smirking. “There will be no guns in my house. Now please, be a good boy for me, or you will not get any privileges like watching TV. Is that clear?”
Inside, the detective wants to rebel against the woman who is taking away his dignity. But when he says, “Okay, mom,” the detective covers his mouth. This is uncanny for him to act so vulnerable.
Agatha’s smirk spreads. Victory goes to her. “And what do you have to say to yourself when you raise that tone on me?”
“I-I’m sorry, mom.” Again, it’s tearing Peterson apart to behave like this.
“Good, boy.” When she pats his cheek, she turns to the door, but not before stating, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey. I need to grab a couple of things before I can start making lunch for you. Be good for me while I’m gone.”
As he heard the door close from the front, it’s his cue to leave. Although he feels immobile—-what with his legs feeling like lead—-Detective Peterson needs to push past the pain, gather his things, and go home. Though each step he takes sends an electric shock, so he has to stifle his groans. But as he searches for his things in the room, it’s nowhere to be found. So Peterson limps out of the room, looking left and right before going to the next room.
But the first room he enters, the detective’s gasps in horror.
There are photographs of children he recognizes, and when he enters to look inside the drawer, there are different clothes from young boys and girls. It’s as if this woman had a collection, but something morbid.
This is the detective’s big break, and he needs to inform the police.
Luckily, there’s a phone nearby, so Peterson hobbles toward it and punches in the numbers quickly. After letting the phone ring for a few seconds, he hears a police officer’s voice. “Hello?”
“Yes, hello! Detective Peterson, here. I need a couple of men to get down here, right away.”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“I’m kidnapped by the woman who’s responsible for abducting children from the past few years. I found crucial evidence that she’s behind this. You need to hurry, or—-”
Now the detective’s wide eyes are on the middle-aged woman, whose hair is messy and is in front of her face. How did this woman become lovely turned gruesome that shortly?
“I-I thought you were doing some errands,” he speaks up after a moment of silence.
“I was until I realized that I left my purse.” Agatha eyes on Peterson with playful sadness. “You disappoint me, my child, just like the others I have raised in the past.”
His throat becomes constricted. So it was the woman responsible for the kidnappings—-all the pain she put upon to not only the parents but also the detective himself. “They were not your children,” he growls. “You had no right to strip them away from their parents.”
Agatha lets out a bitter laugh, which the detective arches his eyebrow in confusion. “You know, I said the same thing when my child was taken away from me. I was not allowed to see him because I’m ‘unstable.’” Tears are streaming down her face, but she keeps on laughing. “I still wanted to see my child so badly. So I tried to find every child and strip them away from their families to make them my own. But no matter how much they disobey, they go like this…” To Peterson’s horror, Agatha makes an irregular sound at the back of her throat while making a killing gesture.
“Just because you lost your child, it doesn’t mean you should do the same to other people’s children! You’re not making it sound easy, Agatha.”
“Don’t you dare call me by my first name,” the middle-aged woman barks. “I’m your mother!”
“You are not, and you will never be!”
“Now, stop denying it, sweetie, or you’re going to make things worse for your mother.”
Pulling one of the drawers is a gun—-the same rifle that Detective Peterson possessed. He curses under his breath. How foolish he is not to search his belongings first and then call the police.
It will be his fault if the detective is fallen and not able to stop this madwoman.
To his relief, there is some shouting in the hall, and the backup Peterson called for has arrived. Three officers are pointing the guns from her behind, ordering Agatha to drop her weapon. After a few seconds of hesitation, she drops the detective’s weapon in defeat, and kneels on the floor before one officer handcuffs Agatha.
“Are you okay?” asks one officer who approached Detective Peterson.
“I’m alright, thanks to you guys.”
“We’ll need to get a statement from you, though.”
Peterson nods in affirmation, knowing that it’s part of the process for arresting someone and all.
Suddenly, there’s shouting among the men, and the detective’s heart is pounding when he sees Agatha holding the gun again. How in the world did this woman get her hands on the rifle when he saw her getting handcuffed? “Oh, son,” the woman exclaims in disgust. “How you hurt me so much.”
And the last thing he witnesses is the crazed woman firing her shot at him.
Peterson jolts up from his seat, his breath running shallow as he tries to compose himself. It was all a dream, he thinks when he rubs his eyes while groaning. And it was too real.
Taking in his surroundings, Peterson is back in his apartment, sitting at his desk where he just slept. He deduces that he passed out after scanning his reports and evidence for too long. Then the detective eyes on the photo that a witness gave him, where a figure is wearing a familiar brown coat, but the big sunglasses and the blue and yellow shawl is obscuring the identity. Slowly, the detective’s eyes adjusts on the next photo that his father gave him, and his heart shatters when he gazes upon the same figure with him when he was a baby.
Peterson knows that this cannot go on much longer.
So quickly, Peterson grabs his phone from the corner of his desk and punches in the numbers, letting the ringing go on before he hears a click.
“Hi, can you get a hold of the chief for me? It’s important.”
A few seconds of waiting, he hears the chief’s voice.
“Hi, chief. I think I found some crucial evidence on who’s behind the missing children’s case.”
After explaining the evidence he has, the detective pauses, taking a deep breath before announcing the name. “The suspect I believe is behind this is Agatha Peterson, my mother.”
