Splinters of Light (11 page)

But Ellie would die for Nora, too. A child didn’t normally feel like that, did they? They hadn’t felt that way about their mother, Ruthie, although both of them had tried their best. Ruthie’d always been too distant, too busy, trying to scrape nickels and quarters together out of thin air and thinner tips. Then Ruthie had died so young, when they were only twenty, falling asleep at the wheel of her car on the way home from Pedro’s Cantina. They’d never known their mother as adults.

Jesus.
Mariana lost her breath. Ellie wouldn’t—might not—know Nora as an adult, either.

Jesus
fuck
. Without Nora to take care of Ellie . . . Without Nora to take care of
her
 . . . Mariana’s brain stalled, then spiraled in a downward dive.

Ellie said, “I think the migraines might be back. Or something. I think she’s in pain and she doesn’t want to worry me, but I’m sixteen, for Pete’s sake. I can handle it. Doesn’t she know that?”

Mariana stared at her niece. It was gorgeous to witness, all that love swimming in Ellie’s eyes; it was like seeing sunshine break into diamonds, like watching emeralds run out of your kitchen faucet.

“I’ll find out, chipmunk.”

“When you do, tell me.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Promise?”

Was it a lie if you loved this hard? This brightly? “I promise.”

Have you figured it out yet?

T
he pop-up box made a soft ping that felt like a shiver.

Ellie hadn’t even seen Dyl’s Incurser approach her hut’s window. Now she could see him, outside and swaying with that rocking motion all the human avatars used. Cmd-shift-O opened the door, and Dyl’s character strode inside, his sword swinging wide. In the game he was taller than Addi the Healer. Ellie wondered if that would be true in real life, if she’d be able to stand under his arm. She bit the inside flap of her cheek.
Have I figured out what?
Awesome. Was Dylan going to start being like everyone else now? Would he ask her constantly (like her school counselor did) what she wanted to “do with her life”? Would he try to guess (like her mother did) what careers might suit her brain/hands/eyes/temperament? Ellie couldn’t figure out whether she preferred spearmint or wintergreen toothpaste. How was she supposed to figure out what kind of cubicle she wanted to fill in, like, five years?

Have you found out what’s wrong with your mom?

Oh.

Of course that’s what he would ask. Dylan was, like, the nicest guy she’d ever met in her whole life.

Not yet,
she typed.

How are you doing? Are you still worried about her?

Seriously, what other guy would ask that? Guys didn’t pay attention to parents, even their own. Ellie would bet that not one of her guy friends knew her mother’s name, even though she’d picked them up from water polo about a hundred times, even though she’d bought them all pizza so often she knew their favorite kinds.

Dyl was an Incurser. And therefore he shouldn’t be trusted.

But there
were
a few good ones out there. She’d read about them on the
Queendom
FanForums, stories of Incursers who’d inexplicably come to the unexpected rescue of fair maiden or dire dragon. At the last moment, when they should have been stabbing a beast to its gory death, they reversed and healed it, running away before their compatriots could turn their swords on the traitor.

Ellie was sworn to protect Ulra, the dying Dragon Queen, while Dyl was pledged to eradicate the entire species. Yet here he was, in her hut, asking about her real-life mother.

Ellie took a deep breath before placing her fingers back on the keyboard to answer. She’d had crushes before but they’d never felt so upsetting inside, as if her stomach and heart were in a slap flight.
She’s just being so weird. And I saw her talking to my aunt today, and they were both super-upset. I’m totally not imagining it.
A part of her worried again about the way her mom and aunt had held hands—like one of them was trying to pull the other out of
deep water—but another part of her was annoyed. She was still the kid. She hadn’t called out, “Mom! Watch!” while she’d been on the rocks, but she’d assumed that’s what they’d been doing. That was, like, their job.

What do you think it is?
Dyl’s head bobbed in that “I’m paying attention” way the avatars did. Ellie wondered what position Dylan was actually in. Lying down? Sitting at a table?

Dunno,
typed Ellie.
I have no idea.
Her Healer sat on the bench under the crystalline window and then stood up again. The music was sad, a thin violin paired with something deeper, maybe a single cello.

Maybe she’s pregnant.

HA! Stop it. She couldn’t be. You’re hilarious.
But her throat tightened like someone was twisting it closed. Harrison.

How old is she?

Forty-three. Forty-four? Old. Too old.

You sure about that? My step-aunt had twins at forty-six. It wasn’t pretty.

The slap fight in her stomach turned into a boxing match.
She did sleep with someone. Oh, my god.

When?

New Year’s Eve. That was when she’d heard her mother and aunt talking about it.
Like, three months ago.
When did someone
find out they were knocked up? No, no, no. Wasn’t she in menopause or something?

You’re going to have a little brother! Or a sister!

NO.

Just kidding. It’s probably not that.
Dyl shuffled, raising his sword as if he were going to slice the long wooden table in half and then lowering it again.
It’s probably just money troubles or something. Parents get all weird about that.

They’d been okay with money, though. That’s what her mother had been saying. They couldn’t afford a new car right off the lot or anything—even though Ellie wanted one of those new electric Smart cars
so
bad, mostly because it was so cute she wanted to put it in her jacket pocket and keep it there—but Ellie could tell money wasn’t as hard as it used to be before Mom got syndicated, and it had gotten even easier since she got the book deal. Ellie remembered when she’d had to bring home her ziplock bags for her mother to wash and reuse. Something rumpled had smoothed behind her mother’s eyes the day she told Ellie she could throw them out at school, and she stopped being furious if Dad’s child support payments were late.

What if it
was
a baby? God, then her mother would never pay attention to her again. Ellie sniffed and slid farther under her sheets.

What are you doing on Saturday?

Ellie’s Healer jumped up from sitting, though Ellie didn’t have a plan for what she would do next. She made her juggle the rainbow crystals she’d bought from a Ginkgo trader last week.

Nothing. Why?
Her Healer dropped a red crystal and it melted through the hut’s floor with an acidic whoosh.

I’m in a band. Wanna come hear us?

Ellie couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her. Of course Dylan was in a band.
What do you play?
Oh, dumb! That was so dumb! But what else were you supposed to say to someone in a band?

Guitar.

She gulped. Desperately, Ellie wondered what Aunt Mariana would do if some cool guy asked her to come see him in a band. Breezy. She’d be breezy and casual and not let him think she was that into it. Or was that what she
wasn’t
supposed to do? Ellie couldn’t remember. She wiggled her fingers in the air in front of her face, using the same motion that her Healer did when fixing wounds.

Then she typed,
Sure. Sounds fun
.

Cool.
The response was instant and gratifying.
It’s at a cop bar in Oakland.

What’s a cop bar?

Dyl tossed his sword between his hands.
It’s a bar. Where cops hang out.

She typed slowly, hating the letters as they formed in the small purple box.
I’m underage.
He knew that.

Me, too. Believe me, no one there will care. I’m going to have to protect you from the old letches.
Dyl dropped the sword to the floor of the hut with a clatter.
Whoops.

Ellie wriggled her legs and pulled on both lobes of her ears with delight. Addi the Healer swayed serenely in place on the dirt floor of the hut.

EXCERPT,
WHEN ELLIE WAS LITTLE:
OUR LIFE IN HOLIDAYS,
PUBLISHED 2011 BY NORA GLASS

Mother’s Day

When Ellie was little, I was one of those annoying people who assumed I would be a great mother. I knew what I would avoid and what I would do differently. I’d avoid drugs, for example. That was a pretty easy choice. Our mom didn’t do the hard stuff, but she was never shy about taking a hit of her boyfriend’s joint in front of us. My sister and I knew the best time to ask for movie money was when the adults’ eyes were bloodshot and their reactions as slow as cold honey.

I would be more attentive than my mother had been. I would know my daughter’s favorite color and what kind of shoes she loved best. I would never accidentally leave her behind at a Pak’n Save, getting all the way back to the apartment before realizing there was only one daughter in the back of her craptastic VW bug. (Mariana had kept her mouth shut because she thought it was hilarious and wanted to see how long Mom would continue to not notice she was missing a daughter.)

I would spend more time with my child than our mother had spent with us. I would
know
my child.

I would mother differently.

I would mother
well
.

When Ellie was eight months old, I got bronchitis. It was something I’d always been prone to—at least once every couple of years, I’d get a bout that would linger for months. It had always been a nuisance, but while nursing, it felt a million times worse. I was more exhausted than ever. I’d nurse, sipping water, praying not to get a coughing spasm, and when one would come, I’d unlatch Ellie’s mouth and set her on the bed. She’d wail, and I’d hack for the next five minutes, and then we’d start all over again.

Worried, Paul insisted I see the doctor again. He thought I needed better, stronger medicine. I knew, though, it would go away eventually. It was normal for me. He put his foot down, though, saying that I
had
to go.

Oh, I fumed while I packed the car. It wasn’t like
he
had to do anything to go to the doctor. If he wanted to ask a medical professional about a cold, he would just
go
. He didn’t have a baby latched to him every second of the day. I could have, of course, insisted he stay home to watch Ellie while I went, but I’ll admit that sometimes I enjoyed playing the martyr. “Fine,” I muttered, loading Ellie’s diaper bag into the car. “I can just do it all.” Then I had a coughing attack while standing next to the open car door that lasted so long it actually scared me.

As I drove to the doctor’s office, I talked to Ellie in the backseat. “He might be right, Ellie-belly. But let’s not tell him. Do we have a deal?” I took her silence to mean we were in cahoots. I liked that about my daughter. She had my back, even at eight months.

In the parking lot at the doctor’s office, I saw Paul’s red truck. He got out as soon as he saw me, his eyes that sea green shade they took on when he was worried, as if the storm inside him were churning up emotions like a squall stirred the ocean’s floor. “I felt terrible that I haven’t been helping more with Ellie while you’re sick. I canceled the meeting. Here I am.” He touched my cheek and looked right into my eyes the way he hadn’t in a long time. I remember how good that felt—to be seen by him as a person and not just as the mother of his child.

He continued. “I’ll watch her while you go in. Or I’ll take her home and watch her there. Whatever you want.”

It was cold for May, and I’d worried about her being outside anyway, dressing her as warmly as I could before we left the house. “It would be great if you took her home.” I opened the car door and reached inside to unlatch Ellie’s seat.

It wasn’t there.

Nor was my baby.

The backseat was empty of everything but my purse and the diaper bag.

I said an unprintable word. Paul repeated it.

“Where is she?”

It was clear, instantly, where Ellie was. “I put her in the car seat and set her on the porch steps while I loaded the other stuff.”

I dove for the driver’s seat of my car. Paul slammed himself in next to me. I wouldn’t have blamed him for berating me the whole way home, but he didn’t say a word. Not one. That was worse, I think.

Ellie was there when I skidded to a halt in front of the house. She’d fallen asleep, bundled to the ears in wool (a hand-knit sweater my friend Janine had made her, the purple blanket I’d crocheted while I was pregnant with her). The sun had broken through the clouds, and it was actually a lovely, warm place to nap.

But I’d left my baby outside, in the cold, all
alone
, in a place where anyone could have taken her. And worst of all—they would have been
right
to take her. If I’d seen a baby abandoned on a porch, I would have rung the doorbell, waited two minutes, and then taken that child straight to the police department, where I would have demanded justice for such egregious child endangerment.

“They should put me in jail,” I said to Paul, sitting heavily on the step next to her. “I should go turn myself in.” I was a wonderful housekeeper. If I had hired myself to clean our house, to make the rooms smell sweet, to coordinate dust ruffles to valances, I would have given myself a raise I was so good at it. I was made to hold an iron, to sew a curtain, to bake the perfect brownie. But I was a terrible mother. I didn’t even want to touch Ellie. I didn’t deserve to. I watched her breathing as if it might stop any minute, and if it had, I would have given her my breath, all of it, forever.

Paul, in a moment of kindness I don’t think I’ve ever recovered totally from, didn’t say anything. Not one word. He just kissed my head, picked up Ellie, car seat and all, and took her inside. He closed the door behind him.

I cried and coughed all the way to the doctor’s office. I got a new prescription, which I filled while sobbing so hard I got lightheaded. I made it home and cried my way up the stairs.

The only thing that stopped my tears was the sight of them, both of them, asleep in our bed. Ellie’s eyes were tightly crinkled shut like Paul’s were—I’d never seen the similarity in the way they slept till that moment. They slept hard, as if it
were their assignment and they wanted to do it right. I didn’t want to wake them up. They were perfect.

No thanks to me, they were safe.

I prayed I wouldn’t cough, and I didn’t. I slid under the blanket and without opening his eyes, Paul made room for me next to him. He hadn’t met Bettina yet. That wouldn’t happen for another year.

Right before my eyes drifted shut, I thought of my mother. She hadn’t ever cared about Mother’s Day. She’d always laughed at the arts-and-crafts construction-paper creations my sister, Mariana, and I brought home from school. It was never an unkind laugh—she would just hold out the
Mom = Love
card festooned with glitter and say,
Mom equals laundry, that’s what you should have put on this.

I’d had no idea what it meant to be a mom. None at all. Since I’d lost mine when I was so young, I only knew it was hard—maybe impossible—and I also knew that this would be only the first of many unforgivable mistakes I’d make with Ellie.

Grace. That’s all it was. That was the only reason my baby girl was all right. Grace was the only thing, perhaps, that allowed any mother in the world to make it past lunchtime. That same grace was the only thing that allowed me to sleep that afternoon, with my husband and daughter next to me, all of us in one piece—a family—for a little while longer.