A tragic accident, that's how the newspaper described Thomas Thorne's unexpected death. He had fallen down a staircase at the family mansion, breaking his neck in the process. The famous entrepreneur left behind his bereaved son and daughter and had been laid at rest beside the mortal remains of his dear wife.

I checked the date at the top of the page. The burial had been two days ago.

My throat constricted. The one time I had met the man, he had seemed warm, gentle, and caring. So different from his cold offspring with their false mourning faces.

My hand holding the paper was shaking. I took a deep breath.

The report held little else of interest—unless you cared for who attended the funeral, who didn't, and what they wore. 

The police had investigated the case and had found it to be a tragic accident.

"Oh, you're into celebrities?" George had closed in on me without me noticing him. "Theresa's awesome." He pointed at her picture.

I took a step away from him. "Not so sure."

"How do you know?"

I shrugged. "Just believe me." My voice was bitter.

"Don't tell me you know her."

"No, not really." And I didn't need to know her any better. Nor did George have to know the details.

"Hey, don't look so glum," he said. "I have something to cheer you up... something to guess."

His statement was so incongruous; it made me eye him with surprise.

He grinned. "What's this... it can do magic, and it's all grainy?"

Theresa still sat between my ears, and she didn't leave much room for pondering riddles. Yet his eager smile made George hard to refuse. And playing along might chase her ghost away.

"Gimme a hint," I said.

He huffed. "You, of all people, don't need a hint—"

"Excuse me?" A woman stood outside the counter, in the last light of the day and the orange glow of the lights. She squinted up at George, her face framed by a white and red headscarf. It took me a moment to recognize her.

My mother.

I took a hasty step over to the slaughtering desk and turned my back towards the counter.

She ordered a medium sandwich with cheese and nothing.

I didn't want her to see me like this, in my soiled apron. I didn't want her to know I wasn't an accountant at TCorp anymore. I didn't want her in my life—not now.

"Anne," George said, "we need a medium cheese, no sauce."

I cringed as he mentioned my name and reached for a small baguette. My mother and I hadn't seen each other for years. She had called me last Christmas, and we had talked. It had been an awkward conversation—gossip about family, a brief report on my work. The words spoken had been light and innocent, yet they had to thread a tortuous path around those left unspoken, the fat, dark, and heavy ones. I had held back, unwilling to reach out to her, cocooning myself in the world I had built—a world of order, safety, and perspectives.

Yet here I was, a Sandwich King looking like a bloody butcher.

I slammed the cheese and the salad into her bread, closed it, and wrapped it. Then I half turned towards George to hand him the sandwich.

"Anne?" my mother said.

I eyed the door. Running away, disappearing into the night—were these an option? Not really.

I reached for a towel, wiped my hands, and held it to my chest, then I looked up. "Mom?"

A broad smile was on her face.

I didn't remember her to be so wrinkly. The grin and her headscarf made her look like one of the city's discarded, one of those who dragged their lives with them in plastic bags or pushed it through the streets in a shopping trolley.

"Wait, I'll come outside." I looked at George. "It'll be just a moment."

He nodded. "Sure."

Dropping the towel, I left Royal Sandwiches. My feet were two reluctant mules, yet I forced them towards the beach walk, towards her.

She was smaller than I remembered, standing there with her hands clasping each other. Her eyes went to my sullied apron, and she frowned.

I gave her a brief hug, hoping it would hide my blush and unsure if I should kiss her. "Let's walk." Taking her arm, I dragged her away, out of earshot from George.

"I thought you were working at TCorp," she said.

What should I tell her? I could say I was just helping out here. But I wasn't a liar, I was a person seeing things for what they were and calling them by their name. "I don't work there anymore."

"Why? I thought you had such a great job." She clasped my arm.

"There was... an issue. A management guy draining money from the company. I objected. They didn't like that."

She shook her head. "Poor thing. As I always told you, don't mess with the rich."

As I always told you... That was one of her favorite phrases. I felt the walls of our tiny apartment looming up to trap me again.

"It was time to move on anyway," I said.

So much for not being a liar, for calling things by their names.

"But working at a place like that." She pointed her thumb back at Royal Sandwiches. "You sure could do better."

There she was going again. Telling me I could do better.

"It's just temporary."

"You know..." She hesitated. "You can always move back in with me. If you want to save some money." Her eyes were on the wooden boards of the walk before us.

I heard the hope in her words, words that stirred up cold dread within me. And with the dread came the guilt.

"It's okay. I can pay my rent." Barely. "Let's turn back. I'm still working." I wanted this to end, I wanted to wake up from this nightmare or at least go back to cutting sandwiches. Anything but this. "I think I should go back now."

"Anne, there's something you should know," she said as we turned.

Surprised by her serious tone of voice, I looked at her.

She stopped, put her hands to her headscarf, and moved it back. Her head was bald—pale skin where there used to be wiry, blond hair.

"Liver cancer." She put the scarf back to where it had been. "Chemotherapy."

Her voice was soft, but the words hit me like fists, knocking the air out of my lungs.

I groped for a response. "Er... what do the doctors say?"

She resumed walking. "They say blah, blah, blah... But I know it's serious. I see it in their faces."

A group of teens was clustered around Royal Sandwiches.

"I..." What was I supposed to say at this point?

She touched the small of my back, giving me a gentle push. "I think you have to go back to work. If you want... you can call me, one of these days."

"Why haven't you told me?"

"I... They have told me only a couple of weeks ago."

"But you should have called me immediately."

"Are you sure?" Her words were almost a whisper. "I had the impression that... you wouldn't want to hear about this. You had that good new life of yours... a job... money. You didn't need your sick mother spoiling it."

"I..." My heart wanted to say she was wrong, to say that, of course, I would have wanted to know about it. Yet my brain knew the disgraceful truth. "I'm sorry. I... I know I've been a bad daughter to you, I—"

"Shh. We are never the people we want us to be. And it's hard... hard to say something useful when... this happens, I know. Don't try. You go back in there now. You're needed."

We had reached the stand.

"Anne!" George had seen me.

"Coming!" I called back. Then I hugged my mother. "I'll call you. Promise."

"Yes, do that." She let go of me. "And... you can do better than that." She pointed her chin at Royal Sandwiches, turned, and walked away.

The last words had been cold and demanding—once more telling me what to do with my life, offering expectations instead of support.

Her steps on the beachwalk were slow, carrying her failing body away from me.

I blinked me eyes, wiped off a tear, and pivoted away from the sight.

As I stepped into the kitchen, George greeted me with sandwich combinations. I sliced, filled, and wrapped, keeping my face averted from him and blinking away tears.

After feeding the teens, we watched them recede down the beach walk, laughing and talking.

"You're okay?" George asked, his eyes on the cash register.

"Yeah."

He waited for a moment, giving me a quick glance from the corner of his eyes, then he nodded. "Good... I guess there won't be any other customers tonight, let's clean up."

We worked in silence, and when everything was clean, kind of, and no further orders had arrived, we lowered the counter's shutter.

It was a relief to take off the apron and say goodnight to George.

The beach was deserted now, but Coast Drive was still busy. Cars, people, music, shops, restaurants—all doing their best to fill the night with strained merriment, false happiness, and undeserved optimism. None of it reached me.

I hugged myself, shielding off a world that was trying to tear me apart.

What was happening to me? I had lost my job, my life. And now, my mother was sick with cancer. And she needed me—even though I had nothing to give.

A group of girls of my age spilled from a bar onto the sidewalk, shrieking and laughing. One of them locked eyes with me—a long-haired, fine-featured blonde. She smiled.

I brushed past her.

The town became more deserted and shabbier as I got closer to home—a shabbiness reaching out for me, trying to enfold me.

My street was framed by run-down tenements. Overfilled bins, potholes, and peeling plaster were the dominant visual features. Most of the cars lining the curb were cheap and rundown. But tonight, one of them was different—a shiny, green microcar.

It stood in front my house.

————

A/N
I'm curious: Does anyone remember that car?

A/N 2
Dedicated to anupamarc for crucial feedback.