Photo by Danting Zhu on Unsplash
Mummy tells me she’s an iceberg. She says icebergs are magnificent but dangerous to men. When I say she doesn’t look like one, she takes a sip of her special water and looks at me with her firework eyes.
‘Sami, nothing is ever as it seems,’ she whispers.
She pats my spot on the sofa and I curl up next to her. She smiles and I feel relieved because she looks like my mum still.
We watch a film where a ship, bigger than our apartment, sails into an iceberg and sinks to the bottom of the angry ocean.
‘Do you see?’ she says. ‘Icebergs are best left alone. They hurt people.’
That night, I cry myself to sleep. I huddle under the blankets. Snowflakes bite my ears and the Arctic wind stings my nose. I see the moon face of a man like my dad slipping away from my grasp. He looks like he’s asleep, only he never wakes up. The sea steals him, gurgling him down, and I think about when I dropped my baby doll, Nancy, off the ferry last summer. I cried so hard because I couldn’t undo what I’d done. My teeth chatter, but not because I’m cold.
In the morning, a sun beam tickles my face, sprinkling sun drops all over me. I climb onto the dresser and open the curtains and it’s like the sun wants to hold me tight, chasing the black water away. I feel safe and warm but then a shiver runs through me. Mummy never opens the curtains. It must be because she’s afraid she might melt. I close them fast.
I tiptoe to her room and open the door a crack. Her silky blue quilt ripples as she breathes. I can’t stop looking at her hair. I try to take a photo in my mind of what it looks like now, spreading out on the pillow, making waves of gold. She’s more beautiful than anyone I know. That makes me proud and I want to do something special. So I walk over to her on all fours, pretending to be a cat.
I purr and lick her hand.
‘What the hell?’ she says, sitting right up. But her face softens when she sees me. She reaches out and strokes my hair.
‘Be a good girl, Sami. Go get yourself some cereal and pour mummy some of her special water, will you?’
I nod. Now I understand something else too. The special water is to feed the ice in her veins.
As I open the fridge, I see myself reflected in the shiny metal door. I put my hand on my hip and try to smile like Mummy.
#
At school, the only person I tell is Molly.
‘You’re mental!’ she says. ‘People can’t be icebergs!’
She narrows her eyes, staring at me. She thinks I’m going to cry. When I don’t, she points at a ketchup stain on my shirt.
‘Doesn’t your mum wash your clothes ever?’
I can’t think of an answer because I can’t remember when she last washed them. I say sorry, though I don’t know why.
Later, it’s library afternoon and I go to the nature section. I don’t have to search for long. Arctic begins with A and the book is the first one on the shelf. I sit in the Reading Corner and Molly sniggers when she sees my book. But the librarian puts her finger to her lips and gives her the evil eye.
I need to understand how to look after Mummy. She doesn’t look like the giant islands of ice in the book, but then nothing is ever as it seems. It makes me sad to think I’m the only one who knows how magnificent she is. Though icebergs sail in salty oceans, they’re made of fresh water. Somehow, knowing she is made of pure water from the top of the Earth makes me feel better about everything. And when icebergs melt, they let out ancient sighs that make a fizzing sound.
#
Mummy forgets to pick me up from school. So Molly’s mum tells our teacher that she’ll take me back to her house. She holds my hand and her palm is like clouds, billowy and soft. On the walk home, I imagine we are three clouds gliding across a perfect blue sky.
She makes us hot chocolate with little white marshmallows floating on top. Molly takes one of them and flicks it at my shirt, so now I have a brown stain too. I look at it and though I try to swallow the tears back, I can’t.
‘Why are you crying?’ Molly’s mum hugs me tight. Her hair tickles me like sunbeams.
‘My shirt’s dirty and my mum doesn’t know how to wash it,’ I say.
She tells Molly to get a clean shirt from her bedroom for me. Then she looks at me. Not at the ketchup or chocolate stains. She looks right at me like she understands and I wonder if I can tell her.
‘I just spoke to your mum. She’s coming to get you now.’ She smiles and dabs at my tears with a tissue.
‘My mummy…’ I begin but my throat goes tight and I feel like I’m burning inside.
Even though Molly’s mum is so bright and warm and soft and kind, like a perfect summer’s day, and even though she doesn’t mind about the stains, I can’t tell her about the iceberg. I just can’t.
The doorbell rings and my mum stumbles into the kitchen, swaying like I did when I got off the ferry last summer. Molly giggles.
I feel so bad for her when this happens that I’m afraid my heart might explode. I run over to her and hug her tight and she whispers she’s sorry.
‘It’s okay, Mummy,’ I whisper. ‘I know you’re magnificent.’
I clasp her frozen hand in mine and we go home.
Eleanor Luke lives in Spain with her husband, two teenagers and a small menagerie. She writes flash fiction and short stories. Her work has appeared in the ‘The Dribble Drabble Review’, ‘FlashFlood’ and ‘The Birdseed’. Also a recent winner of the Retreat West monthly micro contest and longlisted in Reflex flash fiction competition. When not writing, Eleanor can be found eavesdropping on other people’s conversations or trying not to fall off her bike. Find her on Twitter @Eleanor_Luke24.