Page 14 of The Chosen Two

Phoebe’s listening to The Beatles and laying out her outfit for the morning when I knock on her door frame. She smiles at me while singing to herself about a fireman rushing in from the rain. I’m drained from the day, so I lie in her bed to wait for her.

“Mom, you okay? You seem a little…off?” She places a striped shirt and polka-dot pants on her dresser, and I suppress my grin. Even at eleven, she matches only by accident, but she always looks adorable. Coordination and conformation are overrated anyway.

I roll my eyes. Even her concern is sassy. “Thanks, hon. Love you too. I’m okay. Just have a lot going on. A lot to think about.”

She quirks an eyebrow as she looks over her shoulder at me. “Like the weird fox?”

I smile. “Yeah, like the weird fox.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. All folklore and myths have to start somewhere. Maybe it’s a relatively common occurrence, and that’s where the myth about kitsune started.”

“I’m sure you’re right. You usually are.” I puff my chest out in pride at how brilliant my kids are.

She beams at me from the acknowledgement and shuts her light. Then she skips over and hops into her bed.

I cuddle up next to her, tucking her head under my chin. “Anything you want to talk about?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good. But can you just snuggle me for a few minutes? It’s harder for me to fall asleep when Daddy’s away.”

“I’m happy to, Sweets.” She doesn’t often ask for me to snuggle her anymore, so I’m definitely not going to pass up this opportunity. She is my most empathetic child. Whenever something is off with one of us, she feels that imbalance, and it affects her.

We lie in quiet for a few minutes. Then she announces, “Okay, there’s no way I’m falling asleep like this anymore. Sorry!”

We both crack up laughing. I kiss her head and say, “Goodnight, sleep tight, dream dreams as sweet as you,” into her hair.

She gives me one last tight hug. “Night, mom.”

I pause outside Jessie’s door, steeling myself with a deep breath for my strongest child. I’m not sure I can handle her strength right now. I open her squeaky door. She sits on her bed, her headphones and video game discarded beside her. She’s erased all traces of her childhood obsession with kittens from her room. Instead, posters of rock bands cover her walls. I poke my head in through the narrow opening I allow myself. “Hey, Sweetie.”

“Hey, Mom.” She looks up and closes her laptop so we can actually communicate. “Are you okay?”

I’m taken aback by her question. “Umm, yes? Why?”

“I mean, remote encounter with a very real three-tailed fox aside, you just seem to be distracted and not quite your normal self.” Her hazel eyes look stormy as she locks them on mine. She must pay more attention to me than I thought.

I raise my eyebrows. “I’m okay. Just lots going on, ya know?”

She nods quietly. She hardly ever does anything quietly.

“Areyouokay?” I ask, fighting the sudden urge to comb her long, mermaid-like brown curls the way she used to let me when she was six, and hasn’t since.

“Yeah. I think I’m just getting my period. A little weepy, you know?” And then her tears well up. And then mine well up, because that’s what happens when your strong first born shows their vulnerability. And then we’re sitting on the edge of her bed, hugging and crying about everything and nothing because we have to do that once in a while.

Sometimes you find out you’re supposed to be fighting mythological beasts and life just builds up to the point when you need to cry. But your husband is out of town, and your best friend is on a crazy schedule with her baby, and you don’t know who else you could tell this bullshit to who wouldn’t have you committed. So, you hold your girl and cry.

After a few minutes, she gently pushes back, wipes her cheeks, and looks me in the eye. “I’m good, Mom. You can go.” She smiles at the end, so I know she’s okay.

“Okay, baby. Just, come find me if you need me.” I don’t really want to leave, but I know it’s important to give her space when she wants it.

“Okay, Mom. Goodnight.” She still has her slight smile on her face.

“Sweet dreams. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” I tuck her in like she’s still six and kiss her forehead.

Once I close her door, I head to my bathroom. Mascara has gathered in my already prominent bags, making me look haggardly. Thank god Jake is away. He’d have something clever to say about this look, I’m sure.

Two make-up remover wipes later, I’m bare faced. I find a comfy pair of pjs and take off the sweats I never changed out of when a certain someone so rudely interrupted my nap.

George Keating. Ugh.

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