The Carbon Copy

by Christopher R. Martin

Chapter 13 – You are…

I type the final paragraph or two on my essay and send the document off to one of my university professors via his email address. The message delivered, I close the lid of my laptop and recline along my chair. Escaping out of my lungs is a hearty sigh of fulfillment. Submitting the last of my assignments for university calls for a celebration. My definition of a celebration is mild compared to other people. It's nothing more but an ice cold helping of Calvados. Technically, this is my third glass, but honestly, who's counting besides me? And it's not like I'm going overboard with my sips or anything like that.

The dark green beverage washes over my tongue, heavenly bliss on my taste buds. The rich apple flavor never gets old. It never will. I rest my head on my paw and relish the drink, swirling it to stir out the bubbles.

After that glass has been fully downed, only now do I realize that my bottle is also empty. I dispose of it in the kitchen, rinse my glass and lie down on the sofa. On my way to the living room, though, she stops me dead on my tracks.

"I see that you're very busy with your studies," she appears where I meant to go, sitting on one end of the sofa with her legs crossed.

"That's none of your concern," I retort without the slightest bit of mercy. "By the way, I thought you were taking a nap."

"I changed my mind."

"Well, what do you want, then? Can't you go bother someone else for a change?" I lie down on the sofa as I intended to, tucking my legs in so that I don't have to touch her.

"There's no one else here I can bother besides you, Nicole. I want to talk to you about something."

She wants to talk? My mother? Of all people? That's a laugh. That's about as funny as Lucy Simian and Nigel Brown being an item.

Mom asks me of this while coughing profusely and constantly clearing her throat. This goes on for ten seconds.

"Are you alright?" I ask her in a scrutinizing fashion, narrowing one eye at her.

"I am. Or at least, I should be," rasps Mom, catching her breath.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, you see—"

The door swings open for the kids, who come in dropping their bags upon entry. Gumball is the last one in, tossing his backpack haphazardly and walking up the stairs without acknowledging either me or his grandmother.

Come to think of it, Darwin and Anais are also looking rather glum, if not outright upset.

"Hey, so how was school, you guys?" I greet them with some cheer to lighten their moods.

"Okay, maybe?" shrugs Darwin, half-awake after going through another school day.

"I wish I could say the same thing about Gumball," adds Anais, who's a little bitterer than her brother.

"What happened now?"

Though I ask, my suspicions tell me what it could be.

Today's lesson starts off the same way as every other lesson before. Gumball and I go through the same warmups that we've done to get our blood circulating and muscles and joints loose. For our leg raising exercise, I stop my usual counting to have a word with my son.

"So what's this about you beating up Jamie again and breaking Miss Simian's arm at school today?" I ask, lifting my leg to the level of my head several times.

"I didn't break Miss Simian's arm, Mom," replies Gumball, his leg raises fast and fluid.

"But you did hurt her, right?"

Gumball doesn't answer that. As we switch from one leg to the next, he pauses to let out a sigh.

"And what about Jamie?" I repeat the routine with my left leg, my muscles warming up and joints unlocking.

"I had to do what I did. She had Penny pinned against the wall. What else should I have done?"

Here, any other parent would have made a list of alternatives. Telling a teacher or the principal, talking some sense into the bully, just to name two. In addition to the usual berating of their child. Assuming that's the correct course of action that a parent should take.

I would berate Gumball, too. I would tell him that it was wrong of him to do what he did and call him out for his behavior. I would remind him of those alternatives that he could have taken. But I don't do any of that. If anything, I just process his account of what took place at his school.

Rather than shouting at him at the top of my lungs, I compare his experiences today with those of my own. This comparison draws a different reaction out of me. When I think about it, I have to empathize with my son. If I were him, I would have done what he did. I would have stood my ground against whoever is giving me a hard time and even punch or kick them if I feel it's necessary.

But no. He can be better than that. Better than me. He's still young, and it's not too late yet.

One of the most important principles in Yoshida-Ryu karate, and any other form of karate for that matter, is not to initiate conflict, but to end it. A karateka is supposed to acquire these skills so they may better themselves as a person. To protect, not to destroy. It's a teaching that is not easily registered in the back of one's mind. Too often people have entered a Yoshida-Ryu dojo with the express purpose of visiting harm upon others, specifically those who have wronged them in the past. Fostering their skills also means fostering that hatred. That anger. I have heard many accounts of this happening and have seen it for myself with my own two eyes.

After finishing our last warmup, we sit on the floor, and I relay to my son these reflections. He heeds every last word attentively, but not without speaking his mind.

"Did you find it difficult when you were a kid?" asks Gumball.

"I can't say that it wasn't hard, because it was. I'll admit, even now, I do forget from time to time."

"'From time to time'?" my son retorts, eyebrow quirked.

I chuckle at him. He's got me there. "Okay, a lot of the time. But what I'm trying to say still stands. Gumball, sweetie, you and Penny have my support all the way. I will always be happy knowing that you two have something very special." I don't bring up my expectation of being a grandmother, but I'm sure that Gumball is already aware of it. "And you standing up for each other makes me all the happier. That is very admirable of you. So do your best to show that admirable side of you as much as you can, even when you find that it gets too hard for you. Understand?"

"I do, Mom," nods my son. He and I stand and bow. Then he hugs me again, forgetting that he and I are technically student and teacher, not mother and son, and that this is technically a dojo, not a tool shed. "Just one quick thing before we get started."

"What is it, gakusei?"

The words that follow take me aback. The foundation that I am built on withers. Not completely broken, but it's getting there.

"You're not a failure, Mom."

Why is he doing this? What has gotten over him?

I don't know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what he meant. Maybe if he means what I think he does. Whatever these may be, there's comfort to be found in his words. I fight to hold off the impulse to cry. That impulse, however, is the strongest that it's been.

I clear my throat loudly to get him to let go, and he does. He bows and moves into position. He sees my dwindling will, so I steel myself and stand in my neutral datchi.

"Let's kick things off like we always do. Right hand out for the stomach-level straight punch."

"Hai!" acknowledges Gumball, thrusting his arm out at my command, punching at my count.

Three sets of seven to nine repetitions, the first set slow, the second medium-paced, and the third fast. Focusing on every aspect, leaving aside none, and improving on them. Form, posture and execution. That is the course of these lessons. For punches, blocks and kicks, we adhere to this routine. We do not veer from it. When a new move is introduced, we slow down so my son can learn it in full. The technique behind the move, the purpose and its application.

The moves that are new to this lesson involve an open-paw form. Defensive maneuvers that cover the upper parts of the body, namely the head. Outside of this makeshift dojo, these moves are not strictly limited to having your hand or your paw open always. I personally found the open-paw aspect to be a purely cosmetic fuddy-duddy.

That is the beauty of a martial art such as karate. The more proficient you get at it, the more it becomes second nature. Karateka who practice any style of karate refer to this as the 'Four Stages of Competency'.

It starts with Unconscious Incompetence, which is when you know absolutely nothing. No idea about what you're doing and why you're doing it, nor any prior knowledge of any kind.

After that is Unconscious Competence, where you know what you're supposed to do and why, but have not yet nailed it down to perfection.

Conscious Competence follows, where you know what to do, why you'd do it, and are able to do it correctly. It's not perfection, per se, because you are still paying attention to and correcting aspects of the skill, whether it's the form or the execution. Anyone at this stage can only perform the act at their utmost when they are given instruction. Perfection is a more obtuse word…

…for what we karateka call Unconscious Competence. This is what any aspiring martial artist aims for. This is what anyone aims for, period. Being able to perform anything on command, on an initiative, as opposed to the word of a superior, be it a teacher or a manager.

A black belt—sensei and shihan alike—are always Unconscious Competent. At least, they are expected to be. An Unconscious Competent karateka, or martial artist, understands so much, from the strengths and barriers of their body to their own body's capacity so far to their learnings to when and how to put them to effect. Upon arriving at the Unconscious Competence stage, you discover how seamlessly you can transition from one move to the next. After throwing a punch or a kick, or blocking a punch or kick, you are left in such a position where you can do as you please afterward.

A little over two weeks since starting, and Gumball is closer to that coveted fourth and final stage of competence than any other karateka I knew when I was his age, including myself. Since hearing about his outbursts of violence at school, I have been theorizing that this is his untapped potential manifesting in its rawest form. Inner strength at such a pure state is dangerous when left alone to do as it pleases, as the students and teacher at my son's school can testify amidst their horrified looks and perhaps their dislocated bones. As every karateka who attended the kumite recently can also testify.

One would think with how freely he follows his heart, he'd take after his father more than me. In a way, I'm rather envious of him because of it. He doesn't need to be shown the way, to be taught this truth older than time itself. It's embedded in him since he was a baby. Since he was in my womb. Whereas I may have wanted to heed what my own heart told me, but I didn't have the courage to make it so. That was the one thing I was afraid of; at the end of the day, I reminded myself that I was still my parents' child, and that I needed them. It took Richard's encouragement and the last years of puberty for me to fully open my eyes.

On the other hand, it's amazing how much closer he and I are than I'd cared to notice. How he takes after me in more ways than one. In more than just how we look. I became as strong as I am now—as people like to claim I am, anyway—because I had no other choice. Because I had to. To appease my mother, to become the best at everything I did. To fight for the sake of a friend or family. To mold myself into the ideal person, even if it meant losing myself from time to time. The very reason that Gumball is pursuing this goal. Like watching a reflection of mine. Of my eleven year-old self.

A peculiar thought dawns in the back of my mind. I don't really like to dwell on it, but now that I am, there's no escaping it. It may just as well be the case. Only one way to find out…

"Sweetie, what did you mean by 'I'm not a failure'?" I ask my son during our break.

"No real reason. Just saying you're not a failure, and you shouldn't let what anyone else says get to you," shrugs Gumball, helping himself to another swig of his water.

He's lying.

"Come now, Gumball. What did you really mean?"

There's silence in the shed, compounded by the scent of the incense burning behind me. Overcome by difficulty, Gumball faces the floor. He doesn't expect me questioning him, and now that I am, he's backed himself into a corner. He isn't afraid, though. In fact, I don't know what he's emoting.

After holding off for a second or so, he swallows and affects a phantom of a smile. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm grateful for you, Mom. You and Dad. And that I love you both."

"I, um… I love you too, sweetie. Your father and I will always love you, but I'm still confused."

Gumball chuckles lightly, shakes his head and…sniffles? Why is he…

"You don't have to be. It's just"—my son sighs—"I'm so glad to have you as my mother, and that I shouldn't have acted the way I did. Screaming at you, being stubborn, questioning your authority and just stepping out of line too many times. You deserve better than that." He closes his eyes and meditates.

A gentle smile spreads across my lips as I caress his head. Tenderly I stroke his fur with the back of my paw, lightening whatever burden may be on his shoulders.

"Oh, honey, it's okay," I comfort him, and he looks at me. "I know I get mad at you for disobeying me and a bunch of other reasons I can't think of right now"—I chuckle to myself to shed as much light as I can—"but guess what? You're still young. You may have made more than your fair share of mistakes, and I can guarantee you that you'll make so many more in the future, but that's okay. That's to be expected. That's the beauty of growing up. In fact, I encourage you, your brother and your sister to keep on making these mistakes. Leave no stone unturned. You'll be amazed by what you discover along the way." I impart all this to him as I fondle his face and fur. Eventually I stop fondling and hold him by his cheeks. "And don't you ever think that you're a no-good waste of space or that I should have had a better child. I know you told me you want to be a better person, and that's okay, but always remember this: no one will ever be better children in my book than you three because there's only one you. Only one Anais, only one Darwin and only one Gumball." I rest my forehead on his, closing my eyes to revel in the sound of our beating hearts. "From now until forever, you are always my son. That will never change. Okay?"

I look down to find that a tear has sneaked out from Gumball's right eye. I hear his sniffling getting louder and more pronounced. "Okay."

I rustle my son's head, we both stand up, and the lesson continues…

"One for you, one for you, one for you, and last but not least, one for my one and only queen."

After going around the dinner table handing out slices of pizza for everyone, Richard ends with me and playfully does a curtsy, to the amusement of the kids and myself.

Though I don't see what the proper behavior is for. Sure, it's Fervidus Pizza, which I admit is better than other pizza places that process their food instead of baking them in a stone oven, but…eh. It's still pizza. Not really a cause for being classy. At least he's adorable for trying, especially with the way one of his ears twitches.

"Why, thank you," I giggle. "Alright, everyone. Let's dig in." We all take our slices and go on to take the first bite, when…

"Wait, wait, wait, where's Nana Senny?" asks Richard.

Just like that, my mood plummets to the ground, as does my pizza. I rub my temples to filter that nickname that my husband refers to Mom by out of my mind. Dinner is one of the few times of the day when I am truly, perfectly at peace. Guess I won't be having any of that peace tonight.

"I'm just asking, Nicole," adds Richard, offended by my sour attitude.

"She's upstairs. She told me she doesn't want to join us tonight," I arch my head back and roll my eyes at the ceiling.

"Did she really say that?" suspects my husband, arms folded and eyes trained on me.

"Yes," I answer him without a second thought. "She said that she had something to take care of. Whatever it is, I don't know."

Richard doesn't press any further, wary that I might crack if he does.

Gumball looks at me from across the table with a sullen pair of eyes, leaving his pizza slice to grow cold on the side. I reassure him by putting on a half-decent smile, and he consumes his food and helps himself to another serving.

This is stupid of me. What am I doing? I mean, why am I doing what I'm doing? The woman isn't even here with us tonight, and I'm shifting the burden onto her. I'm better than this. I should be better than this.

In a bid to diffuse the tension, I start up some idle talk on the table. Richard diverges into a tangent about work today, how he almost knocked Larry down with his scooter from parking it after one of his round trips around Elmore. Had he actually hit him, it would mean six months' worth of his salary going up in smoke just to cover for his medical bills. Odd. I thought supervisors and managers are also entitled to compensation.

Darwin brings up volunteer work for the senior citizens of this town, which he's never brought up until now. He mentions an unlikely meeting between Jojo, Louie and Frankie at the park this afternoon. I can only imagine the awkwardness that is Joanna's husband and ex-husband meeting face-to-face. According to Darwin, it went quite well, the two of them passing the time by skipping stones at the lake and maybe another activity or two while they were at it.

Anais's tale is more on the bizarre end of the spectrum. Apparently, one of her classmates who's very fond of her—I'm scared to ponder what sort of 'fond' she's talking about—approached her for the fourth time in two weeks about a side project involving frogs, or a secret society leader that just so happens to be a frog. She's tried staying out of his eye line, but he wouldn't stay out of hers. She makes an off-hand sarcastic comment about moving down to a kindergarten to interact with others her age and less crazy. It may be a quip, but I don't discard it entirely. That could be a good idea.

The story I share is about my mad rush to get my assignments for university done. From nine in the morning to three in the afternoon, I had been slaving away at my laptop typing like no tomorrow, putting my thoughts out into words, in the form of an essay or report or slideshow. I had gotten everything I need to do done in a timely and simple order, but I was immensely drained afterwards. If the glasses of brandy I indulged in during that time didn't leave me drunk, it sure made the fatigue last longer.

Gumball tells his story last, and he doesn't have much by means of an account of today's events. No, wait. He comments about a trip to Steve Small's office for some counselling. I can quickly tell why, but Darwin, Anais and Richard can't, and Gumball instinctively keeps it that way. The one other thing he has to say is interesting, though. Masami approached him today once again bearing news that might intrigue him. And it does intrigue him.

Another Yoshida-Ryu Karate event. This time, a karate tournament, held at Elmore Junior High's gym, each rank having their own dedicated division to ensure that the competition is fair. That's what's described in a flier for the event that Gumball passes over to me. It's to take place in two month's time, which should be enough for him to develop his skill and advance to a much higher rank.

"What do you think, Mom?" asks my son, expecting my approval.

After reading the flier for myself, I set it down on the table. "That's up to you, honey. You really want to do this?"

"Hai!" he answers rigidly, complete with a short bow.

"Then that's that. And we'll all be there watching and cheering you on. Right, guys?"

The others clamor and voice their agreement.

"But do you think you'll be ready?" states Darwin.

"What do you mean 'do I think I'll be ready'?" Gumball tapers his eyes, seemingly insulted.

Darwin stammers for a response, but stammering is all he can manage to do, leaving Anais to step in and do the rest of the talking. "What he means is will you go crazy like you've been doing lately?" she elaborates, not mincing any words. Making no bones about it.

"Now, sweetie, you could ask your brother a little nicer than that," corrects Richard as his third pizza slice misses his mouth and hits his lip.

"No, Dad, she's right," sighs Gumball, perching his head on his knuckles. "I'm not sure, but I'm going to work on it. And I won't have to do it by myself." As he makes this statement, I notice that he's set his eyes on me and smiles.

I smile back at him and nothing more. Although in my mind, I do bear a few words that I want to say to him. That's my boy. That's the spirit, my son.

By Richard's suggestion, I should try to make an effort to repair my relationship with my mother. If she's putting in the effort on her part, there's no reason why I can't. I had wanted to say to his face that you can't fix what's irreparable or what was never there, but I thought better of it in order to not hurt him. That, and I would have lied to him if I did.

Poor Richard. Poor naïve Richard. I love him to death, but if only he were a little wiser. If only he could see the world past a black and white set of lens. Not every parent and child is like him and his mother. What comes easy for the two of them might not come as easy for others.

Case in point…

I made it wholesomely clear that I'm not making an effort to patch this rift between me and Mom. Just because I'm allowing her to stay here for as long as she needs doesn't change anything. As a matter of fact, the sooner she leaves this house, the better it will be for everyone, not just me.

But I suppose for his sake, I can try. I really should.

Traversing up the stairs, I head left to the guest room to check on my mother and bid her goodnight. When I open the door and peer inside, she's sitting on the bed scribbling words out on a notepad that she's probably brought over with her. She quickly closes it and tosses the pen to the side at the sight of me.

She puts on a face like nothing has happened. And my nothing has happened. Or I could care less what antics she's busying herself with.

"Oh, Nicole," gasps Mom, her wry smile wavering and struggling not to fall off. "What's up?"

"Um… I wanted to see if you're comfortable and whatnot," I manage to tell her amidst the awkward air.

"Well in that case, yes I'm fine, thanks for wondering."

"What were you doing just now?" Maybe I care more about her business than I'd like to be.

"Huh?" The woman glances at her notepad and searches for where her pen landed. "Ah, it's not important. Just practicing my cursive writing so that it doesn't go away." Mother coughs one, two, three, eight times, covering her mouth as each one is more harried than the last.

"Right," I reply indifferently.

Her coughing does not stop and goes on five more times or so. She catches her breath and her composure, holding her paw over her throat.

"Are you okay?" I open the door a little wider. I've noticed ever since she arrived that she'd go into long coughing bouts and then regain herself afterwards, and that it's a rather frequent occurrence. At worst, she'd pause to cough every hour.

I don't know why, but I worry a little about her—only a little—before discarding this feeling. I hope it doesn't come back. Her staying here is just a common courtesy. Nothing more, nothing less.

"I'm fine. It must be this spring air," Mother reassures, attempting to sweep the issue under the rug. "With all these pesky allergies floating around, you can never be too careful."

I take her word at face value for the time being. Until something else arises, I'm in no position to worry. Not when there are other pressing matters in my plate already.

"Well then, if you don't need anything else, I guess this is goodnight," I close the door in front of me and leave it slightly open to hear my mother one last time.

"Goodnight, dear," says Mom tenderly, her smile compassionate. A genuine compassion, for once. "I love you."

I remain at the door, resting my forehead on it, for the longest time, then spare her one final look. "Love you, too." She flicks the lamp on the nightstand on, which prompts me to switch the light in her room off.

Did I really just say that?

I then walk to my room with my head and heart heavy as lead. This might be the last time I ever say those three words to her. If that's the case, then she had better savor it.

Author's note:

After over a year of dormancy, I, The One & Only C. R. Martin, return with another update for this story that so many of you have enjoyed. I'm amazed that many of you love this story so much that you were eagerly expecting it to return. Amazed and humbled.

Thank you for your readership and adoration, people. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, and I swear, as an author, to see this story through to the end.

Until then, I'm The One & Only C. R. Martin, and I'll see you guys later. Ciao for now.