A couple of months ago I had an idea for a short story that came from the question, “How far can a parent’s love go?” As the father of two toddlers, they’re often on my mind.
It was about a single mom who worked the graveyard shift (11:00 PM – 7:00 AM) as an ER nurse. Every morning she’d come home around 7:30 AM, just in time to make breakfast for her kids, pack their lunches and get them into the school bus. Then she’d go to sleep.
Often she was still asleep when the kids got home from school. Sometimes they’d let her sleep so they could fool around for a while, but usually they’d wake her to make them something to eat. On one occasion, she told the kids a story of a young boy who had broken his leg while sledding as a cautionary tale. Her daughter took the story as intended but the boy, a bit younger, became fascinated with the gory details, and pressed her for more information. The mother didn’t think much of it and obliged him.
As the weeks wore on, the son would press her for more stories from the ER. Often she would refuse, but on those mornings that followed an especially rough evening, when she was groggy and unclear, she’d reveal more than she would have if fully awake. One such morning was the day after Halloween when a man was brought into the ER horribly disfigured from an accident while trick-or-treating with his kids.
His was one of those families that really embraced the holiday. He and his wife had as much fun walking around in costume as their kids did. That night, a drunk driver hit the man and pinned his body between the car and a chain link fence. The car caught fire, burning the man and actually fusing parts of his costume to his body, so that when he arrived in the ER screaming and wailing, he looked like a horrible human/monster hybrid.
Again, the mother revealed this story in her half-awake state. The boy was riveted and overcome with his imagination’s images of the ruined man. So much so that he actually willed that horrific creature into existence, and (at least in the physical sense) became what he imagined.
That’s the back story. Now, the woman is mother to this vile, wretched thing. It’s bent and misshapen and living underneath the bed in an upstairs room. How could she abandon it? This is her own son. What would she do — or not do — to keep him alive?
To the daughter, who belives her brother has died, he’s the quasi-mythical “boogeyman under the bed.” All kids are afraid of the boogeyman in the dark, and she’s just old enough to begin questioning her childhood superstitions. What happens when she finds him and the truth?
It’s still an idea as you can see and not fleshed out. But it started by asking “What if?” which is my favorite way to start a story. I’ve only revealed it now because the movie “Grace” seems to follow a very similar logic, and I’m a bit bummed. My idea! I think I’ll write the story anyway, and then see “Grace.” I guess great minds scare alike.
