In The Bag

Angry Woman by Nicolai Fechin

The favourite bag. What the hell did she mean by the favourite bag?! Amy’s mum had always been a bit vague but now she was positively obscure.

It would be easy to blame it on dementia - except that the doctor had said definitively that she didn't have it.

“Your mother is one hundred and one. What do you expect her cognitive powers to be like at that age?” he had griped. “I can tell you that she is far sharper than many of my patients who are 20 years younger!"

Well, it was all very well for him to say that. He only saw her once in a while, whereas Amy had to visit her every day. And every day she had some request for some odd item which Amy couldn't find and which invariably upset her mother who seemed to think that Amy was holding out on her.

“Mum I don’t know what you mean by ’favourite bag’. Which one is your favourite?” she whined.

“You know very well which one, my girl,” her mother grumbled. “The one your father gave me.”

“The black one?” asked Amy hopefully.

“The red one!” 

I didn’t even know my mother had a red bag, thought Amy. Better go find it before she blows a gasket.

She opened the closet door, mentally preparing to spend  hours wading through a pile of old junk. To her surprise there was red bag sitting on top of a pile of books. It was a patent leather satchel and Amy couldn't recall seeing her mother ever carrying such a stylish object.

She knelt down, picked it up and lovingly ran her hands over it. She would love to own a bag like this. She wondered if she could get her mother to give it to her. Probably not. Her mother held on to her possessions like a python with a pig. Nothing like this would come Amy’s way until her mother was dead.

Amy rocked back on her heels at the thought that had come so suddenly and now held her mind captive. She’d waited long enough for what was due to her. It was time for action.