Stirred
It’s two-thirty in the morning and the rest of the world is sleeping. I creep downstairs, skipping every step that creaks. Padding softly into the kitchen, I immediately head to the fridge. Taking out the pie Mom made, I cut a big piece and put the rest back. I pour myself a small glass of water. With a wet paper towel, I wipe up any droplets and crumbs from the counter.
Snack in hand, I go out the sliding doors and into our backyard. I balance the cup of water and pie in one hand, and reach back with the other to close the door. It’s a balmy, summer night; no clouds in the sky, a soft breeze rustling the tree’s leaves, and bugs, chirping an early morning song, create a soothing escape from the nightmares of last night.
I head over to the pool, ignoring the chairs and tables near the house. Carefully placing my food on the ground, I bend down to roll the legs of my sweat pants up. Sitting down and sticking my feet in the cool, teal water, I pick up my pie and take a bite. I stare up at the stars.
People in desperate situations always stare at the stars. They might even ask a question: “Universe what am I doing wrong with my life?” Or “Will someone tell me how to fix this problem?” They think that the Cosmos will guide them to an answer.
I think that’s insane. These people ask for solutions from any divine being listening. They shout these questions out, in hopes that something greater than them will come down and magically solve all their problems. Unknowing that these being are selfish. That a greater being’s answers might fix everything, but only according to their morals and ethics. And those answers usually come with heartache and misery.
I think it’s silly, yet here I am about to do the same thing. I know better. I know the beings out there intimately. But still I stare up at the stars, hoping they’ll give me an answer.
“Why do you have such a big piece of pie?”
I almost fall in the pool. Spinning around, I find her seated at the table I ignored when I came out here. Her body is bathed in darkness. The only thing I can see are her amber eyes, glinting dangerously in her dark face. She stands and walks over to me. I turn my head away in embarrassment. I stare at my lap, as she sits down beside me sticking her legs into the water as well.
I peek at her from my peripheral. The light from the pool dances in her raven coils. The humidity in the air is making it frizz and fluff up. Thickly lashed, clay colored eyes glitter in her mocha brown skin. She arches an ebony brow at me, and glares disapprovingly, until her wide mouth stretches into a smile. She lifts her face to the sky, as a light breeze blows, ruffling our curls. I stare at her, watching the stars in her eyes. Catching me staring, she winks and flashing her white teeth at me in a grin.
It’s times like this, I forget that I know nothing about my mother. Her hair shrouds her in mystery. Those eyes hide her thoughts. That smile hides her true feelings. She is a walking enigma. A puzzle I doubt I’ll ever figure out.
I mentally shrug. Eating a bite of pie, I relax a bit. I’m enjoying this quiet time alone with her.
Then a flashback hits me.
***
My mother, tears falling from her brown eyes, watches a house burn. She falls to her knees and whispers, “Please, God, no.”
Firefighters come running out of the house, carrying bodies. She crawls to the firefighters and grabs the end of one of their jackets, trying to see the body. An officer runs over and pulls her away, allowing her to sob on his shoulder. Muffled yells sound from the crook of his neck.
***
She presses her cool hands against my cheeks, “Breathe, Kenny. Just breathe.” I blink away tears, and stare up into her sad eyes. “These flashes,” she says quietly, “They’re of my past, aren’t they?”
My jaw drops in shock; “How did you know about them?”
She smiles, “I have cameras and microphones installed everywhere in the house.”
I blink up at her.
She cocks an eyebrow at me and folds her arms, “Now answer my question.”
I try to look away, but she stops me with a gentle hand to my cheek. Closing my eyes and resting my head against it, I sigh, “Not all the time. I wasn’t even seeing your past, until Ethan asked you about that scar.”
She touches her neck grimacing. She nods thoughtfully, “I thought so.” She smiles ruefully, “I’ve actually known about them since they started, but I was waiting for you to tell me.”
I shake my head at her and smirk, despondently gazing out at the pool, “I would have never told you. I thought you would be angry.”
She grabs a fistful of my curls and turns my head to her. She presses her mouth to my forehead and sighs. Wrapping her arms around my shoulders, she rests her chin on my head. She quietly, says, “I am angry. But not with you. I’m angry because I can’t bear this burden for you. I can’t take this hurt away, and that frustrates the hell out of me.”
I wrap my arms around her tiny waist, and mumble, “I know.”
She sighs, her breath ruffling my hair; “Don’t tell Finny this, but she’s right. You having these flashes and Milla hearing voices, has swayed me; you all need to know about our pasts.”
She drags a petite hand through her wild hair. “You should have heard her,” She mimics Aunt Finny’s raspy voice, “ ‘Rowan, how are they supposed to know who to defend themselves from, if we don’t tell them who our enemies are?’ ”
I chuckle at her spot on imitation of Finny.
She continues: “ ‘Rowan, how did you feel when no one told about your bloodline? Rowan, if we had a historian, you wouldn’t even have to tell them about your past. They could just read it.’ Ugh, I can just hear her now.”
“Is that voice supposed to be me?”
My mother and I freeze.
Turning our heads in unison, we spot Aunt Finny standing in the sliding door, tapping her foot. Her signature rose red waves billow around her short, curvy body. She’s dressed in an all white, lace nightgown, like some sort of heroine in a Victorian novel. She cocks her head at us and raises her flame colored eyebrows, “Well, Madame?”
Mom rolls her eyes and stands. Walking over to Finny she calls to me over her shoulder; “Tell your siblings to come to the den in the morning. It’s past time I told you all your ancestry.”
I watch her walk over to Finny. Long, lithe legs lead up to round hips and a waist so tiny, you would never suspect she had a kid; much less thirteen.
She stands, clad in a black tank top and black cloth shorts, in front of my Aunt. At 5’ 8”, she towers over Finny’s shorter frame; “Finny! Guess what? I’m finally telling the kids about my past!” She gushes at her.
It’s Finny’s turn to roll her eyes, “I heard. What I didn’t hear is the name of the person writing it all down.”
Mom grimaces.
Finny throws her hands in the air, “You never think anything through!”
She waves a hand impatiently at Finny, trying to shush her. Tapping a finger against her chin, she suddenly shrugs and points back at me, “Kenny will.”
This is news to me.
“Wait a minute,” Mom says, a comical look of disbelief on her face, “I never think anything through?! Me?! Who’s the one that got us kidnapped my Junior year of college, because she “accidentally” set fire to a certain someone’s house? You, that’s who!”
A gasp of betrayal follows that statement, as they both head into the house, arguing. My mom turns back to close the door. Winking at me, she loudly says, laughing, “And Kenny’s going to write it all down, too! So I’ll have physical proof, when one of our husbands whines about the two of us being in danger all the time. I’ll tell them it’s you who puts us in the line of fire the most!”
I turn back to the pool and stare up at the stars. After a while I get up, heading into the house. I chance a look over my shoulder, in time to see a shooting star. A low, chuckling voice sounds in my ear. I frown and say, quietly, “You’re not funny.”
At that, I turn away and close the door.