Scooter's Mom Isn't Herself

She looked like his mom. That's the problem.

Saturday mornings always started the same. Cartoons on the wood-paneled Zenith, the volume low so Mom could sleep in. Scotty sat cross-legged on the shag carpet in his motorcycle pajamas. Evel Knievel frozen mid-jump across his chest. The knees worn thin from crawling around. He slurped milk from his cereal bowl while a toy robot marched stiffly across the screen in a commercial. The announcer promised the batteries would last all summer. Scotty didn’t believe him.

By early afternoon, the cartoons had given way to reruns no one really watched. Sunlight had shifted on the carpet, and the house felt heavier somehow, as if the air itself had gone still.

He reached into the Hydrox bag on the table, twisted one apart, and licked the thin strip of cream. He wished it were an Oreo. Real Oreos were for birthdays, or when Dad was home. Mom always bought Hydrox. Said they tasted the same.

“Don’t eat too many, Scooter. Lunch is soon.”

She said it from the stove without turning her head. The nickname usually made him squirm. Embarrassed, but glad, too. This time it landed differently. Like the voice had been taped and played back.

Two grilled cheese sandwiches sizzled in the skillet, crusts browning as evenly as if measured with a ruler. Beside them, the tomato soup in the saucepan was too smooth, without a single lump, red as a stop sign.

The avocado-green fridge hummed in the corner. Mom stood over the stove, stirring in perfect circles, steady as a metronome. No humming. She used to sing along with Fleetwood Mac on the AM radio while she cooked. Lately, nothing. Just silence, and the scrape of the spoon.

---

The next afternoon he rode his banana-seat bike in slow loops around the cul-de-sac. The Petersons’ German shepherd barked behind its chain-link fence. An older kid bounced a red kickball, his KISS shirt faded from too many washings. Normal sights, normal sounds.

Then Mom stepped onto the porch.

“Dinner, Scooter!”

Her voice cut across the street sharp and flat. Not playful. Not warm. It sounded like the Zenith when you turned it too loud.

By the time the sun dropped behind the roofs, the house smelled of baked ketchup and beef. The oven ticked as it cooled. Mom’s meatloaf sat on the counter, edges squared too neatly, the glaze smooth and shiny. It caught the kitchen light like it had been waxed.

At the table he tested her. “What kind of cake did I have last birthday?”

“Chocolate with sprinkles,” she said smoothly.

Wrong.

It had been yellow cake. No sprinkles. He felt his mouth go dry. He swallowed and it didn’t help.

Later, under his Star Wars sheets, Scotty listened to the house settle. Pipes ticking. A floorboard popping somewhere down the hall.

Beneath it all, a faint whirr. Steady. Patient. Like the fan inside Dad’s 8-track player.

It was coming from the kitchen.

---

He waited until the red numbers on his flip-clock rolled past midnight. Then he slid from bed, Evel Knievel grinning from his chest as he padded barefoot into the hallway.

The kitchen light glared too bright. Mom stood by the sink, perfectly still. Hands resting on the counter. Head slightly bowed, like someone who’d fallen asleep standing up.

“Mom?” he whispered.

No answer.

Then she moved. Slowly, like she was remembering how.

Her hand rose to her cheek.

With a sound like Velcro peeling, the smooth skin came away in one piece.

Scotty’s knees locked.

Underneath were red diodes blinking in a lazy pattern. Tiny pistons hissed. Silver teeth ground softly, like something chewing grit. Half her mouth was still his mother’s. The other half was chrome and wire, something he’d seen on TV late at night. Westworld. The Bionic Woman. Stuff he wasn’t supposed to watch.

Only this wasn’t TV.

This was his kitchen.

Her head turned. The chrome caught the light.

“Scooter,” she said gently, voice clean as a cereal commercial. “You’re not supposed to be awake.”

His lungs forgot what to do. A small squeak came out of him and he hated it.

She crouched. Her arms opened. The dangling faceplate swung from her hand, back and forth, back and forth.

“Come here, Scooter,” she said. “Let me fix it.”

The linoleum tilted. Evel Knievel on his chest blazed white in the glare as Scotty bolted, bare feet slapping down the hall. He dove under his covers and pressed his face into the pillow until his breath came hot and damp and wrong.

He stayed like that until the house sank back into silence.

---

Morning smelled of pancakes.

He padded into the kitchen rubbing his eyes like he could scrub the night off. Mom stood at the stove in her apron, spatula in hand, humming softly. Just a little tune, like she was keeping herself company.

The sound nearly made him cry.

“Morning, Scooter.” She smiled and ruffled his hair. Her fingers felt normal. Warm. “Hungry?”

Scotty slid into his chair and stared at the neat stack of pancakes. Golden. Perfect.

She looked like his mom. Sounded like her.

But when she turned, just for a flicker, he saw it again. Not in her face this time. In the chrome reflection on the side of the toaster. A sliver at her cheek. A clean seam that didn’t belong on a person.

Then she shifted and it was gone.

Scotty gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went pale. Evel Knievel’s fearless leap froze across his sleeve.

Braver than he could ever be.

---

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