The two older brothers packed their mother into the backseat of the car between the twins, seat-belted her in, and drove to the Body Shop. Past the stores, past the tree-lined neighborhood, and past the tracks. Down an alley.
They took her out of the car and propped her up for the Body Shop man’s inspection. She stayed where they put her while the man walked around her and rubbed his stubble.
“Full restoration?” he asked.
The four of them nodded.
“We want our mother back,” one of the twins said. The boys nodded again. They were remembering her eyes, sparkling and mischievous. Making snowballs on a family vacation and baking surprises into their birthday cakes. They were remembering something jaunty about their mother, something they couldn’t name. Something that had vanished.
The man pulled a tape measure from his pocket and a little pad of paper and a pencil. He unspooled the tape measure over her back and made a note, mumbling to himself. Their mother stood perfectly still, her back bent, shoulders drooping, head down. The man opened his phone and lifted her head, took pictures of her face. He pulled the corners of her mouth into a smile that fell to the floor when he returned to his notes. Peering into her eyes, he made a huh sound.
“It’ll cost you,” he said.
“We have Dad’s life insurance money,” the tallest boy said, the one who could see over the steering wheel.
“You could probably get a new model with that money,” the man said, as if to himself. “But I suppose you all want your old one.”
They shifted on their feet. The boys hadn’t considered getting a brand-new mother. This one used to be just fine. They wanted this one back.
“How long will it take?” The middle brother asked.
“Come back on Friday. I’ll have her all spiffed up by then.”
Friday was a long way off. A long time to be without their mother. But they patted her back and told her they would see her soon, that everything was going to be okay.
She looked good when Friday came around. Her back and neck ramrod straight, reinforced, the man explained, with a rod, and her shoulders harnessed into an expression of confidence. Her mouth was painted the color of cherries and lifted into a permanent smile. Her eyes focused on each of them in turn, though they were not her old shiny eyes.
“The eyes are the hardest to fix,” the Body Shop man said. “You can only do so much when there’s that kind of damage.”
They helped her into the car, her smile never faltering. They were hopeful as they drove home, looking forward to pancakes and packed lunches, bedtime stories and hugs, movie nights on the couch with popcorn.
In the days that followed they noticed that something, probably in the wiring, was slightly off. At times, she called them by the wrong name, as if she could not keep the boys straight. And sometimes she called them all by their father’s name, as if she was calling up a ghost.
Shira Musicant lives and writes in the foothills of Santa Barbara. Her current and forthcoming stories can be found in Vestal Review, Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Blue Earth Review, Fourth Genre, Does It Have Pockets, and BULL. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, Shira has recently won the "People's Prize" in the Welkin Mini Competition. Find her @shiramusicant.bsky.social