MORTAL COILS (109 page)

Nothing
about this was cool. Their old home destroyed. Now they were moving. How could
her brother still be such a child?

“What’s
the matter,” he asked, “dyseidetic?”

It
was a subtle insult. Dyseidetic was the visual subform of dyslexia. In other
words, Eliot had asked if she had a hard time reading due to brain
impairment—as if she didn’t read twice as fast as he did.

Fiona
hands clenched and she ground her teeth.

Her
anger crashed through her like a tidal wave. She let it swell . . . then fade.
She had learned to wait. The red tide of primal blood that washed through her
emotions came with increasing regularity since the night she’d fought
Beelzebub.

She
knew, though, that if she waited a few seconds, the rage would pass.

She
wasn’t angry at Eliot. He was just being her brother . . . although that in
itself was still extremely annoying.

So
what had made her so angry?

Maybe
it had been Marcellus Masters’s Practical First Aid and Surgical

Guide.
Here they were moving a small library of books, still doing everything Audrey
and Cee told them to do like good little boys and girls.

Hadn’t
anything changed?

She
took the slender volume from her brother and ran her hands over its worn
leather cover. She’d read this at least three times. She had learned all the
emergency techniques that any good eighteenth-century battlefield medic should
know. A few weeks ago, she thought she would never need it.

“Hardly
dyseidetic,” she told Eliot. “Although I think I might have brain damage from
being so near you, 1,4-diaminobutane toxicosis.”

Eliot
tilted his head, thinking that one through.

This
was familiar ground for Fiona. Trading insults was like visiting a
long-forgotten childhood (even though it had just been a few days since it had
all seemed normal). The verbal sparring broke the ice, though. Fiona almost
felt as if she’d come home.

She
set the book inside the box and smoothed back the tape.

“Okay,”
Eliot said. “I give. What’s 1,4-diaminobutane?”

“You’ll
need to reread Marmat’s Guide to Autopsy. 1,4-diaminobutane is also called
putrescine. It’s produced by decomposing flesh—it also contributes to halitosis.”

Eliot
pursed his lips, frustrated at not knowing this.

“Halitosis
. . . that’s bad breath.”

“I
know what halitosis is,” he muttered.

Vocabulary
insult was a trivial, stupid, little kid’s game . . . but it still felt good to
win.

Eliot
nonchalantly picked up a clipboard with the moving van’s manifest, doing his
best to look as if losing the first round didn’t matter.

“This
van’s half-full,” he said. “We’ll need to leave some space. It’s supposed to
pick up some new furniture along the way.”

“Along
the way to where?” Fiona asked, leaning closer.

He
pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “There’s the address.”

The
street name didn’t mean anything to Fiona, but the city was San Francisco.
“We’re moving to the city?”

San
Francisco wouldn’t be like Del Sombra. There would be thousands, hundreds of
thousands, of people—exotic restaurants—libraries—museums! Her enthusiasm,
however, chilled. A hundred thousand people? All of them strangers?

“Maybe
we’re not going there,” Eliot said. “San Francisco is a port. Our stuff could
be getting shipped to anywhere in the world.”

“I
wish someone had asked us where we want to go.”

Cee
emerged from room number 4 of the motel. Blinking in the sunlight, she called,
“Eliot . . . oh, Fiona—you’re back!” She waved a lace handkerchief to make sure
they saw her. “Come, children. It’s all almost ready.”

Cee
looked the same in her homemade sepia dress from the turn of the century. Some
things would never change, and Fiona took comfort in that.

She
and her brother started to walk toward the room, until Eliot tried to edge
ahead of her, then Fiona broke into a run—left him behind in her dust and
thoroughly trounced him getting to the door first.

She
paused, panting.

Inside
it was dark and her eyes had yet to adjust. “What’s almost ready?”

Cee
moved into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Fiona got a glimpse
inside of the good china plates and silverware on the counter.

“Oh,
no,” Eliot said behind her.

“She’s
not going to cook, is she?” Fiona whispered.

Cee
left the bathroom, hiding whatever was in there with great care.

She
trundled to Fiona and hugged her with shaking arms. “Oh, my dove, how I’ve
missed you. Five days seemed like forever. Why, you have a tan. It looks . . .
wonderful. And a new dress?” She looked suspicious as she examined it. “Well, I
can let it out a little here—and let down that scandalous hem.”

Cee
pulled Fiona into the room. “Come. Come. Sit.”

Eliot
opened the curtains to let in some light.

Fiona
did a double take. The bed had been removed from the room. In its place were
four chairs and a table with their old tablecloth and lace doilies. A dresser
had been pushed by the window and piled high with books.

Cee
had done an excellent job of re-creating the dining room of their old
apartment.

“It’s
. . . it’s perfect,” Fiona breathed.

“I
thought you might want to see the place one more time,” Cee whispered. “To
properly say good-bye.”

Fiona
hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Cee. Thank you!”

Fiona
hadn’t realized until now how much she was going to miss the old place and her
old life. She had known nothing else. Moving forward into the unknown, she felt
ungrounded—and although she hadn’t realized it until just now, scared, too.

“This
is great.” Eliot ran his hand over the dresser and read the titles of

the
stacked books. “Hey, here are the books we got for our birthday!” He pulled out
his H. G. Wells, The Time Machine, and then handed Fiona her Jules Verne.

Fiona
held From the Earth to the Moon with great reverence. “I almost forgot.”

“The
best is yet to come,” Cee told them.

“What
do you mean?” Fiona turned just in time to see someone step into the room’s
open doorway. She didn’t have to see her face to know who it was.

“Hello,
Mother,” Fiona said.

Audrey
replied, “Happy birthday, children.”

Eliot
saw that Audrey wore a simple white cotton dress. He’d never seen her wear
white before, and for some reason it gave him a chill. With her pale skin and
silver hair backlit by the sun she looked as if she belonged in some ancient
tapestry.

The
only word he could think to describe her was regal. As if she were a goddess.

She
stepped into the room and the illusion partially faded.

Audrey
may have been all those things . . . but she was still his mother, wasn’t she?

Yes.

He
rushed to her with open arms . . . hesitated just before he made contact
because she just stood there, looking confused at his display of affection.

Then
she opened her arms and drew him to her.

It
was almost a real hug. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine it was full of
warmth and caring.

She
rocked him back and forth, then gently pushed him back. She went to Fiona and
embraced her as well.

The
gesture was tender, but different from the way she had hugged Eliot. Some
barrier was between Fiona and Audrey—nothing bad, just a layer of mutual
respect that hadn’t been there before.

“Where
were you?” Eliot asked.

“Making
travel arrangements,” Audrey replied. “We can’t live in a motel for the rest of
our lives, can we? Thank you, and you, too, Cecilia, for getting everything
arranged and into the vans.”

“So
where are we going?” Eliot asked.

Cee
cleared her throat.

“Ah,
yes,” Audrey said, “I believe Cecilia has something for you two before we
discuss that.”

Cee
beamed and went to the room’s bathroom, returning with a cake box. “Happy
birthday, my darlings!”

Fiona’s
face went slack seeing the box, but Cee quickly opened it and showed her what
was inside: carrot cake.

“Don’t
worry,” Cee whispered. “I know. No chocolate.”

Fiona
looked immensely relieved.

Cee
set the cake on the table. From her pocket she produced thirty candles, which
she then carefully screwed into the cream-cheese frosting.

“We
never finished our party,” Audrey told them. “I couldn’t let your birthdays
pass without a proper celebration.”

Eliot
couldn’t believe they had remembered.

“Now
for fire.” Cee opened a book of matches, ripped one out, and struck it with a
shaking hand. The flame reflected in her dark eyes.

Eliot
said, “Maybe you better—”

“Let
me do it.” Audrey smiled, and added, “Please, if you would, Cecilia?”

Cee
nodded and gave her the lit match.

Audrey
quickly touched it to all the candles, lighting them. The match burned close to
her fingers, until she squeezed the flame to a hissing ember.

“Now,”
Audrey said, turning to Eliot and Fiona, “time to make new birthday wishes.”

Eliot
and Fiona stepped forward. He looked at his sister. What was she going to wish
for? More time with Robert? New clothes?

No,
he had a feeling she wanted the same thing he did.

She
gave him a knowing nod, and they leaned forward, inhaling.

Eliot
wished for a mother that would adore him, a father who would be proud of him, a
sister to tease and to share his adventures with, and a dozen score of aunts
and uncles and cousins . . . a family, a real family.

Sure,
it would never be perfect. But what family was?

They
blew at the candles.

The
flames guttered and went out—save for one that winked back to life. Fiona and
Eliot quickly puffed again and extinguished it.

Close
enough.

“Let’s
eat,” Fiona said. “I’m hungry for the first time in weeks.”

“Wonderful.”
Cee clapped her hands in delight. “I’ll get the plates.”

“Wait,”
Audrey said. “There’s more.”

“Oh,
silly me,” Cee said. “I’m so addled. How could I forget the most important
part?” She opened a dresser drawer and withdrew two packages wrapped in brown
paper.

“The
rest of your presents,” Audrey told them.

Cee
set the packages on the table, one before Eliot, the other before Fiona. Cee’s
gift-wrapping skills left a little to be desired: they were full-size grocery
bags stapled shut.