Close to madness (weekend freewrite)

My mother was doing that thing she did. That thing with the rag in the sink. I'd ask her not to do it, but to no use. My father used to ask her, too. But it didn't work for him either and, unlike me, he had the guts to just up and leave. I know it hurt my mother greatly when he didn't come home that day, but I also think she saw it coming, you know? Like the storm that's been brewing for the whole week and when it hits, you're both surprised and relieved. Surprised, because you never thought it'd actually happen. Relieved, 'cause you don't have to worry anymore.
So, it was just us. Just me. See, I always admired him in a way, for leaving. Because it was always something I wish I could've done. Before his departure, I would often fantasize about journeying across the country, blissfully alone. No noise and no rags.
Heaven.
But when he left, I found myself stuck watching over my mother. As she scrubbed and scrubbed that ridiculously clean sink. It was always the sink, the one in the kitchen. Never the toilets, and most definitely not the floors. In fact, apart from the kitchen sink, the house wasn't remarkably clean. We had our fair share of dust and dirt.
But scrubbing the sink with that filthy rag was never about cleanliness, which they say is close to godliness, but I think it's closer to madness, really.

Image

No, the scrubbing was about demons. About the little voices in her head that just wouldn't go away and nagged at her for hours one end, until she finally gave in and began scrubbing.

The plane was two hours late, on that fateful day. See, I've never been one to believe in dumb luck, but I suppose there are signs. You either see them or you don't, but they're certainly there. I think my plane being late was one of those signs. I was heading out, for a business conference in Florence. Two days away from scrubbing and rubbing and the noise of the rag in the sink. You don't know that noise, until you've met my mother, believe me.
And I was looking forward to going, although I hated my job. At least, it took me away from my mother. I suppose that's something.
They announced over the intercom that I wouldn't be flying out for the foreseeable future, so I figured I could call my mom, one final time. To check that she was alright. That she hadn't scrubbed through the fucking sink and driven the whole house into the ground or something. Could happen.
The phone rang, but there was no answer. She never answers on the first three rings, guaranteed. Even when she's not busy with the rag, she's old and slow. And sometimes, she just doesn't hear the phone. As I listened to the phone ring, I watched as a small golden haired child – a girl, I think – stared out through the window, at the airplanes taking off. Full flight. Freedom.
She watched, sitting perched on her father's shoulders. The man had a broad smile on his face, mostly amusement at the child's sheer joy. That could've been me.
Ring.

'The way he writes with both his left and right hand...' were the first words to come out of my mother's mouth, when she finally picked up.
'Mom, what?' What was the old woman talking about now? She'd always had her little quirks, her little habits and rituals, but this one was new.
'The way he writes with both his left and right hand.' she said again. She didn't seem particularly interested in making sense.
Suddenly, I had this image flash though my head, of my mother moving the rag from one hand to another, as she scrubbed the impeccable sink. She always used both hands, for approximately the same amount of time.
My father.
My father used to write with both hands. He was ambidextrous, as they call it. I suppose he still is, somewhere.
What was she talking about – I could've asked, but it had already dawned. Her scrubbing mirrored his writing.
'Dad, what about him?mom, what about dad's writing?'

A long silence followed. Then, almost inaudibly:

'He's not coming back.'

She seemed so scared...Then, I heard the crystal clear sound of the rag sliding down into the sink. A soft plop.

'Mom? Mom?' i was shouting now. Something was wrong. But there was no voice on the other end. I clutched the phone tightly and ran through the terminal.
I rushed home, driving, nervous. I was terrified that I'd hit someone or something, I just couldn't concentrate. I guess hope goes last.

But when I got home, there was nobody there. Just that filthy rag in the kitchen sink. Realizing my father wasn't coming, I guess my mom decided to go, too.

Written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge.