100 Ghost Stories Counting Down To Halloween 2024. #99. Clara.

Throughout my life, I could never shake the unsettling feeling that my mother simply did not like me.

Yes, I was her son; she raised me and fulfilled the role of a mother in all the traditional ways. Yet, there always seemed to be an invisible wall between us, as if she were a passenger on autopilot, going through the motions of motherhood without ever truly being present. I grew up in a house where affection felt scarce, where words of encouragement were as fleeting as whispers carried off by the wind. While she was skilled at directing me toward the right path—offering practical advice and guidance—those crucial expressions of love, such as an "I love you" or a simple "Have a good day," were never part of our exchanges. Instead, I was often met with clinical parting phrases like, "I'll see you later," or the blunt, "Be in this exact spot when I get back." In stark contrast to my experiences, when my younger siblings arrived, a cascade of affection seemed to burst from my mother like floodwaters breaking through a dam. I couldn't help but notice the warmth she lavished on them, showering them with hugs and encouragement that I never received. One day, confronting this disparity, she turned to me and said, "You're the oldest, Dan; I need you to be strong for your younger brother and sister. That's why I raised you the way I did, so you could be strong for them when they came along." Her words stung, and my response was blunt, devoid of any softness. "You be strong for them," I remarked, not out of malice but simply reflecting the emotional distance I had learned to maintain in her presence. My father and I bonded effortlessly; we shared laughter and interests—everything from wrestling to horror films to classic chanbara flicks. But my relationship with my mother felt different. It was less of a connection and more akin to two cordial strangers meeting under uncomfortable circumstances. Dad often told me to be understanding towards Mom, suggesting that her struggles before motherhood shaped her demeanor. When I pressed for specifics about her past, he would always deflect, hinting at a childhood marred by unkindness from her family. This seemed to stand in stark contrast to the vibrant woman I witnessed in social settings—a beloved figure who floated effortlessly from one conversation to the next, gathering smiles and greetings from everyone she encountered. As the years passed, I graduated from college, secured a stable job, found a wonderful partner, and married her. My parents, along with my siblings Bryant and Bree Anne, lived at home in Mānoa, while my wife Sam and I settled at the far end of Hawaiʻi Kai. We continued the family tradition of celebrating birthdays and holiday dinners. I immersed myself in conversations with Dad, enjoying our time together around the hibachi as he cooked our favorites. Each time we gathered, interactions with my mother were limited to one-word replies or the occasional brief exchange. Even on my college graduation day, while Dad and my siblings greeted me with warm hugs and proud tears, Mom draped a fresh cigar lei around my neck, gently placed her hand on my chest, and said, "Good job, Dan." It was a poignant moment but felt more like a formal acknowledgment than a celebration. At our wedding, I watched as my wife received the sort of emotional embrace from my mother that I yearned for yet had never experienced. Mom hugged her, tears glistening in her eyes, her smile radiating warmth. Meanwhile, when it came to me, there was nothing—no hug, no tears, just the absence of expectation met with the reality I had long recognized. The following year brought the joy of our son, Desmond—a little whirlwind of laughter and love. I shared my family history with Sam to prepare her for the inevitable coldness from my mother toward our child. When our families gathered at home for the first time after Desmond's birth, I watched as Sam's parents were consumed with joy, unable to tear themselves away from their first grandchild. My father beamed with pride as he cradled Desmond while Bryant and Bree promised to spoil him shamelessly with treats and gifts. Yet, amidst the joyful chaos, my mother's presence felt elusive. She floated in and out, letting others greet the baby, but soon withdrew, retreating into the living room, where we found her engaged in a phone conversation with her friend Ida, claiming it was a call she had just received. From that day forward, visits to the old house became rare. My dad would occasionally drop by, and the B-lots would brighten our home with toys and laughter, but my mom never joined—even for birthdays or holidays. This omission became a new normal, so much so that no one bothered to question it. Years rolled on, and when Desmond left for college, I found the house eerily quiet with Sam out delivering her homemade honey. Then, one afternoon, a soft yet insistent knock echoed through the emptiness. I opened the door to find my mother standing there, her expression unreadable. "Clara," I called out, overplaying the formality to get under her skin. "Don't call me that," she said, irritation tinging her voice. "I can't call you something you never were," I replied, stubbornly standing my ground. "Thus, Clara." "I'll make this brief," she hesitated, her voice trembling slightly. "Dan, you're not my son; you've never been a biological one in that sense." I felt an eerie calm settle over me as I replied, "At this point in my life, I'm not surprised." I shrugged, the weight of her confession folding into the narrative of my childhood. "I figured when you met Dad, he must have had me with another woman and that you were so proud and jealous that your way of getting back at him was to take it out on me, wasn't it? Guess what, Clara? I don't give a shit. It's even better to know that I'm not your son, so when you step off my porch, you can just be gone for good!" Her eyes flickered with a momentary flash of vulnerability before she steeled herself. "You're the son of the woman your father had an affair with; she died in childbirth," she managed to confess, unable to continue as the raw truth hung heavy between us.

"What? Wait, what did you say?" I stepped forward, nearly looming over her. "Say that again?"

"Your father brought you home, Dan, and explained the whole thing," she choked back tears. "I was forced into this life that I didn't want, but I was raised old school where you just keep quiet about things, and you take it. I've taken it my whole life, and I can't take this to my grave, so I've come to tell you the truth."

~

It was nearly eight in the evening when my father heard the knock on his door. In typical Mānoa fashion, it was raining, but ever so lightly, not really a deluge. He pulled the portal back, and I landed a straight right on his jaw, knocking him right on his ass. He got up, and I hit him again. Bryant tried to intervene, and I punched him in the balls to keep him out of the way. I let my dad have it one more time for good measure. 

"Who am I?" I asked him calmly. "Who am I?"

"What are you talking about?" He croaked while wiping the blood away from his broken nose.

"Who the fuck am I, Calvin? Mom told me everything; mom told me about the woman you were fucking while you were still married to mom! She told me about how that woman died while giving birth to me, brought me home, and forced Mom to raise me! No wonder why she hated me!" I was screaming at him and losing my voice in the process.

"Oh my god, Dan," he shook his head, snickering to the point where I would punch him again. "You haven't seen your mom in such a long while that you don't know she's come down with dementia. You ARE her son, but you're not MY son. Your mother and I were married less than a year when she was working at Queen's Hospital. She was coming off a sixteen-hour shift when she was attacked and raped in the parking garage. That's who you are; you're the result of what happened that night. She tried to put that behind her, but she was too far along when she found out she was pregnant with you. I didn't want you to be given away and raised without a good family. I assured her everything would be fine if we focused on giving you a good life, with you as our son. It worked for me, but she could never get past what happened. Do you understand now?"

~

Clara Eugenia Mahukona died later that year. I spent as much time with her, letting her know I loved her. Taking her hands and rubbing them against my cheek, she'd smile and say, "Dan, Dan." I wheeled her about the hospital and took her outside to see the trees and the birds and to get fresh air. When she passed, she went in her sleep in the deep quiet of the night while we were all passed out in our chairs around her bed. Some things are too painful to think about, much less address face-to-face with someone you've hurt or with someone who may be the source of that same hurt. We waste a lifetime being angry, affecting our physical and mental well-being. I guess I'm trying to say that my parents thought that not telling me anything about who I was might have saved me from a lifetime of anguish. Instead, the agony was on them.