Yes, I’m bitter. I am a lemon heaving with caustic juices. I am corrosive. I am an electric eel poised to shoot ten thousand volts into the next thing that moves. What is more, it’s raining and there’s a veritable hurricane blowing away, leaves and litter swirling round me. Bloody weather.
I stab at the doorbell.
Immediately, the door flies open and there’s my mother.
“Hi sweetheart,’ she says, beaming at me, and then, frowning, “Oh Evie, look at you.”
One good thing, all that rain on my face means she can’t tell I’ve been crying.
“Come in, quickly. It’s horrible out there.”
And, she’s thinking, it’s just so typical of you, Evangeline Marie, to rush out mindlessly into the rain without an umbrella or anything. Stupid. Once I’m inside, she scans my face closely, like she always does, then puts her arms round me and presses me tightly to her.
“I can’t stay long,” I say, pulling away. I didn’t want to come at all.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she says, beaming again. My mother is a natural born beamer.
Well, I’ve got a surprise for her, too. A nasty surprise. Suddenly I’m convulsed by a shiver, either from the cold or the aftershock of what’s happened. Or both, most likely.
“Come and see,” she says, ushering me to the living room.
She has converted the room into a birthday grotto. A Happy Birthday banner strung above the fireplace. Multicoloured streamers spanning the ceiling. A pile of presents wrapped in hearts and white kittens. Even balloons, for God’s sake. I roll my eyes.
“I’m twenty five, mother.”
“Twenty six,’ she corrects me, beaming yet again. “You just sit down and relax.”
The sofa is like my mother. A hugger. Waits till you sink down into the cushions then wraps itself round you. She’s on her knees now, holding a lit match under the logs in the fireplace.
“Right,” she says, leaping up, “Before anything else I’ll make you nice hot cup of tea. It’ll pick you up.” And throw me down.
She bustles off to the kitchen.
I am twenty six. Nearly thirty, my God. And my life is a complete mess. Because I’m stupid. I sigh heavily. I feel like crying again.
She’s back, triumphantly bearing a chocolate cake bristling with candles. I’ll tell her now.
“Mum, I…”
“Oh dear, the fire’s out.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
She places the cake on the coffee table in front of me, and she’s on her knees again, coaxing the fire, lighting match after match and blowing on the logs.
“Leave it, mum.”
“There, that’s better. It’s a bit halfhearted but hopefully it’ll perk up. Now,” she says, getting up, “do you want to open your presents first or blow out the candles and make a wish?”
“Neither.”
She considers me, resigned.
Yes, I know, she’s gone to all this trouble and I don’t deserve it. I’m an ungrateful wretch. Bad as well as stupid. Anyway, here goes.
“Sit down, mum. I’ve got something to tell you.”
She sits, visibly steeling herself.
“You’ll be glad to know I’ve broken up with Will.”
She doesn’t look glad. That wasn’t the surprise.
“And I’m pregnant.”
That was.
She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at me.
“I was taking the pill but it didn’t work. The small print said it might not. I didn’t bother to read it beforehand.”
Still she says nothing.
“So yet again, I rushed mindlessly into things without considering the consequences. I’ve ruined my life. I’m just stupid.”
Silence.
“You’re not stupid,” she says finally. “Everything and everyone comes with small print. The things that may and will go wrong. If we stopped to read it we’d never do anything. Nobody would have children if they first read their small print. The human race would become extinct. You just have to go with the flow and hope it turns out well. Try your best. And often, it does turn out well, more or less.”
She looks tired. Worn down. Aged. It’s me that has has caused some of the fretlines on her face. Most of them, probably. All of them?
“So that’s why my hamster ate her babies,” I say ruefully, “She read their small print.”
“Most likely,” she says and bursts out laughing, laughter lines mingling with the fretlines.
“Have you ever regretted having me?”
“Never,” she says immediately, smiling, “I’ve loved you since the second you were born. Before, even.”
“Despite the small print?”
“Despite the small print.”
Then, she gently places her hand on my face and says, “Of course you haven’t ruined your life. Things happen and people just muddle through and make the most of it. Don’t worry, my love. It won’t be as bad as you think. And you’ve got me. We’ll cope. It’ll be fine, you’ll see. And we’ll love this baby to bits.”
I put my hand on top of hers. I feel like crying again, but it’s different this time. As if on cue, the fire suddenly bursts into life, roaring up the chimney.
“Right,” she says, leaping up, “that tea’s brewed by now.”
When I sip the tea, it blazes a warm path all the way down to my toes, making them wiggle, and I’m positively glowing with the heat from the fire. I kick a balloon to mum and she hits it back and for a few minutes we behave like little kids, hitting the ballon back and forth. Then she lights the candles and it’s time to make my wish.
There is only one wish I can make. That everything will turn out well. And I blow as hard as I can, blowing out the candles, blowing away all the baby’s small print. What the hell.
“Hi sweetheart,” I say softly under my breath, beaming.
Krystyna Smallman lives in sunny Spain and her stories have been published in magazines and online and have even won the odd prize.
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32 Responses to “THE SMALL PRINT • by Krystyna Smallman”
Comments
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February 9th, 2010 at 12:07 am
Okay I’m a softy. Okay this one made me melt. Okay I shed a few tears. You happy now??? LOL
There’s a few nits, which I won’t even bother to mention.
Give it a five, plus.
February 9th, 2010 at 2:29 am
I suppose I must be a softy too. God knows I’ve messed up enough times to be able to empathise with this young woman. (Nearly 30? Don’t wish your life away, sweetheart!)
A couple of very minor typos do not in any way detract from this (literally) warming story.
Definitely a 5.
February 9th, 2010 at 3:06 am
A lovely story, although I felt the opening was a little overdone.
February 9th, 2010 at 4:06 am
I loved it!
February 9th, 2010 at 4:10 am
Well you got me bawling here in Baltimore. Loved the wry, self-effacing voice, the unusual phrasings. For instance, “The sofa is like my mother. A hugger.”
You nailed the mother-daughter relationship, and how we daughter are always trying to measure up.
***** (May I give 6?)
Peace, Linda
February 9th, 2010 at 5:05 am
Okay, okay, we got it about the “small print” after the second or third reference. Enough already. It ceased to be unique after that. But If you like sappy stuff, it was good. Ditto about the few typos; it still flowed smoothly. Maybe a four from me.
February 9th, 2010 at 5:12 am
Engaging and satisfying.
February 9th, 2010 at 5:45 am
Any work which causes such positive reaction can’t be “sappy.” I agree entirely with fishlovesca’s comment except I didn’t notice “nits.” I thought the mother was a little silly in babying the daughter, but maybe that’s her way of reminding the daughter of old times. Full of love and life, I like the story.
February 9th, 2010 at 6:12 am
Yep! I liked it.
I felt the introspective commentry was overdone a couple of times, but that was all.
5 from here.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:07 am
Very clever and well done. 4 Stars
February 9th, 2010 at 7:12 am
A second coment if I may. Why are readers worried about typos? S— Happens, the story is still there! They need a life, if that’s all they have to do?
February 9th, 2010 at 7:32 am
What a sweet and genuine story. My mom was a hugger, too, but her couch was a rock.
February 9th, 2010 at 7:53 am
This is a venue for commenting on stories. If you want to comment on the comments, then you need a life. Looking at you, Bill Webb.
(And fully aware of the irony of me commenting on a comment. Mea culpa.)
February 9th, 2010 at 8:00 am
Some great writing, but I’m far too cynical to truly enjoy this type of story. Here’s four stars.
February 9th, 2010 at 8:38 am
The protagnist seemed really ungratful, but then her mother still loves her so I guess she can’t be all that bad.
I’m glad to see she matures by the end and will make a go of it with the baby.
The opening seemed a bit wordy to me by the way, though I did enjoy the story.
February 9th, 2010 at 8:47 am
Plenty to like in this story, particularly the opening. The young woman’s angst is captured beautifully. The hamster line was my favorite.
I did feel a little disconnect with the mother. She is unable or unwilling to perceive that her daughter is terribly upset when she first arrives. I had a sense of Evie’s problem from the outset and thought the mom was trying to sprinkle enough sugar over everything to make it all go away. Then she switches from this bustling, bubbling, huggy, carefree sort of spirit to the font-of-wisdom guru. Just felt a bit off.
A small hiccup in what was otherwise one of the better flashes I’ve read in a while.
–John
February 9th, 2010 at 8:48 am
“As if on cue, the fire suddenly burst into life, roaring up the chimney” In MHO would have made the more natural ending to the story. Regardless, a touchy subject was handled well and with sensitivity. Good work! I hope to read more of your work soon.
February 9th, 2010 at 8:50 am
This was not really my kind of story, too much emotion and agonizing and not enough action.
But it was so well done I gave it a five anyway!
February 9th, 2010 at 9:06 am
Beautiful, touching, heartwarming — and I hate Hallmark movies! Very special.
February 9th, 2010 at 9:45 am
Wonderfully written.
February 9th, 2010 at 10:38 am
This was a wonderfully written piece. Although not normally my cuppa Joe, the relationship between mother and daughter resonated with me. A little syrupy for my tastes, but still a much better piece than we have been subjected to as of late.
February 9th, 2010 at 12:26 pm
Echo #1 thru #21
5 *****
February 9th, 2010 at 3:03 pm
I liked the message. Sometimes we need a message, and it works when put in the mouth of the mother (who also beams with understanding in this story).
February 9th, 2010 at 3:22 pm
Excellent story. Momma is the kind of parent that we wish we all had and could be. Gave it 3 stars. Would have been 4 or 5, except I didn’t like the first paragraph. It didn’t seem to match the rest of the story. It was a good hook, but it didn’t match. Also, I never like the use of the word ‘you,’ in a story that isn’t second person—sort of breaks the spell for me.
February 9th, 2010 at 6:05 pm
Super sweet story.
February 9th, 2010 at 6:36 pm
I really like “the small print” reference. Well done.
February 10th, 2010 at 7:32 am
Some really lovely imagery in this. I liked the mother and the last line left the impression that her daughter will be very much like her with her own child.
February 10th, 2010 at 8:42 am
C.M. – That “you” is speech unspoken, only thought. It’s actually unspoken dialogue in a third person telling, sometimes followed by (, she thought.) Here, the words “she’s thinking, ” preceded the “you.”
Just to add my star to the many preceding – I thought the first paragraph was excellently written and the contrast with the Evie’s later attitude toward her predicament gives much life to the story. A lot happens in this sensitive and well written work.
February 10th, 2010 at 6:34 pm
Love this story.
I’m 26 and the mom reminds me a little of mine.
February 11th, 2010 at 3:11 am
Great sentiment–I love the motif of the small print–and very well written. Some delicious touches, such as the sofa, the hamsters, the tea. Very English; more than a little familiar.
Definitely a five.
However (sorry), the mother is really an inconsistent character. She starts as an Alice-band-plaid-skirt-wearing mother, exuding needy generosity. She is characterised clearly and skilfully and her party preparations indicate someone who needs the world to match her template of perfection. She’s a (smothering) hugger and has repeated the phrase “That’s typical of you…” so often that her daughter now says it to herself.
Then, in the nick of time, she whips off the Alice-Band, dons a pair of dockers and throws away her need for perfection. Suddenly she is producing emotionally generous views about small print and acceptance of life. This is not someone who bakes unwanted cakes. She’s clever, empathetic and wise.
I’d have thought those stances are too opposed to each other for them to reside in the same character without some sort of explanation. Internal contradictions are the difference between realistic characters and Dickensian caricatures but I think such extreme shifts have to be explained to prevent them from simply looking unrealistic.
Still a five.
February 14th, 2010 at 2:28 am
I was intrigued by the tone of the narrator at the beginning, and it kept my interest to keep reading. The story is predictable, but still, nice. Three stars from me.
February 23rd, 2010 at 3:55 pm
Thank you everyone for your comments. Very much appreciated.