Angel's Mark

Thirty-nine

Time had never meant as much to me as it did now. I used to move through days and weeks like they were air or water, something I barely felt. Now I counted every minute, every hour, every day. The most painful thing about it all was that each day was the same.

I brought Alan breakfast, and he ate, and then he worked. Sometimes I sat with him and other times he'd tell me he needed to be alone. He never left the laundry room, really, except to go home every once in a while so as not to make his parents suspicious. He never ate, either, unless I made him something. It felt wrong to make him do this, but every time I tried to apologize, he would shush me. "I'm doing this because I want to," Alan would say, not looking up as he melded two wires together. "Because I want Cian safe as much as you do."

I believed him. Or at least, I wanted to.

Tomorrow was Wednesday, and like I usually did before I went to bed, I passed by the laundry room. It was automatic, thoughtless. The door was shut, just a tinge of light pooling from underneath it. Judging by the fact the door wasn't even slightly cracked, I could tell Alan didn't want to be bothered. After all, it was now or never at this point. When the sun came back up again, we would be out of time.

I sighed, thought about saying something, just to tell him I was there. I didn't.

"Vincent? Is that you?"

My eyes lingered on the laundry room door for another second before they lifted, meeting my mother's. She stood halfway outside her bedroom, still clutching the door. A silk nightgown hung loosely upon her frail form, her hair in loose curls down her shoulders. She was blinking at me like she expected me to vanish from sight in the next moment, eyes wide and sleep-weary.

"Hey, Mom," I said. The words left my mouth awkwardly, probably because I hadn't seen her much since Dad had received his verdict. She'd been around the house in the past week, vacuuming or taking a walk around outside or curled up on the couch watching a sitcom. I could tell she knew we were up to something. What I couldn't tell was whether or not she cared. "Sorry if I woke you. I was just headed to bed myself."

She shook her head. "Don't."

I shuddered a little at the word. Her whole aura seemed to switch as she said it, like she had to change herself to accommodate such a tone. I'd been uneasy as soon as she'd said my name. Now, unease had bloomed to pure apprehension. "Do you...need something?"

"I'd like to talk to you," she said, clearing her throat. She raked a shaky hand back through her hair, then gestured inside her bedroom. "If that's alright."

If that's alright. She was my mother. I didn't exactly have the option. I said, "Sure."

She allowed me a meek smile that went nowhere near her eyes, then disappeared back into her bedroom. As I followed her, she flicked on her bedside lamp, climbing on top of her comforter and patting the spot beside her. The last time I'd been on my parents' bed had to have been when I was five or six, plagued by a bad dream. Dad would argue that I needed to be more mature, but Mom would glare at him and pull me close, where her heartbeat would lull me back to sleep.

Remembering times like that, I wondered why I hadn't seen this all coming.

I shut the bedroom door behind me, then clambered atop the bed, collapsing against the pillows. My breathing was erratic in my chest. Somehow, I knew what this was about.

In the back of my head, I wondered if Cian had said something. I guess it wouldn't matter anyway. No more secrets.

I waited for her to say something, and when three minutes of silence passed, just us staring up at the ceiling fan as its spinning blades threw shadows around the room, I coughed uncomfortably. "What is it, Mom?"

She exhaled, in that soft, tender way of hers, like a damsel in distress. "I've been noticing some things. It may seem like I don't pay attention, but I do."

I didn't say anything, because she was right. I really didn't think she paid any attention, except maybe to Nura, and even then it was only when she was in the mood.

I heard her swallow. "Is CJ in danger?"

I knew that wasn't the question she really wanted to ask. It was written all over her face, and her voice dripped with it. I rubbed my eyes. "You know he is, and you also know we're handling it," I said, then, after I was sure I was ready, I added, "Ask me what you really want to ask me."

The sheets ruffled quietly as Mom rolled onto her side, facing me. I glanced at her, her eyes wide and doe-like and so, so blue. I looked at her and I saw myself, vulnerable and confused. My heart ached, my very conscience throbbing. She and Cian were the only blood family I had left. I was galvanized with the sudden truth that I would do anything, no matter how rash, to protect them.

"Alan Fitch," she said, and closed her eyes. "You're in love with him."

I looked towards the ceiling again. "I am."

"How long?"

"I don't know if that's the kind of thing you can really measure with time," I answered, and realized a moment later that it probably didn't make any sense. I elaborated: "I realized I was in love with him recently. But I could have been in love with him long before that."

Mom waited a while. I watched her open her eyes and then close them, open her mouth and then close that, too. Hesitation poured off of her, and I waited, waited for her to say what I knew she would. It's not right or Think about what people will say or I don't want you to see him anymore. It didn't matter what she said in the end, because for this I'd already prepared. I was my own person, a person who could make my own decisions, a person she'd emancipated, practically, when she'd left Cian and I to fend for ourselves again and again. She could say what she wanted. It would change nothing.

"When you were planning to tell me?" she asked, her voice croaky and thin, though I couldn't tell if it was from sleep or sorrow. I couldn't imagine the latter. Sorrow was something Mom only felt for Dad.

I stretched my arms above my head, breathed in the scent of her perfume. I couldn't say never. "I don't know."

"Do his parents know?"

I blinked. "I don't know."

She sat in silence for another moment, and I let her. I kept bracing myself for the impact I knew was doubtless coming.

Then: "I just—I just needed to know for sure."

"And now that you do, what are you going do about it?" I asked, sitting up, folding my legs underneath me. I felt Mom's eyes trail me, but she stayed where she was, clutching the sheets up between lacquered nails. "Say what you want, Mom. Go ahead. Don't just sit there and stare at me."

"I need time."

I stilled. That was not what I'd been bracing myself for. Call me crazy, but there was almost something hopeful in her voice, something fond, and when I looked at her, her expression held no contempt whatsoever.

I was floating.

She lifted her eyes to mine. "I need time, Vincent, and if you can give me that, then we can work through this. I may not be used to it now, but I'll work at it. So can you do that? Can you just—give me time?"

I stammered, "Mom?"

"I love you, Vincent," she told me. "I just want you to be happy."

I was a toss-up of different emotions. Joy, confusion, doubt, all trembling somewhere beneath my skin, threatening to bubble over. Time. Time. That was all she wanted, and I had plenty.

I leaned over, kissed her on her forehead, where stress and loss and broken hearts had worn fine lines into her skin. "Mom," I whispered to her, "I can give you all the time in the world."