Growing up, my mum used to always say: “Don’t forget to listen or the ear fairy will come and take your ears away.”
“There are plenty of kids out there” she would go on to explain, “whose ears don’t work too good. So if you’re not listening, the ear fairy will take yours and give ‘em to those little ones instead!”
I would, of course, either laugh or brush it off. It was said whenever I was visibly daydreaming while she was trying to talk to me, or when the teachers at parents’ evening would tell her that I sometimes dozed off during long lessons. “Remember to listen” she would say. “Yes, the ear fairy” I would interrupt, rolling my eyes.
Then, one day when I was 15, it happened. The big event. I had begged my mum to let me go out with some friends to the local fields, and she said no because she couldn’t drop me off and she didn’t want me making that walk alone. I made the admittedly stupid suggestion that I drive myself there in her car - I had been watching videos and her own driving for years, and I thought it looked simple enough. She obviously said no, and wouldn’t hear me out. My friends teased me, and I felt like I was being treated like a kid. So I decided, whatever, I was going to make the drive anyway.
It started off okay, but one wrong turn meant that in a mess of screeching, honking and screaming, I had crashed and destroyed her car. I managed to escape with only a twisted wrist, and no one else was harmed. But the car was gone. We weren’t rich, but I guess I didn’t realise how far from rich we were. My decision cost me and my mum everything. She couldn’t afford another car, had to leave her job and we couldn’t make the rent so lost our house too. It was a few months later, while we were staying at my Aunt’s house, that she walked into the spare room I slept in late one day. The house was empty except us, though since she had barely uttered a word to me since the accident, it felt as if I were the only one there.
I sat up, excited and confused to see her, especially since she was holding a sharp knife, and looked a little blank faced.
“Mum, thank you for coming to see me. Really, I am so sor-“
“You didn’t listen and cost your mum everything. So no, not mum. I’m the Ear Fairy.”
I remember the pain, and the world being plunged into silence. I remember the blank look on her face. But everything else is a blur. Months of learning sign language, my mum by my side, the image of a supportive, worried mother, all a smudge in my memory. She made up a story, something about me not listening to her many warnings and trying to do some gardening using sharp objects by myself. A horrible accident. I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.
It’s been years now. I have been unable to hear for double the time I was able to. I’ve never felt too bad about it, and still managed to live a full life. I did lose all contact with my mum. Moved out of there the second I could, having lived in fear the rest of my years there that she would snap again. I was the perfect son. Though, she never did show even a glimpse of that side of her again.
I’ve only started to see her again recently, once a week. She’s really old now, and suffering. Some days she lights up when she sees me, others there’s no recognition behind those eyes. The blank stare that still scares me. She’s been losing a lot of weight, and most recently she’s stopped talking completely. That hasn’t effected my visits, obviously, but the doctors are worried. She has so little energy, they say, that she can’t even open her mouth to talk. She waves at them feebly, but that’s it. They look sad, worried. All I can think about is all the old people out there who would love to be able to speak.
I visited again today. Quite late. She was asleep when I arrived, but I watched her for a while and she soon woke up. Confusion, then recognition and happiness on her face.
“Son?” She signed slowly, hands shaking.
Her eyes widened when she saw the knife I held in my hand. I placed it down softly on the bed so I could sign properly.
“No” I signed “The Tongue Fairy.”