Part 3, Chapter 5

Part 3, Chapter 5

Lily

Thoughts stuttered in my head, getting on the wrong train, missing their stop, and randomly pulling the emergency brake.

I slowly began the act of grounding myself. I’m in the bed in Kelith’s guest room and Katie is laying behind me, petting the top of my head.

And, most importantly of all, I just found out that my Mom isn’t dead.

The strangest thing wasn’t what I knew about my mother, but rather what I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything; I never really had, and the revelation that one of the tiny things I thought I knew about her was wrong shouldn’t’ve been surprising.

Because really, the fact that she was dead, even if untrue, hadn’t been significant thus far. In the grand scheme of my life, there was no practical difference between whether my mother had abandoned me to suffer under my father or if she had been a victim of that same cruelty. The end result – me being without support – was the same regardless of circumstance.

And yet, it somehow hurt all over again, knowing that it had been her choice.

Maybe it was the belief that was important. Regardless of reality, for most of my life I’d told myself – taken comfort in the fact that – if I’d had a mother figure, or if I ever met her, that it would fix what was wrong with me in some nebulous way. My life sucked because I didn’t have a mom, and therefore my mom must be an unalienable good.

The complexity and nuance that came with reality, however, destroyed that simple parable without question. Whether she’d known of my plights or not, a mistake had been made, and I didn’t know how to reconcile that with the image I’d built up.

Which of the versions of my mother I had in my head fit the new information? Was it the mythical figure that was the answer to all of my problems I’d invented as a child? Or maybe it was the version of her from after I’d grown bitter and disillusioned by my father’s attitudes, the version of her that abandoned me without regard?

Of course, the obvious answer was that those people weren’t real; my mother was a stranger to me, and my mythologizing – regardless of how long-held my beliefs were – had no bearing on who she really was.

And maybe that was the important part. It wasn’t the knowledge that my mom was alive that shook me to my core, it was the knowledge that she was a real person with history and flaws, because that meant that meeting her, that learning what she was like, was eminently realizable – not just something to be abstracted and fictionalized.

I twitched in bed, reorienting myself yet again and leaning into Katie’s hand brushing through my hair. “Am I a bad person if I’m scared to meet her?”

“I think it would be weird if you weren’t nervous; It’s a big deal,” she responded, her even-keeled voice drifting through my chaotic mind.

“I... I’m not sure if it counts as me being nervous. I’m not excited, I’m just afraid...”

“Shit, what would Amber say here...?” Katie groaned. “Something like, ‘Only you can take the initiative and decide how to handle the situation.’”

I laughed half-heartedly. “As ‘good’ as your Amber impression is, I want to hear what you would say.”

“Hmm... I say fuck it – you can go cuss your mom out to her face, or run into her arms, or anything in between. As scary as the situation is, it really is up to you.”

Katie responded over my silent nods, “That sounds nice. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done Kelith, we’re really grateful.”

My nods grew more enthusiastic, “We really can’t thank you enough...”

She sent us a teasing smile, “Oh hush, I’m more than happy to spoil my granddaughters.”

Warmth flooded into me. Is this what it will feel like with Mom...?

Amber

Sophia took me back to her dorm after a quick stop at mine, with the logic being that it was less likely for someone to come looking for us there. She didn’t have a roommate, thankfully, but there wasn’t much space either, just a small desk and her bed in a single room.

I ended up sitting in her desk chair, while she stood over me, trying to figure out what the spells I’d learned actually did. We made a decent amount of progress, finding that some of the bigger spells I knew, such as invisibility, had a component of them that sent a magical ping off to somewhere else.

I couldn’t be completely sure, but I theorized that my mother had some kind of receiver that located someone when they used a spell she designed. I wasn’t sure why she’d needed to leave out materials for demon radar to test me if she could tell what spells I used, but if there was one thing I knew about my mother, it was that she always had another layer of deception.

Eventually, when it became clear that Sophia was getting tired of standing over my shoulder, she moved to laying on her bed, reading a thick book that – as far as I could tell from its cover – was about the general history of mythology across the world.

I remained at the desk, crossing my arms on the faux wood and resting my head on them, catching glimpses of Sophia occasionally turning pages in the corner of my vision. Thoughts about my mother floated in and out of my mind, less a train of thought and more an immaterial atmosphere of thought soup.

It was an undeniable fact that my relationship with my mother was unlike the accounts of some of my peers. When I’d first joined public school at fourteen, I’d been confused about the apparently well-established concept of motherly: warm, gentle, compassionate.

Of course, I hadn’t thought my mother was unkind – she threw me birthday parties, looked after me, and taught me cool magic. What more could I want?

But in the seven years since, it’d grown more and more clear to me how odd my situation was. There were plenty of people with terrible mothers, people with no mother, and people with good mothers, but it was hard to find someone who could relate to the kind of mom that was primarily your teacher – a close teacher for sure, one that took care in my personal life, but distant enough to have time to deal with the twenty or so other kids she was responsible for.

I’d met someone who lived in a foster home and had related similar experiences of being one of many, of feeling partially responsible for the care of their siblings, but hadn’t related to the way she pushed me, the way I was her apprentice as much as her daughter.

I’d met people with strict parents, the kind to control where their college-aged offspring was going on a Friday night, and they’d related to the way my mother had pushed me in my studies – of course I’d left out the magical nature of my studies – but they hadn’t related to the independence I’d had.

In short, my relationship with my mother was odd, and now, after everything I’d been learning, after genuinely believing she would send someone to kill me, I didn’t know how to feel, as ridiculous as that sounded.

Was I supposed to be angry, to rage at the audacity? Should I despair, feel pity for myself?

Or should I act like she would want me to, calmly devising schemes and counter-schemes, rob her of the power she wields with the same detached indifference that she would?

I let out a sigh, watching as Sophia flipped another page. I couldn’t bring myself to be angry or vindictive towards my mother, but it wasn’t like I could resolve our conflict with pity or despair.