Page 30 of Ink Blood Sister Scribe

Joanna removed her coat and unwound the scarf from around her neck, hanging them over the back of a chair. Cecily’s books hummed along the edge of her awareness, as they always did, though they seemed louder today. Maybe Cecily had moved them from their usual place in her upstairs bedroom.

“Coffee?” Cecily said, already pouring her a cup, then topping up her own mug. Joanna thought her mother might’ve had enough caffeine already—she seemed on edge, slamming the cream too hard on the table, rattling the cup in its saucer, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder as she moved around the kitchen. The dog seemed anxious, too, and paced a few times before she thwumped down at Joanna’s feet, her body curled but her head still upright, alert.

The odd energy was contagious, and Joanna fought against a sudden feeling of disquiet. She took a sip of her coffee, told herself to relax.

Once it had astonished Joanna to see her mother here, astonished her to see any member of their family in such an ordinary, unhidden life, but now she could hardly remember what Cecily had looked like in the kitchen of Abe’s house. Her memory of living with her mother was dimmed, or maybe her mother had been dimmed by that life. Now Cecily had a job, friends, a sweet dog, she’d been dating a horticulturist from the university. Oftentimes Joanna felt like a relic of her mother’s old life, like a walking talking piece of the house Cecily had been so happy to leave.

“What’ve you been doing today?” Cecily asked, sitting across from Joanna. She was focused on Joanna’s face, yet Joanna felt her attention elsewhere, one of her legs jiggling slightly.

Joanna thought back on her morning, which had been quite nice, really. So nice it made her tired to think of packaging it for her mother. One thing she knew would make Cecily happy, though, so she told her about the cat. Cecily was a great believer in animals for the soul.

“I don’t think he was expecting how much he liked to be pet,” Joanna said. “Tonight I’m going to see if he’ll come inside.”

Cecily smiled, but she seemed distracted, standing to check on the bread.

“What will you call him?”

“I don’t know,” said Joanna. “He’s a tomcat, brown and sort of stripey, with really lovely amber eyes. Any ideas?”

“Well, I’d have to meet him,” said Cecily. She said it lightly, but still Joanna’s defenses began to creep up. Cecily ladled two bowls of carrot soup and refilled Joanna’s coffee, and the two went quiet, eating.

“This is delicious,” Joanna said eventually, an attempt to bring her mother out of whatever stressed-out funk she was in. “I made it at home, and it came out all watery.”

“I add a mashed potato,” said Cecily.

“I read online that chefs in Antarctica only get a shipment of fresh vegetables once a season,” she said. “In the winter it’s too cold for planes to fly—the jet fuel congeals. So if the summer season just started, Esther’s probably eating fresh vegetables for the first time in months.”

Cecily paused visibly, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Yes,” she said. That one syllable was so saturated with anxiety that Joanna, too, stopped eating.

“What is it?” she said, gentling her voice. She didn’t like seeing her mother so agitated, especially when she didn’t understand the cause. “You’re always saying it makes you sad, that Esther moves so much, that she can’t put down roots. I would have thought you’d be happy to see her staying put, for once.”

Cecily laid her spoon beside her bowl. Her red lips were pressed so tightly together the skin around them had turned white, fine lines standing out in sharp relief. She shook her head roughly.

Joanna felt a prickle of alarm. “Please, tell me.”

“I want to come to the house,” Cecily said, which for once wasn’t at all what Joanna had been expecting. “Just for the evening.”

“What’s that got to do with Esther?”

Cecily began to speak and coughed instead, that same harsh retch. Joanna started to her feet, but Cecily waved her down, shaking her head. “I’m fine,” she said after a second. “Sorry. I just—” She paused and seemed to collect herself. “I haven’t seen one of my girls in ten years and god knows when I’ll ever see her again. And the other one... sometimes I feel like you’re as far away as Esther.”

“I’m right here.”

“Your body is here in my kitchen,” said Cecily. “Yes. You come, we talk, you visit in town, we take walks—and I’m happy to see you every time. Any time, any way I can get you. But you are my child, and I haven’t stepped foot in your home since you were sixteen years old.” Cecily’s voice was shaking slightly. “I don’t really know how you live. I don’t know what your life looks like or how you really feel about it. And even when you are here, when I can see you, touch you, I know I don’t have all of you. Part of you is down in that basement, with your books, locked up in that house—and you’ll never let me in. Never.”

Joanna sat, fingertips burning against her mug of coffee. This wasn’t like Cecily’s usual complaints.This was empty of reproach, of accusation, and full of real anguish. Her mother’s eyes brimming with tears.

“Mom,” she said. “You set fire to the wards.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Dad told me you’d do it again. And you would, wouldn’t you? If you had the chance?”

Cecily was quiet. It was answer enough.

“I can’t let that happen,” Joanna said. “He made me promise.”

“He’sdead,Joanna,” said Cecily. “He’s gone and I’m still here.”

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