“A Boy Wants His Mother” by Lisa Thornton is a moving flash fiction with a circular structure. Thornton uses third-person narration to allow the point-of-view character, a grieving grandmother, to ask the difficult questions about her daughter and grandson. In fact, the story hinges on questions. What can be done, when the situation seems impossible? —Court Harler
What should a grandmother say to the classroom teacher when she calls in the middle of the day on a Tuesday? Or the school secretary on a Friday morning? The words Carline Elementary appearing on her phone screen while she is buying Cheerios or pairing small socks.
Should a grandmother tell them that a boy sits and stares? A boy throws his cereal, milk arcing through the kitchen before the bowl bangs on the linoleum. A boy slams his head against the wall in the hallway, leaving a dent in it and white paint in his curls. A boy runs up the stairs and down the stairs and up the stairs and down the stairs until his face is red and his breath comes in spurts. A boy slams his bedroom door. And slams. And slams. And slams.
Should she tell the school about when her daughter drops by, always unannounced, always sorry, always happy to see them, sometimes during Jeopardy and sometimes on a Saturday, and a boy runs to her like a magnet drawn to its opposite? About when he attaches himself to her arms and her waist and snuggles up against her on the couch where they stay for hours, legs intertwined, his sweaty hair stuck to her face, their chests moving up and down in unison as this beloved stranger shows him videos on her phone of people falling down, people walking into pools, people falling off skateboards. Should she describe the sound of their braided laughter drifting up the staircase like some kind of sweet-smelling soup that she knows will go cold?
They should realize that a boy wakes. Always the next morning or the morning after and looks for her. A grandmother listens to his bedroom door creaking open, his footsteps down the stairs. She pours his juice. She feels his eyes spy the empty couch. She sets the table with napkin and spoon. She hears his feet pad down the hall. She hears them pick up pace to the bath. She sets his cereal at his place and stands straighter, centering herself in front of the sink, each hand gripping the edge of the counter. She looks out the window at the hickory tree and sees her daughter when she was the boy’s age. Before the bad times. Before the lying, the crying, the inpatient stays. Back when her curls were easy to manage. A grandmother hears the boy run into the kitchen and stop. She hears him behind her, searching. She is aware that the back of her head tells the boy all he needs to know.
What should she tell the school when they call? Alright, she says to the principal, to the licensed behavioral therapist. He’s hitting again, their cool voices deliver. We can’t control him. They don’t ask why, just can she pick him up? They call her ma’am, but he can’t stay. What should she tell the world about her grandson when no one is asking the question?
LISA THORNTON is a writer and nurse. She has stories in SmokeLong Quarterly, Pithead Chapel, and other magazines. She has been nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Illinois and can be found on Bluesky and Instagram @thorntonforreal.
Featured image by Sascha Bosshard, courtesy of Unsplash.
