Putting some of these pieces together. Some repeats & new edits.
Michael - Part 1: Rum Cake
"I want to make the rum cake."
Michael glanced at his wife and tried not to roll his eyes.
"Mummy it's July. It's too early to make the cake. Besides the ingredients won't be on sale at this time of year."
"It's time to make the rum cake." she said emphatically.
He looked again at his wife who shrugged. It was code for: 'she's your mother'. Michael knew better than to argue with either of them.
After their visit, they stopped by the liquor store for the rum with explicit instructions to get the proper Barbadian rum. "None of that Dominican stuff." His wife stayed in the car while he stopped at the bulk food store to pick up the nuts and other ingredients for the cake. He hoped he remembered everything. He'd made the cake every year for decades with his mom. It became 'their thing' as the baby of the family, the last to leave home.
Normally Michael walked around the bulk food store in the late fall when things were on sale, at his mother's insistence. Gloria would never pay full price for anything if she could find it on sale. She'd studied the flyers and knew the annual sale patterns for the local retailers. She could have been an economist if her children had not come so young. She applied that good money sense to squeezing every penny out of her dollars.
Now standing in shorts and a t-shirt, he felt silly scooping up the raisins, almonds, and pecans all at full price. He could hear his mother, "Don't get more than you need, I'm not made of money." He had no intention of giving his mother the bill of course but her voice was like a gull on his shoulder chattering and squawking at the price of everything.
"What $5 a pound? That's ridiculous! Who'd buy it at that price? I paid $3.50 last time. Where do they get off charging that? I'm going to..." And it went on. Michael sighed and carried on down the aisle, sweating as much from his mother's commentary as the heat of the shop.
In the spice aisle he stopped, looking once again for the whole mace. The search for an elusive diamond. But this time, there it was. "Don't get that ground stuff it doesn't taste the same. Gotta grind it yourself. That's the secret. Grind your own spices. Mimi used to have a nutmeg tree in front of her house when I was a girl. She always dried and ground her own spices not like these old dead spices you buy here. Don't pay full price. They're trying to take your money. A fool and his money are soon parted."
Michael looked again. Mace. There it was, in all its glory. The golden, lacy pieces, whole and sitting in the bin. He grabbed the tongs and carefully selected some. "Don't get too much we only need a little. How much do they want? Outrageous! Even with my senior's discount...ask the girl to give you my discount. They know me. Just tell her you're Gloria's son."
Michael wondered if they'd know his mother. He smiled to himself. He was sure she was a 'memorable customer'. Maybe they'd even go for it. If they knew what was good for them. He brought his loaded basket to the cashier. She smiled a conspiratorially when he said Gloria sent him. A grown man sent by his mom.
"I'm sure we can work it out," she said graciously. "How's she doing, I haven't seen her for awhile."
"She's doing OK. It's her heart, she doesn't get around much anymore. She wants to make the rum cake. For Christmas."
"Oh yes?"
"Yeah. I know it's a bit early."
"OK, and would she like it if I gave her the Christmas discount?"
Michael stared at the cashier, sweat dripped down his back.
"You could do that?"
"Sure. I was just discussing our orders for the holidays this morning with my supplier. Your mom's a good customer. I know how much she likes saving her pennies. How 'bout 40% off?
Michael stood 6 foot 4. He towered over the cashier. He felt that tickle in his nose he gets whenever he was about to cry. He blinked a few times looking down and nodded as the cashier rang in his items. A grown ass man crying in his shorts and sandals, buying ingredients for the Christmas rum cake in July.
"Have a great day, Michael. And give my best to your mom. She has a good son."
"Thank you... thank you," he said clearing his throat. Michael peered at her name tag. "Thank you, Grace. I will. I will."
Michael - Part 2: You did good.
"OK, I've got all the ingredients, I think. I was doing it by memory so I hope I didn't forget anything."
Gloria looked at her son as he unpacked the bags. Michael anticipated her commentary about prices but she was silent. He stopped unpacking and looked at her. She was gripping the chair she stood next to as she looked at him. She almost looked through him.
"You did good son."
"Did I? I hope so." Michael said letting this conversation still be about the groceries. "I got the good rum," bring bringing out the bottle.
"I see that" she said with a smile. Gloria felt the room start to tilt and tried to pull the chair to sit down. If she could just sit down. Michael rushed to help her. Her stomach sent a wave of nausea. She swallowed as her mouth filled with bile. Her eyes couldn't focus. It felt like a migraine but she was so weak. She managed to find the seat before she fell over.
"A minute," was all she said, the words hovering then, "tea."
Michael got to work putting on the kettle sweating again seeing his strong mom swoon. With his back turned, Gloria spit some bile into a tissue. That was a close one. She breathed slowly while blood pounded in her ears and neck. Her heart raced. 'taka-something' her doctor called it. It might get worse, she thought. It might be the last.
"Grace says 'hello'" Michael said, his back turned.
"Who?" Gloria said.
"Grace, the lady at the bulk store. She was asking about you."
"I don't know no Grace." She said impatiently, her head pounding.
"Oh, she was very nice. Mommy, you want something sweet with your tea?" Michael turned to see his mother staring at the thin air before crumpling to the floor.
Michael - Part 3: Roadside
Michael pulled off to the side of the road. A semi roared past, blasting his horn.
The gust and spray from the truck pulled at his bottom-of-the-line, compact rental car. The new car smell still clung to it. Michael his tears flowed at the side of the busy highway. He wanted to turn around and drive in the opposite direction. He wanted to run away, hide, and not have to face what awaited him. The non-descript, modern car carried him to the trapped-in-time house he grew up in. While he fumbled with the weirdly designed windshield wiper dial, he knew he could navigate his mother's house in the pitch dark without stubbing his toe. He craved newness.
The comfort of familiarity brought with it smothering memories. A clear path had been set for him. Expectations shared, stories told and his silent acceptance. There was no arguing with Gloria. A woman who had kept the family afloat during hard times and someone who fought the world for her children. Did she not deserve the comfort of sharing stories of their successes with her sisters at home? They wanted these stories. It reinforced their narrative of sacrifice for a better life.
Each time he visited he had to collect in his mind, what he could of his life to share as a measure of success, an achievement that others would also see. Too often these tales fell flat, a silent rebuke. The conversation veered to the flavour of the roast, cooked to perfection.
Now she's dying. Time running out on the search for the acceptance from his mother. A life-long journey without a drop of water. His thirst endless. His throat dried as he shared his dreams. Stares from his family. His regretful tears after each visit dehydrating his hopes, a lonely desert wandered without end.
Rummaging through his pockets for a tissue, he pulled out a bent business card along with crumpled tissues. 'Lalitha Aśoka, Managing Director, The Aspen Hospice.'
He dialed the number. She picked up almost immediately. "Hello Michael. Do you want to come for a visit?"
"How did you – ?"
"Oh, I saw the call display. Been doing this a long time." She chuckled lightly. "I've been expecting your call. I'll make some tea, drive safe." She hung up.
He leaned forward on the steering wheel and let out a sigh. Leaning back, he looked in the rear-view. He caught sight of himself as a boy in his short pants, white collared shirt, dark socks, and shiny shoes. Scrubbed within an inch of his life, he gazed out the window. A dreamy look on his face, lost in the imagination that he escaped to even now. He smiled at that good boy, then pushed the button for the ignition.