Path of Thieves

by Sunniva Dee

  There were hyperactive moths in my stomach before. They’ve given way to bats with flailing wings.

  “Hey, maybe this is a bad idea. I mean, she hasn’t seen me in so long. You guys might have misread her completely. What if she’d rather move on and not deal with her stepson?”

  “Shut up,” Paislee says without anger. “You were never a stepson to her. Please do me a favor.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  Paislee stops and swings into me. She presses her fingers against my chest so I have to take half a step back and meet her stare. “Don’t mention that you know. She’ll treat you like the son you are, and you should look at her like the mom she is.”

  Her mouth moves like she wants to say more, but then her chin begins to quiver. “I mean, Mom.” Her lips open and close over the rest of her words.

  Keyon strokes her back. “It’s okay. He’ll see her soon. Two more twists of this freaking endless hallway and we’re there.”

  My sister nods, managing a trembling smile. Out on the porch, I obliterated the missing years with Paislee in my arms. Can I do the same with Mom?

  Soft laughter rings from the end of the hallway. Dim orange wall sconces guide us toward it—a woman’s laugh—I know that laugh.

  “Your daughter did an excellent job with the measurements, and that was even without Mr. Win, here. He sent her down alone, did she tell you?”

  “She did. Yes, Paislee has always given it all in everything she does.” Ah I didn’t remember that Mom’s voice is the prettiest of them all. “Talking about my daughter. What’s taking her so long? Weren’t they just going to get a drink?”

  “We’re back,” Keyon says, simply. It’s not that simple.

  I stop in the hallway, winded like I’ve been running.

  “Come.” Paislee’s voice is a whisper, and I realize she’s a few steps ahead of me. She hooks a hold of my arm and gives me a tug. I want to throw up.

  “Rip off the Band-Aid.” Keyon stares at me. Until he strides ahead, into the room, taking my last remnant of calm with him.

  “Let me hold your wine for a second, Margaret,” he says in there.

  “Oh okay? Why?”

  I peer past Paislee and watch the slender back of a woman as she settles her glass in Keyon’s outstretched hand.

  “Why don’t you take a seat?” He points at a chair. The room is ballroom-sized, and with the exception of a group of chairs, it’s empty. It boasts light, wooden floors and walls made entirely of mirrors, mirrors in a crazy shade of gold that reflects my mother from all sides.

  She sits down with a confused expression. I can’t breathe at that face.

  “Look what I found on the doorstep.” Paislee’s vowels are enrichened by their echo. Against the will of my feet, she pulls me inside, and Mom’s attention goes to me.

  Time has treated her well. I’d have recognized her anywhere, even with the dusting of wrinkles that shape lines of joy and worry across her features. She stands as I walk toward her. Helpless to avoid this, I run a hand through my mohawk.

  “Well, who do we have here, another fine-looking young man?” She smiles as I move forward. “A friend, Keyon?”

  “You could say that,” Keyon says.

  “Mom,” Paislee begins but doesn’t continue.

  My heart thunders. I drink in her features as I walk. The room is so long. I pick up speed, eyes straight on my stepmother, my mother, she who made my childhood a childhood, the one who was always there until she wasn’t.

  I see it when recognition hits.

  “No!” Mom exhales, and then she covers her face with her hands and slumps back into the chair. “But is it you?”

  “Margaret, are you okay?” Markeston reaches her before me, touches a shoulder.

  “It’s my baby boy,” she muffles into her hands. “Is it my baby boy?”

  “Hurry,” Paislee says. I swallow the distance. I’m by her, over her—she’s so tiny, my mother. How wild. I sink to my haunches. On autopilot, my hands latch on to her arms. She’s trembling.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Mom, it’s me.”

  She’s shaking her head, but I tip her chin up. I’ll face the music. I deserve it for never reaching out. If she’s upset, mad, hates me, I understand. Heck, if she needs closure, I’ll take that too.

  “Mom?”

  Her face is wet, mascara blotched at the corners of her eyes where her smile should sit.

  “I’ll leave, okay? I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just— We thought it would be a good idea.”

  She inhales fast, a tear-filled sound, as she straightens on her chair. I let go of her arms, but now she’s the one pulling on me. She wants me low again, and I comply. I lean in and don’t deserve it when her arms go around me.

  Ah. I’m crying.

  “How long is it since they last saw each other?” Markeston asks.

  “Twelve years, I think?” Keyon replies, tone equally low. It still resonates in this room, the mirrors amplifying all sound.

  Mom squeezes me close, a strangled sob vibrating against my ear.

  “He’s not that old?”

  “No, he’s eighteen.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “You turned eighteen yesterday,” Mom whispers.

  Paislee sinks down next to me. “I can’t believe I lost out on another birthday party for you.”

  “You didn’t. There was none.”

  Mom sits up, and I wipe my eyes so I can see her. “You saved it for us?”

  I drag in air for an honest response—there wasn’t much to celebrate. Markeston’s beats me to it. “Awesome! The party’s on in”—he flicks a look down at his watch—“three hours. Can we make it, Keyon?”

  “As in?”

  “We need more guests. Can you think of anyone who likes to party?” Markeston taps his mouth playfully.

  “Ha. Right. Guess I know some fighters.” I look over in time to catch his answering grin.

  Markeston claps his hands. They’re small and chubby like him, and his eyes are the type that darts with excitement. “Margaret, would you like to be my party planner?” He strides toward the door, jingling a small bell. I flick a look at Keyon.

  “He’s calling his housekeeper.”

  Markeston’s backyard is not a backyard. It’s a park that’s so big I doubt we can cover it by foot before we’re called back for dinner.

  “Wait until you see this,” Paislee says, her hand in Keyon’s. We’ve passed a giant pool and a Hawaiian-style wet bar. Now, we’re on an intricately paved trail that curves through endless palm trees in front of us.

  “He’s got a pavilion down here. Whoops—watch out!” As she says it, she jumps to the side. Something clops by, nudging my knee in passing as if getting me out of the way.

  “What the hell?”

  “I know, right?” Keyon snickers. “It’s Markeston’s pets. Or one type of his pets.”

  I narrow my eyes, trying to follow the animal as it rounds a corner at top speed. Galloping. Well, that decides it; if it gallops, it’s a horse right? Only this horse is smaller than a dog!

  “Okay, what was that?”

  The creature whinnies, screeching off.

  “And you’ve just met one of Markeston’s horsies. Because why have small dogs when you can have mini-mini horsies, right?” Paislee’s gaze is bright with humor. “Oh and here’s another one.”

  This time I hear it coming. The first “horsy” must have been running on the lawn. It would explain why I heard nothing until he stepped on the path behind me. Horsy number two shoots past us, efficiently knocking me onto the grass with a hip. “Whoa, they’re strong, huh?”

  “I know!”

  “There it is.” Paislee sounds reverent. “What do you think? I could live there, I swear, even if it doesn’t have beds or a kitchen or anyth
ing. I present to you, The Pavilion.” She extends both arms in a ta-dah toward an opening between the trees.

  It’s a round structure made of wood. Or no—it’s not exactly round. I’d say, depending on the number of walls put together, it looks to be octagon-shaped. While Markeston’s ballroom was made of mirrors, the walls of this structure are all glass panes. Big, large, tall windows that allow for a full view of its interior.

  “Remember the dinner we had in there?” she says to Keyon.

  “Yep. Markeston likes his booze and food. Lots of finger foods that time.”

  “We got a bit drunk.”

  “Sloshed, baby,” he specifies, which makes Paislee trill out a laugh. “Step aside.” Keyon gives me a small push. Just in time too.

  “Whoa, man, how many toy horses does he have?”

  “Pretty much a herd. And do you hear that?”

  I quiet, listening.

  Mewling. “He’s got cats?”

  “Oh no, if only. Listen and tell me where the sound comes from. I mean the closest one.”

  Above us. Definitely above. When I look up, I find three peacocks, feathers fanned out to impress someone—us? Their ladies?—on top of the pavilion roof.

  “Jeez. Let me guess. He’s got a flock of those too?”

  “You bet he does.”

  “So cats and dogs are passé?”

  “In Markeston’s world, definitely.”

  We talk about Rigita. It’s so vivid I can picture Paislee in her loft studio above the mirror factory where she started working at seventeen. She describes the process of the mirror-making. It sounds complex and fascinating. If I ever make it back to Rigita, I’ll ask Old-Man Win, her boss, to let me give it a try. I mean they wear masks against the fumes. How cool is that?

  Our mother doesn’t stay away from us for long. She joins us in the pavilion, wedges in between Paislee and me on a couch that’s octagon-shaped too. It bends through each corner, wall to wall.

  Mom has her hair up now, and her makeup is back in place. Markeston and Old-Man are on their way too, she says.

  I can’t stop studying her face. The wrinkles are fine and spider-webbed. Would I have noticed if they came gradually to me, if every day they inched slowly onto the slate of her face? I suppress the ache of that thought.

  “Tell me about you. Cugs, what’s happened in your life?” Her eyes shine. “That’s a question I never thought I’d ask my own son. I always thought I’d know what was going on in my babies’ lives.”

  I nod slowly, mind stuck on “my own son.” Paislee smiles, brows arched as if saying, See? My mouth curls in response; I don’t mind being wrong tonight. I’m just not sure about the telling part.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything, baby boy. Please, everything.”

  “I live in a small town a bit north of here,” I start then. Maybe she knows I live in Newbark. “I just turned eighteen.” I wink at Mom, because let’s not get heavy over the missing years again. She rewards me with a rounding of lips and a silent bob of her head to continue.

  “I graduated from high school a few months ago, not best of my class, but I did pretty well.”

  “How well?” quips Paislee. I remember this, her butting in and asking for specifics even when they were too specific to share.

  “What? I’m supposed to be a pain.” She still reads me too.

  “No, I’m younger, so I should be the one bugging you.”

  “Now, now, kids,” Mom plays along, planting a hand on each of our shoulders. “No one gets cake if you keep this up.” But then her eyes fill with tears, and she covers her mouth. “Oh gosh,” she warbles. “I promise I won’t ruin this every time I think of...”

  “...all the years,” Paislee finishes in a whisper.

  “I shouldn’t have believed everything he told me.” I lay my arms around two small, strong women. There’s no way I didn’t love them since long before I was born.

  When Markeston arrives, arms lifted to announce the latest from the main house, his face, bright with announcements-to-come, slackens at the sight of us. I guess we’re exactly that: a sight. “Um. Party, anyone?”

  The cake is insane.

  “Who paid for this?” I ask Paislee, who’s dragging a finger along the frosting on her plate. I can’t imagine Mom having all the money in the world, which must be what this cake cost. It’s five-tiered and baby-blue—a weirdly colored wedding cake with a football player on the top.

  “You have Markeston to thank for this goody goodness.” She sucks her finger into her mouth and enjoys the over-sweet flavor.

  Leaning closer, she flicks a stare around us, verifying that everyone’s busy mixing cake and cocktails. “Keyon thinks Markeston is lonely. The man is super-social and super-nice, right? And the fight-gym rats”—she juts her chin at Keyon’s colleagues—“are his children. We don’t think he has another family.”

  “And he’s filthy rich, isn’t he?”

  “Ya think?” A dollop of foamy sugar soaks into one of her nostrils. She blows air out and snatches my napkin to dab it off. Her unladylike behavior makes me snort.

  “You’re a weirdo.”

  “Hey, better than the alternative.”

  I don’t ask, but I wonder what the alternative would be. If she means a normal, regular, middle-of-the-road person, I’d be excited to be the alternative.

  The night isn’t young anymore when we walk upstairs. I’m tired and happier than I can remember. Ahead walks my mother, who hits the top floor and finds me eye to eye in a second I might never forget. “Are you tired, baby boy?”

  “Not too bad. You?” I smile to disguise myself.

  “Not too bad.”

  Mom’s bun has unraveled. She tucks a lock behind her ear. “There’s something I wish I’d talked to you about in Rigita. If I’d known you’d leave me so soon, I wouldn’t have procrastinated.” She shakes her head like she should start over. “I was afraid that you would look at me differently.”

  There’s a fragility in her eyes that I want to erase. “Don’t worry, Mom.”

  I follow to her side of the banistered gallery. She opens the door to her room and lets me in first. Big and colorful, it boasts a king-sized bed against a wall. The mattress is so high there are steps on the side for whomever needs them. I suspect my little mother will.

  A coffee table and two arm chairs wait in front of a window, but Mom pats the bed—and uses the stairs to get up. I sink down next to her, watching as she rummages through an oversized handbag.

  “It’s in here somewhere. Sorry, I carry around too much stuff.”

  “No, you’re fine,” I automatically reply, but then she pulls out one of those small photo albums one gets for free at one-hour film processing. For a moment, I freeze, unable to digest the possibilities. It’s red, shiny, promising, and my heart thuds harder, awake from my brain pumping out impulses with a vengeance.

  “You still use those things?”

  Mom laughs softly. “I should have had them digitalized, I know, but I like the feel of them in my hands. It’s like the memories become more tangible.”

  She lays the album down on the bed, and we stretch out side by side.

  I’m brave when she opens to the first page. “Who’s that?” Flushed and skinny and wrinkled, the tiny human in the picture must be my sister or me.

  “That’s you as a newborn. You know what’s funny?” She presses her chin against her shoulder to see me better in our face-down positions. I make an unused grunt. “It’s like you’d decided to be a stand-up little citizen from the start. You were such a beautiful, precious baby. In the morning, you’d wake up, and you wouldn’t even cry. I’d just feel you study me from your crib, and I’d open my eyes.”

  “We slept in the same room?”

  “When you were a baby? Of course we did.
How else would I know if you needed me? I had to hear you breathe. Sometimes, after your three-a.m. snack, we’d both be too sleepy, so I’d just keep you in bed with us until we got up.” She smiles. “Your father wasn’t always happy about that. A man thing, you know. Wants his bed to himself.”

  My mind rolls back to my father’s stories about Mom and how she didn’t want to stimulate breast milk production. I’ve thought about it a few times since then. I wonder what she fed me. And then I think what nerve my father had for demanding anything of her after what he did.

  Mom opened her home for his baby. I consider the unfairness of it, Mom’s saintliness, her capacity for love. Dad paid her back by sequestering me and not allowing her contact with me. I need to suppress the enormity of it, because whoa.

  She turns to the next page. It’s my mother standing by a hospital entrance with a bundle in her arms. “We picked you up from the hospital hours after you were born. God, I look crazy, but I keep this picture because you’re so tiny in it.”

  At first sight, she doesn’t look strange at all. She’s perfectly dolled up with makeup and hair done. She wears a thick coat, and I’m a little burrito in all the blankets. But then, beneath her hem, thin bare legs stick out of a short skirt and into boots that don’t reach her knees.

  “Yeah,” she murmurs, answering my silent question. “I sort of lost it during the last few minutes at home. I was getting the house ready for you, overheating it, getting rid of the smallest specks of dust, and airing the last smell of paint out of your room. You weren’t even going to use that room.” She lets out a puff of a laugh. “In the end, I forgot to get dressed. I threw a coat over a summer skirt and paired it with rain boots. As I said, crazy.”

  “But your eyes,” I say.

  “I was happy.” Mom tilts a smile my way. “Cugs… You heard me, right?”

  I know what she refers to. “I did.”

  “That we picked you up? I wasn’t there with you in the hospital.”

  “He told me.”

  “Dad told you that I’m not your...?” Mom hesitates, like she’d rather not finish her question. Then she clears her throat and finishes anyway. “He told you that I’m not your biological mother?”