Chapter 8: EMPTY KINGDOM

Delicate porcelain smashed on the ground, shattering into tiny pieces.

Malinda's hands shook, fisted angrily at her side, and her nails dug almost painfully into her skin. Her chest heaved with heavy breathing, and her face was a horrific mix of grief, resentment, and betrayal.

"How can you say that!?"

Across from her in one of the large armchairs was Sebastian Whitter. He sat, leg crossed at the knee, and stared at his wife. Moments earlier, in a sudden outburst of anger, she had risen from her seat and hurled a teacup at him. It now lay broken, irreparable at his feet.

"What else were you hoping for?" His voice was smooth and low. It rumbled so pleasantly that hearing it was like being entranced, encasing its listeners as if it were something tangible.

Malinda held her face in her hands. She had married too young and too foolish. Barely out of college, her romantic fantasies of marrying the stoic brooding man of the world whose name was on all her friends' lips quickly unraveled when she realized her emotionally distant husband cared little for her. Sebastian had remained aloof even after marriage. Even after their son was born, he was almost never home, as if unable to even pretend to be interested in either her or their child.

Desperate to soothe her loneliness and damaged pride, Malinda had thrown herself into every social scene; attending parties, shopping for the newest fashions and beautiful things, and as of late, engaging in very public scandalous affairs. In many ways, she hoped to gain her husband's attention. Shockingly, he had no intention of preventing her amorous affairs, he said, but for propriety's sake he advised her to make them less public. Malinda listened to his dismissive words, her teacup trembling in her hands, until she could holdback no longer. Rejected by him once again, she let fly the cup. He didn't care.

She brushed back tears. "Hoping for? For you to fight for me." She threw up her hands in defeat. "Be angry. Scream. Anything to show I matter." Her lower lip trembled and her gaze fell. "I deserve to matter," she insisted.

Sebastian closed his eyes in exasperation, his face pulled into a grimace. "Darling wife, you're a selfishly entitled, immature, attention-seeking coquette. The human equivalent of an ornate book without pages – lacking in substance and use."

Her face crumpled at the words, and her breath hitched as though she'd been struck.

The clink of his porcelain teacup returning to its saucer felt louder than usual. The library stilled as his low voice vibrated like a heavy chant. His eyes softened.

"But you can hardly be blamed for it. You were never meant to be more than a vessel to hold superficial accolades." The resignation of his words were chilling.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. To him she was useless. She hesitated, unable to shout back that he was wrong. Instead, she turned on her heel and fled. The library doors were cracked slightly and upon throwing them open a small child tumbled backwards.

Thrown back with the doors, Mac landed on his bottom, sliding several centimeter on the cold slick tiles by the sheer force of her exit. Mac braced the fall with his hands. They pulsed with pain.

His father was so rarely home, there was an almost mythical lore about him. At only four years old, Mac had been unable to curb his curiosity, and snuck a peek, cracking the door slightly. Though he was too young to understand why, what he had witnessed inside frightened him.

With his mother's sudden retreat, there had been no time to escape. He stared at his mother's looming figure standing over him. He waited, afraid she would scold him for spying and dirtying his clothes. Malinda knelt in front of him.

His eyes widened at the sight of her tear stricken face. She embraced him, resting her head on his shoulder. He would always remember the weight of her. Instead of reassuring him to not be scared, or scolding him for his clothes, she sobbed.

"Why me?" She asked. Her shoulders shook with the force of her tears.

He reached out, his hand hesitating. Then he pat her head, combing her hair back soothingly – taking on the role of comforter. He didn't understand why she was sad but it made him sad too. He tried soothing her but his words couldn't reach.

Lost in grief, she reacted like her son wasn't there, as if something had separated them. Mac leaned into her, somehow sensing that she was pulling away and tried to bring them closer. She gasped and sobbed in his arms.

"Mommy don't cry." He pressed his lips together. His mouth turned down at the sides as if trying to keep himself from crying too.

He didn't know how to protect her.

Several months passed and Mac's mother increasingly confined herself inside her room. Everyday her depression deepened. Her appearance grew to resemble a ghost dressed in a pale silk nightgown, staring distantly into corners of the room. His father had been away for the last eight months, so it was just the house staff and Mac who were left to care for her.

Carefully rounding the staircase on the second floor, Mac carried the tea tray towards her room. The dishes rattled and the teapot weighed him down but soon he had made it all the way to her door.

Like the day before, his mother sat on her bed; her face expressionless, as if hardly awake. Around her face her hair hung limp, and her skin seemed to fade into the pale fabric of her nightgown. She moved slowly, like someone caught in a dream they couldn't wake from. The smell of old tea and stale perfume clung to the air.

Before entering the room, Mac put on a bright smile; perhaps believing that through sheer will power he could lighten her mood if he tried. He strode towards the nightstand between her bed and the window.

"Hi, mother. Isn't it a nice day?" He told her about school and the frog he had found in the garden. Mac placed the tea tray on the nightstand. Everyday she ate less and less.

"Father is coming back tonight," he hoped this news would make her happy. "I hope he stays for a – "

"Mac," Malinda's voice was calm and dreamlike, "have you seen my silk glove? The one with the pink pearl clasp?" Her haunting eyes had heavy bags under them.

Mac looked away, shaking his head. "No, mother."

"Shame. It was my favorite pair." Malinda's voice hadn't change. It was as if the loss of the glove hadn't really mattered.

Across from his mother stood a dressing table. On top of it, a lone white glove rested next to a hair brush. Bottles of perfume and vials of makeup lined the table in front of the mirror.

Mac climbed onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her as she leaned back into his small frame. He stroked her hair until her breathing slowed, her body limp and almost weightless in his arms. She felt too light—like she was slowly disappearing. He touch the softness of her nightgown, ran his fingers along the silkiness of its ribbons, and noted the firmness of the buttons.

He glanced at the tray and hoped she would like the snacks he had brought her today.

That evening, Mac stood before his father. The study was Sebastian's favorite place. It kept his books and protected his trophies; things he'd acquired over the course of his life: industry awards, relics from sites like Petra, Staffordshire, and Sanxingdui, paintings and sculptures, and rare animal specimens. All were protected by glass cases and displayed alongside gilded plaques denoting their unique and priceless pedigree.

To prevent these treasures from damaging rays, the floor to ceiling window was covered by heavy drapes. For a similar reason, the study was kept quite cold. In some ways it resembled a lair, dark and cold, and with its very own dragon lurking inside.

Mac did not like this room. His parents had forbidden him to play in there, but he wouldn't have entered even if they hadn't. The high ceilings gave one the sense that they had stepped into a place of reverence: like a temple or cathedral. Mac as a boy nearing six had enough awareness to note that the room which held his father's most treasured possessions had no picture of him or his mother.

Inside the study, Mac stood facing his father who sat in a chair with a large back that to Mac resembled a throne. Feeling as though he had come before the king for judgment of his crimes, Mac trembled. He clutched his fists and hid them behind his back.

"How have your studies been?" Sebastian asked.

Mac jumped at the sound of his father's voice. It always startled him. Mac's scores were the highest for his grade in almost every subject. He was well like by the other students, and he had exemplary attendance.

Mac brightened when he quoted his math tutor. "As one would have expected from Sebastian Whitter's son," Mac beamed relaying his tutor's praise.

Sebastian shifted in his chair and crossed the other leg. "Don't allow praise to make you complacent."

Mac didn't understand what the word complacent meant but it seemed his had upset his father. The smile dropped from his face, and he gave a tense little nod.

"To maintain what's important to you in life, you must never allow yourself to become complacent. When you do, your strength is weakened. And there will always be someone waiting nearby trying to take your crown."

Mac nodded again, but didn't understand what his father was saying. After asking a few more questions and receiving the required information, his father dismissed him.

Mac's shoulders dropped. He headed towards the study doors but paused before exiting. Peering over his shoulder, he noticed his father's head was bent in a book on his lap. The lit fireplace behind him illuminated his dark silhouette.

"I love you, Father." Mac waited. But there was no reply.

Dejected, he left.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, Mac padded quickly down to the room beside his mother's which, since her decline, he had made his own. He dressed for bed and turned off the lights. Before climbing into the covers, he bent down under the bed and fumbled in the dark corners with his hand. Touching something cold and metallic, he pulled it out, revealing a small tin box.

Holding the box on his lap, he ran his hand over the lid. The box depicted a scene from English folk literature with two children sharing a cookie. But the image was not why Mac had kept it.

He opened it, revealing an odd collection: buttons, a ribbon, several coins, a leaf, an earring, cufflinks, handkerchief, and the missing white silk glove with a pink pearl clasp. Mac removed the glove, closed the box, and pushed it far back into the corner under his bed where he would be sure no one would find it. Then he hopped into bed and slid under the covers.

As he stared at the ceiling, he traced his fingers over the glove feeling its comforting softness. He rubbed it tenderly against his cheek, as if envisioning the hand which had once done so. He thought of his mother that morning and how she had appeared withdrawn, her personality slowly disappearing.

He squeezed the glove. He would keep her safe. Even if it was only in pieces. His eyes grew heavy, and even after drifting to sleep, he did not relax his hold on the glove as if in dreams he hoped it would somehow squeeze back.

By winter, everything had changed. Downstairs the people were somber and grim, and spoke in hushed voices. They dressed in black and looked at him with pity. Poor little motherless child.

Mac didn't want them there. He hid in his mother's closet, wrapped in the comfort of her smell and the sense that she wasn't really gone. Hot angry tears rolled down his eyes as he clutched his legs to his chest, tucking his chin into his knees. Little sobs escaped, though he tried to hold them in.

Complex emotions welled inside him. He choked on a sob, biting his lip to hold back. His chest felt tight and his eyes blurred with grief-stricken tears.

The doors of the closet suddenly opened, light casting the small silhouette in a heavenly glow. A child with a cherub's face and big brown eyes looked down at him sitting curled up on the floor in the closet. Then, two small hands reached out and hugged him.

"It's okay, Macky," Shepard said, the childhood nickname sounding sweet in the child's mouth.

Mac sobbed louder, his grief finding the much needed comfort in the arms of his childhood friend.

The next morning, Mac threw open the doors to his mother's closet. All her belongings were gone. He stared, struck dumb by the shock: the gowns where on now barren hangers once hung, the petite colorful shoes in formation on now empty shelves once stood, the silks, linens, and nightgowns where in drawers were once neatly folded, all vanished over night. Already her presence was fading.

Mac crumbled to the floor. In that moment, he felt a rage towards his father. Now all that was left of his mother were the stolen belongs hidden in the small tin box under his bed.