Page 47 of Sons of Sorrow
“Nobody asked,” I growled. “And in any case, time and a place.”
“You’ve spread enough rumors about me, anyway,” he said, examining his fingernails. “How I come from money, how my parents own the biggest, most profitable butterfly farm in the land.”
This time I held up my hands, but more from the temptation to punch him out than to pacify him. Yes, I might have mentioned to one or two people that Evander was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and ventured out into the world with a golden dildo up his butt. So what?
“My father left when I was young,” Evander continued. “We never got along, so no skin off my back. No father figure. Who cares, right? I had my mother. But business went bad. Didn’t help that I wanted to come to the Wispwood, that it would cost my mom an arm and a leg, with her failing farm and everything. We fought. A lot. I said I would make her proud one day, show her that becoming a summoner would be the ticket to helping us out of that hole.”
“Listen, Skink. If you can’t tell for yourself how inappropriate this is — ”
“She died,” Evander said, his expression flat.
My words faded from my lips. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked, no longer so angry, faint tinges of my guilt and shame from the great oak table returning.
“Because I understand. Because you would understand. She died, Locke. Before we could make up, before I could tell her I loved her, before I could show her that this thing you and I both studied for years actually could lead to a brighter future.”
My eyes darted around the atrium, seeing pieces of his story to put together. Did I care, or didn’t I? Once or twice, I’d been curious, exactly as he said, back in the oriels when we’d been forced to work together.
Evander rolled his eyes, like he was overcompensating, trying not to show me his sadness. “Me racing to beat you to the guardian in the Oriel of Air, tagging along at the Oriel of Water — there is no farm anymore. I needed the money. Living up in the Canopy, affording my spot up there? It’s a fucking struggle. I have no one.” He indicated at the woman in the wheelchair. “But now you have her.”
I shook my head. “I’m so sorry, Evander. I didn’t know.”
He scoffed. “Save your pity for someone else. I’m only telling you this because I can see that you’re struggling. And usually that kind of thing would give me pleasure, but — well, not this time. Some of us don’t get second chances, Locke. Use yours wisely.”
Without waiting for me to answer, Evander turned on his heel and left. A butterfly drifted from the palm of his hand, like something discarded, or something he’d forgotten.
Or maybe it was a gift. The butterfly alighted on my mother’s hand, fluttering gently. She raised her hand, her eyes focusing on its wings. And then there it was, like something returning from a long, deep dive, breaking the surface. A smile. With a sigh, the butterfly disappeared into a puff of pinkish smoke. She laughed.
Maybe I would thank Evander later. Maybe.
“Marina?” I said, reaching for her hand, replacing the butterfly’s touch with my own. “Mom?”
She looked up at me and blinked.
“I know you,” she said, her voice like a distant rasp, hoarse from disuse. Or maybe from all that screeching she did at our fight. “I recognize you, I think.”
The lump in my throat bobbed as I swallowed. I held back my tears, kept my jaw set. Something inside her was reaching out to me. Finally, a chance to reconnect with the woman I thought was long dead. I reached for her hand. Her skin was as soft as I remembered, but her touch was limp, and weak.
“You do know me,” I told her, staring into her eyes. “You made me, in fact. I’m your son.”
She blinked, the glassy haze in her stare seeming to clear, if only a little. “My son?” she asked. “I seem to remember. I had a son, once.”
“You still have one. You still have me.” I couldn’t stand it any longer. The first hot tear spilled down the side of my face. The floodgates opened, my cheeks a warm, wet mess.
The mists in her eyes lifted, like the wind had come to blow the fog away. “Locke. Why are you crying?”
“Mom,” I stammered. “You remember me. My name. My face.”
“Bits and pieces,” she muttered, her eyes flitting about my face, taking in our surroundings. “It’s coming back. I’m sorry. I’m trying my best to remember.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Mom.” I squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, harder this time, the strength returning with her memories.
“How long have I been gone?” she asked, one hand sweeping aside a lock of my hair.
“Too long.” I fell into her arms, my head in the crook of her neck, breathing in the saltwater scent of her hair as I wept like a child. Too long. Far too long.
“It’s okay,” she said, rocking back and forth, my mother all over again within an instant.
She returned my embrace, one hand rubbing at my back, stronger again. Stronger for the both of us. Muscle memory, in a sense, the way she remembered how to love me. I never forgot. Not for a single day did I forget how wonderful it felt to be her son.
