Petunia and the Little Monster

December 1975 (2)

There were very few occasions Petunia could remember witnessing her mother drunk.

Her father had an excuse. Sometimes he would feel blue, her mother had explained when Petunia was young, and then he would sit in the living room with a bottle clutched between his hands as if it was the only thing tethering him to the sagging couch he was sitting on, the only thing that kept him from sinking down into it, sinking deeper and deeper until he was enclosed in darkness. Her mother would drop hints about the war, about his scars and Petunia would learn to associate the two things – alcohol and trauma, never alcohol and fun.

Her mother on the other hand had no such excuse. What were the woes of a housewife, really, compared to those of battle-scarred men? She would indulge in a small sip of brandy in the evenings, once Petunia was already in bed, or on those occasions she had a convenient justification – like eggnog on Christmas. Surely no-one could accuse her mother of being dramatic or neglecting her duties if she was simply indulging in holiday festivities and having one glass too many while in good spirits?

And so Petunia somehow found herself sitting at the kitchen island, watching her mother go from senseless mumbling to deep and thoughtful staring into the distance. Lily was reading one of the books her friends had gifted her, one whose cover she had quickly hidden against her chest in a happy embrace and ran off to her room to look at before Petunia could catch a glimpse of it.

Her father had grumbled when he saw Carol Evans teetering unsteadily as she had cleared the table of the Christmas feast and had retreated to the bedroom, leaving Petunia to help clean up.

Her mother's muttering ceased once more, her unfocused gaze centred somewhere on the sink filled with dirty dishes. Her next words were surprisingly clear.

"Petunia ... you've grown."

Petunia blinked, startled out of her silent musings. It was the first time her mother had addressed her since they retreated to the kitchen.

"Time sometimes seems to slip away. I still remember when I was lying in that hospital bed with you ... did I ever tell you how I came up with your name? Outside the window ... the whole room was drap and bleak and smelled of those sharp tinctures they would smear onto the wounds, I don't recall what it's called but it burns your nose something awful. I felt wretched, torn apart and weak and you were so small and red, but there was one spot of colour in that whole cursed room and it was a pot of petunias on the window ledge. They smelled nice and you smelled nice and you were the colour in my life and so I named you Petunia."

Petunia could do nothing but stare.

"You were so small ... I would hold you in my arms during those first weeks, always afraid that you would somehow get lost because you were a quiet baby, never fussing ... and then you were a quiet toddler and then there was Lily ... and suddenly you were not only quiet but well-behaved and so strict with yourself and you had already grown up while I looked away, and I lost you, you got lost because I had let go ..."

"Mum ..."

"Being a parent is hard. You never feel like you're doing enough. And then you realise there is a limit to the things you can do."

Petunia swallowed against the tightness drawing her mouth together, flooding with saliva as if she had bitten into a lemon.

"Your sister ... I lost her as well. I lost her the moment that letter arrived here, that letter that spoke of wands and cauldrons as if those things are somehow real. How can I compare to her magical castle? I can't teach her how to brew those concoctions, I can't teach her to fly. And why should she learn how to ride a bicycle when she has a broom? Why should she learn how to cook if she can just magick herself a meal?"