Splinters of Light

by Rachael Herron

  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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  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 scar
ed 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.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In her column a few years before, Nora had described what didn’t go in her ideal picnic basket. Tiny cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches of the type made for high tea, wrapped in wax paper, none of that. A flask of strong, hot coffee and real porcelain mugs—why bother? Petit fours with fondant butterflies, bought fresh from the closest local bakery—cute, but too fussy. Seasonal fruit from the farmer’s market—too much work to clean and cut; save that for home. The point of a picnic isn’t to spend hours preparing for a moment that will pass too quickly. Save that time for getting to your ideal location. Laugh in the sunshine with your family and friends.

  No, the ideal picnic basket was fast. No lavish action here, please. If you have fancy embroidered napkins, this isn’t the time to fold them carefully so that they nestle beneath your picnic silver. Paper works just fine. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches smooshed into a ziplock will do. No fancy desserts—Hostess cupcakes will be appreciated by everyone. You don’t even need a fancy picnic basket or wine bottle backpack, though those are fun, of course. A Trader Joe’s paper bag will do. Don’t worry about a pretty tablecloth to lay on the grass. An oversized beach towel that you grab from the laundry room on your way out will be perfect, and less stress to clean when it gets stained by new grass and grape jelly. The point is that you’re together. Eating outside increases food enjoyment exponentially. It’s practically scientific and has probably been studied by people in labs, but I’m telling you this: you should study it with your favorite people, and if you bring a Quiddler deck and play while boats chug past on your favorite body of water, it’ll probably be the best picnic that ever happened in the history of the world.

  Big words. They were harder to live up to. In the car, on the way to Shoreline Park, Nora racked her brain. She’d forgotten something, she knew she had. She just didn’t know what it was, and the feeling, instead of being irritating, was electrically terrifying.

  “You should let me drive,” said Ellie. “It’s Mother’s Day.”

  “That’s why I’m driving,” said Nora. “Because I get to do whatever I want today.”

  Ellie scooted sideways in her seat and put on a beatific smile. She folded her hands beneath her chin. “Mom. Dearest, beautiful Mom of mine. Don’t you know I just want to chauffeur you around? You work so hard. Let me take care of you.”

  Nora lost her breath in a surprised laugh. “You really want to drive.”

  The act fell away as Ellie thumped back. “Come on. I’m good. Mrs. Lytton let me drive her minivan and she said I was a natural.”

  Nora made a mental note to discuss with Cindy Lytton what was and wasn’t appropriate when she was on pickup duty. “I’m fine. It’s my picnic, anyway. Oh, crap.”

  Ellie said long-sufferingly, “What?”

  “I forgot to tell Mariana to bring plates and cups and cutlery. That was going to be her job.”

  Ellie didn’t drop her feet off the dashboard even though Nora had already told her to. “We can eat
with our fingers. We’ll drink out of the Martinelli’s bottle! Like wine!”

  But Mariana never brought anything—she never remembered to do so when asked and never thought to do so when she wasn’t. How could Nora even begin to consider . . . Her stomach dipped as if they’d hit a pothole, but the road was smooth.

  “It’s just sandwiches, anyway.”

  “It’s the point. I forgot to ask, and she won’t bring them.”

  Ellie stared at her phone. “I don’t get what the big deal is.”

  The big deal? Nora had forgotten to ask. She’d forgotten another thing. Another important thing. Another pinprick in the balloon that was supposed to be keeping her in the air.

  The third and fourth opinions, the ones Nora had paid for out of pocket, had come back with the same result. Mariana was still unwilling to talk about anything except a cure, and Nora would lay money her sister hadn’t yet accepted that all cases of EOAD—all of them—ended in death.

  Well, hell. Life ended in death, didn’t it? Nora was no different. She wasn’t special. Spine stiffened with the spray starch she loved so much, Nora could do this. She would do this. She would tell Ellie the truth. The diagnosis. She’d finally tell her today, with Mariana at her side. Mother’s Day. What a horrible day to do it, but she’d been waiting, hoping for a way out.

  It turned out there was no good day to destroy your child’s life.

  If indeed that’s what she did. Lately it seemed that Ellie only tolerated her at best. Like now. If it wasn’t Mother’s Day, Ellie would have rolled her eyes twenty times already. As it was, Nora could tell her daughter was working incredibly hard to stay polite.

  It used to be easy to be together. It used to be joyful.

  Mariana had to get tested, too.

  Ellie . . .

  God, please, not Ellie. No test for Ellie. Nora wouldn’t—couldn’t—chance her receiving a death sentence. It was bad enough for Nora as it was, at forty-four. To hear your fate at sixteen? Never.