I hold it in my arms like a baby - a strange collection of what is left of my mother: a small leather notebook, a smeared headband, a loose pile of shoots and soil I pulled from the growth. Most of her I leave in the apartment and take only what I can with me.
I do my best to protect what I’m carrying, repeating a loop of comforting statements - the roots, the children, the sprouts of Many Mothers.
Earlier that morning the holo wall woke me up, letting the caller through to my personal line.
“Miss Ek? Sally Ek? As Alba Ek’s emergency contact we kindly inform you: Alba Ek has not reported in since January the 21th 2064. Referring to the subsection #367p2 under the labor law #2021667, her responsibilities in the fulfillment center will be terminated after 14 days of unannounced absence.”
Mother. The last time we talked must have been more than six months ago. She called me, speaking about the smog forecast and people moving in and out of her building. I asked if she had made any friends. She said she got a plant. I laughed. She laughed. Then she hung up. I didn’t know she had filed me as her emergency contact.
I try to call her. I try again. I stare at the holo wall, waiting for an answer to appear.
Alba, my mother, has a humble, steady job - maintaining a bot farm and helping the fulfillment center run smoothly. Seems the bots are planning to help her out now. A handful of explanations pass through my mind - perhaps she has decided to change jobs, maybe she’s at home. What if she’s hurt?
These questions open up a past thought. I have no idea how she spends her time outside of work. We have an unspoken agreement - no questions asked, no explanations given. She never invited me to her newest apartment, so I never went. I need to visit her now.
The key to her apartment is analogue and smells like iron, reminding me of blood. As long as I can remember, my mother has shivered away from face locks. Instead she insists living with ancient security systems, quiet things that don’t have a memory of their own. Such a stubborn woman. It has forced her to change apartments every year, eventually landing her to the outskirts of the city.
The building is grey, made out of 20th century concrete. Smog swallows most of it, just a few small windows in the wall let out light reaching the foot of the house. I fumble with the lock and let myself in the stairwell.
An old man, bald and stooped, pokes his head out behind a door.
- “No mask?”
- “I’m… Do you know Alba Ek?”
- He stares at my bare face in silence.
- “She’s my mother.”
The man squints his eyes and pulls back, closing the door behind him. I hear whispers, another voice joining in, murmuring short sentences. He must be one of those xennials clinging to the past, I think to myself. The Great Pandemic was stopped a decade ago.
The old man appears again, pointing up. I can feel his eyes following me running up the stairs. I run until I find it, the letters “Ek” embossed on a worn door.
“Mom?”
I unlock the door, step in and expect a sign, some kind of an answer, a hello. Instead the humidity wraps around me like a heavy blanket, its hot breath muffling my face. The apartment is dim and tropical - moss green darkness, calm with damp air and full of shadows.
Plants crawl everywhere, around everything. The growth hides the floor, the hallway table and the walls under a mass of plants. Hanging from the hallway ceiling the plants have formed into a net.
Under the growth the hallway changes into a room. The roots, the buds and the slithering stems have wrapped themselves around the only light source of the apartment. The air is thick with anticipation, every leaf in the shadows reaching for the door.
I try to remember the last thing I had said to her. Probably a promise to call her back. The air tastes strange, hairy, lingering on my tongue as a moldy blend.
“Mom?”
There is a blink in the thick of it all. Leaning against the wall I make my way deeper to the room, pushing towards the flicker. I rip the plants apart, pull them until they make a tearing sound. Her phone falls down and hits the floor with a muted thump. 27 unanswered calls. All are from me.
Next to the phone half buried in the soil lies a notebook. I dig it up and feel its leather cover. A small five-finger leaf has been burnt on one of its corners.
The pages of the journal are soaking wet, glued against each other in soft clumps. Hoping for a message, I try to separate the pages from each other. The notes have spread into smears of ink. I can make out a few smudged words - the roots - the children - Many Mothers, I am your sprout.
In the corners of the room, I see plants entwined, calm graspings in the dim light. The shadows uncover oddly familiar outlines, drawing out humane shapes.
“Mom?”
I reach out, touching a cluster of leaves on the wall. It reminds me of a hand. I feel its thick leaves, delicate textures. Sliding my fingers on its veins I follow them deeper into the growth. Behind the leaves the roots form a dense lattice, small shoots pushing from between the roots.
The sprouts stand as a single front, rising and falling like a breast. I let my palm brush it. The shoots vibrate in response. Their movement is dream-like, so small I barely feel it, acting like skin. I invade forward, making my way root by root.
The harder I try, the harder the plants push back. My skin, for all its softness, is too weak to fight back. I look for a kitchen bot, a knife, scissors, anything sharp, but the only thing I find is her hairband squished to the soil. The plants swarm, leaning towards me. I squeeze the hairband tighter.
Looking at the stems embracing each other I can’t recall the last time my mother had hugged me. I step closer and trace their lines, looking to find the secrets the growth has hidden. The plants know things I am not able to see. I can feel it. Where is my mother?
Digging from the wall of plants, I collect myself as much as I can. I tear, I rip, I break. I snap, I pull, I snag. I push my arms deep in the growth. Grabbing soil, I lay my collection in a pile. The budding sprouts crawl on my arms, finding their place on the veins of my wrists.
I hold it in my arms like a baby - a strange collection of what is left of my mother: a small leather notebook, a smeared headband, a loose pile of shoots and soil I pulled from the growth. Most of her I leave in the apartment and take only what I can with me.
I do my best to protect what I’m carrying, repeating a loop of comforting statements - the roots, the children, the sprouts of Many Mothers.