Keeping Up Appearances by Adele Evershed

I vacuum the corner I have picked out, put my hand in the pocket of my apron, and touch the colorful mosaic brooch like a talisman. It belonged to my mother and is shaped like an almond nut with brightly colored tiny glass tiles making a picture of two swans. Fishing it out, I run my hand over the swans; they feel rough, like scar tissue. Then, opening the gold pin on the back, I prick my finger. I suck the bead of blood that bubbles up; the taste is old and rusty, like a memory stored inside a metal box.

I boil the kettle and take down one of her cups; it is beautiful, white with hand-painted flowers. My mother poured tea with the weight of her untold stories as she waited for my father’s key in the door. To my younger self, her body was a cabinet of curiosity, the stuffed fish of her cheeks, the tiny bald spot where her hair never grew, and the veins in her wrist–sticky–like the underside of a leaf. Her skin changed color like a chameleon, bright red to indigo, green to yellow, light brown to flesh tone once again. When my father’s footsteps slurred across the tiles in our hall, Mom would freeze and try to blend in with the floral sofa or disappear into the checked curtains. And sometimes, it worked.

After she died, I became a chameleon, too, camouflaging myself under my comforter when I heard Dad swear as he took off his work boots. I hid my colors under long-sleeved t-shirts and woolly tights. I have never told anyone pretending my childhood was typical, acting as if I loved my father.

Now, I swallow my scalding tea to try to feel something. The phone rings, and I run through my script as John, my husband, hurries into the room. He watches as I press my lips together, mumbling a thank you before hanging up. I walk to the corner I have chosen and sink down. I realize I’d missed a spot; dust is settled in a furry caterpillar creeping along the top of the skirting board. I disturb it with my finger, and the dust motes dance and party around my head in a rare ray of sun.

“Oh, love. I’m so sorry”, John says as he comes towards me. I shake my head, “We have been expecting it. He had a long life.” I can’t bring myself to say “a good life,” although that was in my original script. So, instead, I put my hand in my apron. Carefully I press the pin deeply into the pad of my thumb; the sharp pain makes me gasp, but I still can’t manage a tear, even for the sake of appearances.

Adele Evershed was born in Wales. Her prose and poetry have been widely published. She has been nominated for the Best of the Net for poetry and the Pushcart Prize for poetry and short fiction. Finishing Line Press published Adele’s first poetry chapbook, Turbulence in Small Places, in July. Her Novella-in-Flash, Wannabe, was published by Alien Buddha Press in May. Her second poetry collection, The Brink of Silence is available from Bottlecap Press.

@AdLibby1    

@adlibby.bsky.social

Turbulence in Small Places     Wannabe       The Brink of Silence

Read the FFF Competition Nineteen Winning Flash Fiction – Scenes of War and Other Things I’ve Forgotten by Adele Evershed

Read more of her work @thelithag.com.

Illustration by Lakshmy Mathur S.   

Lakshmy is from an Indian state called Kerala, which is known for its greenery and beauty. She started using colors at a young age. At first her motive was to win competitions as a child. Then it grew with her as a passion.

Lakshmy pursued a degree in Costume Design and Fashion, which helped to nurture her illustration skills. She started her career as an Art Instructor. Now she is working as a Freelance Illustrator.

To see Lakshmy’s portfolio, please visit: lakshmymathur.wixsite.com/portfolio  and her Facebook page where she posts art videos – facebook.com/supersimpledrawings

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