My mother's boyfriend has a well-worn face. His wrinkles are accentuated by the occasional smile. It's as if his skin had found comfort in it's wizened state, and lines were drawn by the passing of time that give way to wisdom. His eyes are sincere. His concentration on small things always amazes me. How can a man of this age wonder at the sight of a butterfly? How can he watch in awe as the sun sets upon another day? He is old and wise, though not wise enough to resist the allure of my mother.
It was a cold day when we walked through the station looking for that lost suitcase. My mother was always vain. Within the blue designer built case was hidden an array of her treasure. These treasures were temporary and of little substance to anyone but her. Within the bottles and potions which promised her youthful skin and firm breasts lay her lifeline. At a time in her life when she was perpetually reminded by my passing birthday that she was no longer young, my mother took to her regime of trying to fix what nature could do little about.
Her face was shrouded in a kind of misery as she pushed her way through queues of people at the inquiry desk. She held my hand, although did not notice the people who pushed and shoved me, as if I was too small to have any significance. That suitcase was her way out of being mundane, and without it, she was lost.
Glancing across the shelves of lost luggage bags, there it sat and her face lit up like she had won the lottery. The man behind the desk was helpful and friendly and didn't know that my mother hid behind the mask of product promises as he handed the bag to her with a smile, well practiced on people who were the owners of reclaimed luggage.
We left the station and I remember the thud as that suitcase hit the stone stairs and made its way down to the bottom in an undignified thud. There on the pavement below the bottles and lotions, cotton buds and mirrors lay in disarray. My mother chased down the stairs as fast as she could, as if that chance at youth had escaped her a second time, her heels bending under her weight.
The man spoke gently. Leaning down to help her, we had no idea that he would become a part of our lives. A passing stranger, he simply wanted to help. My mother was grateful and thanked him for his troubles. I could see a slight look of amusement as he examined the labels of the bottles and winked at me, as if knowing some great secret that no-one was supposed to know. In that instance, we created a friendship which was to last.
My mother's attitude towards self got worse after that day. Not only did she chase her youthful appearance, but now it seemed almost imperative to impress. George, as his name turned out to be, was a great addition to our outings and began to make me feel special. All of the attention my mother had poured out on her appearance had meant years of feeling very alone for me, and suddenly here was someone who cared.
The day they married, I was surprised that he made it to the altar. I wouldn't have blamed him had he changed his mind. Mother insisted I wore a silly frock that made me look younger than my fourteen years, simply because she didn't want to look old. I wore it to please her. I wore it because for one small moment I wanted to feel like a fairy princess, even if people expected more of a child of my age. I was allowed that luxury. I was her child.
George looked into her eyes and saw more than I did. Behind the mask of products was a woman I used to know. This lady knew laughter and love, though didn't show it much any more. She hid behind weight loss programs and bottles until she no longer resembled the mother who bore me as a baby, though George managed to see through the disguise.
My mother's boyfriend was wise. He knew all of the moves. He knew how to unwrap that gift and discard the wrapping. At fourteen, I had not yet learned to look beyond the ribbons and bows, though in his wisdom, he was teaching me how. I no longer looked at my mother in the same light. I no longer envied those girls who were prettier or richer than me, because it's the soul inside which matters and he taught me that. My mother's boyfriend knew that within that person he met and fell in love with, there was my mom.
It's been twelve years now. I am older and a little wiser, though remember that day that I realized that people can't be measured by what they look like. George taught me that. Little Rebecca who no-one liked has become my best friend, and my mother's mask doesn't work quite so effectively these days. He buys her lotions and potions because he knows they matter to her, though the person he loves doesn't need them. Mom says that I should make more effort, and perhaps I should. Her boyfriend taught me that there is more to life than what appears on the surface though never quite got that message over to her.
I stop to smell the roses because he taught me how to. We enjoy the way age plays games with middle aged spread and varicose veins. We see the laughter lines and appreciate them as signs of experience. Even the first gray hair is to be rejoiced. George said so.
In his wisdom, we learned to laugh and appreciate every moment that passes and to celebrate our victories as change overcomes us. Pregnant with what will be his grandchild, my mother's boyfriend smiles and comforts me as I lean over the toilet seat with morning sickness, and has taught me that however bad things are in life, something of value follows and I know it usually does.