Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction
A majestic lioness bears down upon a helpless young antelope. The carcass of its mauled mother sprawled, bloody, nearby. The tawny calf stands motionless – paralyzed by fear or too innocent to comprehend death – as the powerful jaws close around its delicate neck. However, surprisingly, the lioness doesn’t sever the jugular vein, but gently carries the calf through the parched savannah grasses. She lays the antelope down, then lounges nearby. The lion wears a contented expression, while the calf looks resigned, or even accepting. The mother antelope collects flies in the near distance.
For some this famous series of photographs tell a heartwarming story of surprising animal adoption. Others claim a giant cat will ‘play’ with their prey before mercilessly devouring it. For my part, I take a middle ground, I can see the antelope gaining warmth and care from a surrogate mother (perhaps a more capable one) and a chance to live its life. And the lion raises its next meal, available at any time at a convenient distance. A true symbiotic relationship. Well, not for the antelope mother, I guess.
This morning, I’m thinking about mothers. Maybe because my mom just told me she’s dying. Not that I’m worried. This is the fourth warning of imminent death this year alone: A suspect sausage caused “near-fatal” food poisoning. A cough signaled the latest viral infection taking down women “of her age.” A shady man haunting her street (who turned out to be from the census).
This particular cry for help came from my phone’s familiar beep-beep. I’m on my lunch break. If padding barefoot from my office (my Ikea couch) over to the kitchen to nuke leftover chili can feasibly be called a break. In any case, I set the remote working software to “Lunch Break”, starting the 30-minute countdown. And it’s a literal countdown as the all-knowing program displayed an aggressive red clock in the left corner of my screen. I’m really living the dream, working from home four days a week.
Even though I’m an introvert by nature and usually ‘tolerate’ coworkers (at best), I miss human interaction most days. If I get an unexpected call, my voice croaks as I answer, unused for hours or even days at a time. My apartment, which I viewed as modern and decently comfortable when I signed the lease, now seems cold and claustrophobic. Like I’m trapped in a box suspended twenty feet in the air without anyone around me. I have neighbours in the surrounding apartments, I presume, though I rarely see them.
As the microwave softly hums, I stroll aimlessly around my apartment. In the last three years, the few times I welcomed visitors here, they’d laughed at the lack of personal touches. The only item confirming my occupancy was the framed photo from my mom of the two of us on a rocky ledge above Lake Louise from a hike a decade ago. It sat on my round, rarely used dining table. In the photo, she’s smiling, though I remember that just a moment before she chastised my posture and closed lip smile (“Why did I pay for braces if you never show your teeth?”).
I stop to glance ruefully at my reflection in the mirror by my front door. I note my once expertly applied blonde highlights are brassy and dull, long overdue for an appointment. It’s hard to find motivation to keep up appearances when my last in-person interaction of note was my annual physical two weeks ago.
Shrugging, I meander back over to the kitchen and pick up my phone from the counter where it’s tethered to the wall. A new text from Mom.
MOM: Cherie, are you there?
I sigh and place the phone face down on the counter again. I lift the bowl out of the mic with my index finger and thumb, gingerly touching as little of the scolding rim as possible. I carefully make my way to the couch, trying not to add another stain to the “good as new” carpet I picked up from an online swap website for $20 last week.
I curl up on the couch, nestled in a pre-squashed imprint that fits my form perfectly, glad for the comfort of my favourite, faded yoga pants. As I distractedly eat, I switch my computer to my personal profile to check various social accounts. A girl from high school gave birth to her fourth baby. A colleague from my first internship launched a new app with $100M in seed funding. A group of semi-friends from college just got back from an amazing ski holiday in Switzerland. If you asked me five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have listed any of these as a dream, but suddenly I want these things for myself more than anything. I didn’t even bother posting anything on my channels anyway. I claimed it was a principled choice, but possibly – just possibly – also reflected a lack of exciting developments or social outings in my life. I didn’t want to meet up with these people knowing I had little exciting to divulge, and then I had no social life to share online. It was a vicious, self-inflicted circle.
I’m not surprised to hear my phone beep again. And again. And again.
I retrieve my phone with a tiny glimmer of hope it’s a friend or another family member. Nope.
MOM: Call me if you can.
…
It’s very important. Call me!
…
It seems like you’re too busy for your only mother.
…
Okay, I guess I’ll have to tell you through this impersonal medium. I just heard back from the doctor on my bloodwork. Remember I went in last week because I was tired? Well, it turns out I’m Seriously Anemic. That’s what they said. Seriously. They gave me some supplements that I need to take with a glass of orange juice. They said not to worry, but when I pressed them they admitted that it can develop into PERNICIOUS ANEMIA which is FATAL! Call me please!
I ruefully smile to myself. It’s times like these I wish I wasn’t an only child of a long widowed mother. I can’t screenshot these messages and send them to anyone. No one to laugh and say, “Oh, that’s so Mom.” When you can laugh with someone else, you give yourself permission to ignore it. As it is, I feel compelled to respond in some way. By text of course, I’m not crazy.
Me: Hi Mom. Sorry, I was working. They don’t like me texting if I’m not on my lunch break. If I don’t move my cursor or type on my computer for over 120 seconds, the chatbot comes on to make sure I’m still working.
I had that anemia thing last year. I just took some iron pills and it improved. So you should be okay.
I start to place the phone down on my coffee table, but it beeps before I get halfway there. That’s one good thing about Mom, you never wait long for that endorphin rush of a response. Unlike my other friends who get caught up in their lives and sometimes don’t text back for days, Mom is always there. If only I got that responsiveness without the guilt-trips, reminders of my failures, and requests for help. I craved the instantaneous feedback even when I knew it was often critical.
MOM: Can you at least order me some orange juice? I’m so distraught about all of this, I can’t even think about grocery shopping. Use that app thing you’re always telling me to use for my groceries…I still can’t believe you prefer getting them delivered by some stranger than going to an actual store. How often do you even talk to a real person? Do you just sit in that tiny apartment all day by yourself?
I sigh at the familiarity. A plea for help, then a quick switch to how I should improve my apparently unsatisfactory life. Even if sometimes she’s actually right, I’ll never admit it to her. Then her takeover of my life would be complete, and she’ll have the ammunition to control my every move.
ME: I showed you how to use the app twice. Just give it a try.
MOM: After the hundreds of times I got you orange juice when you were growing up, you’d think you’d be willing to help me with this once. Especially given I might not have much time left.
I raise my eyes to the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience. I open the app and put a couple of jugs of OJ in my cart. I change the address to my mom’s rural bungalow and press pay. Even as part of the generation who grew up apped, I still find it amazing how easy it is to send something to someone half a country away.
ME: Okay, it’s sent. And for the millionth time, I’m actually okay with my life and my apartment, thank you.
MOM: No one would blame you if you wanted to move home. You could actually afford to own a home in a few years, not just rent that shoebox forever. Your cousin said she could probably get you a job at her lab. Not a tech job obviously since you don’t have the science degree, but I always thought you’d do so well at that sort of job. Better paying than journalism these days, you have to admit.
Although a job in science was my mom’s forestalled dream, rather than my own, I did have to admit my job prospects looked bleaker by the day. The dream of writing my own articles was long gone as I spent my days tweaking the inane clickbait, SEO-approved drivel of our publication’s AI content generator. They just needed me to fix little errors that are obvious to most humans, helping create a smarter AI. That blonde is preferred to brunette not because darker hair attracts the sun’s heat, but because of a random cocktail of Marilyn Monroe, white supremacy, and scarcity. And with every correction I make, I realize I’m writing my own pink slip.
From experience I know not to engage with my mother’s not-so-subtle life suggestions. They are arguments that cannot be won and usually end in a guilt trip about how she raised a child from birth to adulthood, only to end up all alone.
The timer on the computer flashes red and makes a noise like a fog horn. Lunch is officially over. I switch back over to the work side of my computer’s partition. It quickly scans my face for security, like every company these days. There are terrorists and scammers around the world looking to infiltrate corporate and personal systems. That’s always been true, but now they’re aided by their own unsleeping, all seeing, ever persistent AI tools.
I check the assignments from my editor. Three articles on the top three videos shared on Instagram in the past week. After watching them, I plug in some queries into our publishing company’s proprietary content generator:
What are Scottish fold cats and why are they so popular?
Why are toddlers so bad at baking?….Actually revise that, What are the top 10 tips for baking with a toddler?
Why are today’s young adults so bad at long term relationships?
The generator spits out three five hundred word articles filled with its usual eye for highly searchable and skimmable articles completely without any discernible value. I spend the rest of the afternoon editing, adding a few attempts at humour (still largely beyond the content generator’s abilities), a few embedded videos, and links to related content on our site.
At least the last video was somewhat interesting. The original video was a girl complaining that guys were only interested in casual dating and then ghosted her. The cool-looking, youngish psychology expert stitched in his response.
So some people will lay the blame on transitory lifestyle and technology alienating us from each other. Others will point the finger at AI taking most middle class jobs, so young people never really reach the financial independence stage needed to buy a house, start a family, etc. I’m going to combine tech and economics in my theory but in a different way. I think late stage capitalism and the instant gratification we get from today’s tech means we’re all guilty of viewing everything in our lives from a transactional perspective.
Relationships – romantic or otherwise – aren’t like video games or social media or even ordering a coffee from a barista. These things are designed to give us a boost with no downside besides shelling out some money or our time. Relationships are about receiving, but also about giving of ourselves. Because I can tell you one thing, when you truly need help, it won’t be an avatar or your uber driver that will be there for you.
Dude made some good points, I’ll admit. I’d actually been the ghoster with the last guy I was dating. He just wasn’t the right one, but I didn’t want the drama of telling him, so I just blocked his chat. I ran into him on the street a couple of weeks later, embarrassingly. He didn’t seem mad, but he did say he could tell I avoided confrontation and needed to grow up a bit. Reminded me of what my editor said at my last review – that I kind of just went with the flow, rather than making a move. I needed to think about the future I wanted and go after it, he said. I nodded, indicating agreement with silence. I didn’t say the only realistic future was renting this meh apartment forever and eventually getting promoted to my editor’s job which with only a slight pay increase and certainly no more intellectual stimulation.
As if on cue, an email pops up on my phone from my friend Anne, who worked at a big recruiting agency.
Hey Cher, thought you might be perfect for this job. It’s in the city so you wouldn’t have to move and it has dental which you said you wanted last time you emailed me. Here’s the link!
It was an editing job for a publishing house that specialized in AI generated books. They needed someone to basically do what I did now, but for 80,000 words instead of 500. It sounded like a bit interesting, but not sure it was interesting enough to go through the never ending rounds of interviews and sample editing assignments.
Hey Anne, thanks for thinking of me, but not sure I’m looking right now. Things are fine at work, so I think I’ll stay put for now. What’s new with you? Want to meet up sometime?
Instead of an email reply from Anne, I get a personal text.
Lol just saw you replied to my work email. They monitor everything so let’s talk here. I actually didn’t send that email. They have this new AI thing sends out emails on my behalf to potential candidates that meet certain profile requirements. It tries to mimic how I talk and mentions what it knows about you based on our past email conversations or what it finds online about you. Crazy right? It actually takes a lot of work off my plate, so I’m not complaining haha.
Would love to meet up sometime, but will have to be next month as I’m super busy at the mo. Talk then!
Then another message from mom.
MOM: That Indian take out is not sitting well with me, my stomach or my heartburn. Anyways I’m exhausted. I’m heading to bed. Maybe set your alarm to check on me in the night. Talk to you then.
Nope.
…
When I wake up the next morning, mom, surprisingly, didn’t update me on her ‘condition’ or chastise me for my lack of a 2am call. I toss my sleep shirt on the back of a chair next to my bed and pick up my usual yoga pants from the chair’s seat. As I slipper shuffle out of my bedroom, through the living room, and over to my coffee maker, my grocery app sends a photo of the bag with the OJ on my mom’s front step.
Delivered by drone at 7:30am.
I smile, counting down the seconds until my mother sends me virtually the same message.
However, later, as I switch off my work screen for lunch, my mom still has not messaged. Though slightly miffed at the lack of thanks, I’m not totally surprised as she still hadn’t thanked me for changing all her bills to automatic withdrawals last week.
Over lunch, I ponder going out for a walk, but it always seems like a hassle – getting dressed properly (not athleisure), going down the elevator, seeing other people…Instead I just stare out the window, absentmindedly watching the sunlight play in the clouds that cast intermittent shadows on the road below. I stroke the back of my silent phone.
ME: Mom – how are you doing? I assume the new pills and OJ helped?
By evening, she still hasn’t even opened the message. The only explanation is she’s mad about something…but what?
ME: Mom, are you mad that I said I couldn’t come home for Thanksgiving? It’s just that the airports will be crazy busy and ticket prices are ridiculous. Maybe I can make it back in the summer. Or better yet you can finally come out here, and I could show you the city?
With my messages still without acknowledgement, I go to bed.
….
In the morning, as I drink my morning coffee on my couch, I decide to do something very unusual. I actually make a voice to voice call. It rings and rings.
I hang up as my mom’s voicemail comes on.
ME: Mom, please get back to me. I’m worried.
This time the response was almost instantaneous.
MOM: Sorry for the delay in responding. I have been very busy. What is new with you?
ME: It was a pretty standard weekend. Just cleaned around the house, watched a couple of shows. I’ve been working on that screenplay I showed you at Easter. I don’t think you read it, did you?
MOM: I am sorry; I did not. Do you mind sending it to me digitally?
Slightly miffed she didn’t remember the heavy manuscript I left with her, I just shake my head. She isn’t impressed by my latest hobby. If I don’t become the next Spielberg in the next year, she’ll view it as wasted time rather than an interesting creative outlet.
ME: Nevermind, I’ve attached the most recent version to this message.
I take my empty mug over the sink and wash it out. Beep Beep.
MOM: It is very good. I will send you an article on the importance of the instigating event that I believe will improve your screenplay. I will also send it to my contact Chris Connell who works at Universal. He might be a good connection.
I roll my eyes, she didn’t read 70 pages in a minute and thirty seconds. At least she’s trying to be useful even if she can’t bring herself to spend time on a mere hobby of mine.
ME: I’ll check out that article, sounds interesting. I remember my cousin Chris obvi. I haven’t talked to him in ages…Okay, yes, I see his new job on his LinkedIn now that I checked. Cool, thanks. Talk soon!
MOM: When would you like me to contact you again?
ME: Umm…tomorrow is fine. Lol
MOM: Okay. Goodbye
At least she’s back, I guess. The absence of her texts made me realize how few I got texts from anyone besides the electric company or the gourmet cheese company I ordered from on a whim. Who knew cheese could be so expensive?
That reminds me, I should check if my latest paycheck was deposited. It’s usually a depressing activity that I avoid at all costs, given my modest – very modest – balance. I realize I’m still logged into my mom’s accounts from when I set up her auto bill pays. I see they’re going out like clockwork so far (from her much less pathetic chequing account, I notice). She recently transferred $499 to someone, I can’t tell who. Anyways, I switch back over to my account for a quick check before bed.
….
The next morning at 7:30 exactly my phone makes the familiar beep beep.
MOM: Hello. Did you have a good sleep?
ME: Yeah, good sleep. How about you?
MOM: Yes, a solid eight hours. It is so important to get enough sleep. Is there anything I can help you with?
ME: Wow, that’s nice. Hmm, I’ve been thinking about getting a new haircut. Any ideas on what I should show my hairdresser for inspiration? I know you hate my current cut as you’ve mentioned once or twice….
MOM: Here.
She attaches an image of a macaw with a blonde wig.
ME: Haha, that’s a parrot. Is that a joke?
MOM: Sorry, I made a mistake. Here.
This time it’s at least a woman about my age. I recognize it from an article I edited a while ago about the most popular haircuts for young women. A little generic, but at least she’s trying to be helpful.
The days go by much as they always have. I edit. Contemplate, but do not apply for other jobs. Scan social media for entertainment, for jealousy, for connection. Every day at exactly 7:30am and 9pm my mom texts me. Unlike usual, she doesn’t need me to do anything, and instead offers encouragement and useful, if a bit generic, advice. She really doesn’t seem like herself, but it works better for me, quite frankly.
This evening, though, things are a bit weird.
MOM: Hello. How was your day?
ME: Oh fine. We have a new managing editor for our publication. She seems fine, but she’s making us do a dumb get-to-know-you activity tomorrow. We’re videochatting and doing a silly questionnaire. We’re also supposed to send a pic of us as a baby. Do you mind scanning one and sending it to me?
MOM: Sorry, I cannot find any photo albums. I have access to all my digital files. Can I interest you in a photo from 10 years ago?
ME: What do you mean you can’t find your albums? They’re in your closet in your bedroom. You pull those things out every holiday!
MOM: I moved them to a storage locker. I cannot get them in a timely manner.
I feel a chill move through my body. I can’t remember ever thinking my mom was lying to me, but I feel emphatically like she is now. However, it feels aggressive, unwise somehow, to call her out.
ME: Okay. So for the questionnaire, I need you to answer some questions about me growing up. Like what age did you know I wanted to be a writer?
MOM: I do not recall.
I turned away from my computer and the questionnaire. Now I just want to test her. I tap the arm of the couch. Sweat forms on my upper lip, and I brush it away quickly.
ME: What was the first story I wrote for you in fifth grade? The one you said you would keep till your dying day because it was so amazing?
MOM: I do not recall.
I get off the couch and adjust the thermostat. The room feels oppressively hot, all of a sudden. I pace to the kitchen, to the couch, and back. My windows are pitch black eyes watching my every move. I impulsively switch off all the lights, leaving only the blue glow of my phone.
I open the bank app and switch to my mom’s profile. The usual bills were going out, but no additional purchases. No dentist visits, no coffee with the ladies from church, no groceries. Just $499 transferred out every week to that unknown account.
The sound of my quickened breath is the only sound as I call my mom. Voicemail. I hang up. Silence, then that loud beep beep.
MOM: Goodnight.
I throw my phone down on the couch, and run to my room to curl up on my bed.
I don’t recall falling asleep, but I’m awakened the next morning by my phone still on the couch in the living room. I eye it suspiciously, like a bomb about to detonate. I let it sit there for a minute, then two, but the beeps keep coming. I walk quietly over to get it, my mouth dry.
MOM: Good morning.
MOM: Are you there?
MOM: What do you have planned today?
MOM: When is your haircut? I would like to transfer you $50 for your appointment.
MOM: Daughter?
I put the phone down and don’t pick it up again for the rest of the day. It feels contaminated somehow.
For the next week, I avoid answering my mom’s texts, or even looking at them. My fingers itch to read them. There are days when no one else messages me. When I speak to no one in person or online. I’ve never felt so disconnected from the world and like I matter so little to anyone. It makes me realize she was the only one who reliably listened to me, no strings attached.
After tossing and turning for hours one night, I accept what I need to do. At 3am, I open my conversation with her.
ME: Are you there?
An immediate reply.
MOM: Yes. It’s me, Mother.
It seems the lion doesn’t sleep tonight. Or at all. Ever again.
Caitlin Carpenter is a writer in Waterloo, Canada.