Something I Don't Know

20: spells are better than skype (usually)

The living room smells heavily of incense, so heavily, in fact, that my nostrils are twitching. In front of me, Sybil has arranged four wax candles in a neat line, their flames dancing in such a way that I would think it sort of mesmerizing if it didn't feel like I was slowly losing my mind. My uncle can't be trusted. Midge and I aren't talking. I'm about to talk to the woman whose sole purpose for creating me was to get away. The fog in my head is still there; I'm barely aware I'm breathing.

Outside, or at least what the magic window shows of outside, it's dark, maybe seven or so in the evening. I lolly-gagged a lot on my way to the subway house, trying to talk myself out of this. Evidently, I didn't.

The lights above my head click off. There's a rustle of pillows as Sybil kneels beside me, and by the light of the candles, I can see the unease on her face. She knows something's wrong. Ever since I was a kid, she was able to know something was wrong. I remember coming home from my first day of kindergarten, having been ridiculed by the other kids for my teeth and my tail, which I didn't tuck at the time. The backs of my eyes and my throat were burning, but I wasn't crying, and I was doing a decent job at not looking like I was about to cry, either. But Sybil had said, You're everything, Grey, and don't you ever doubt it, like she knew all the crappy things those kids had done, and then I'd broke down and cried in her arms for hours.

I don't feel like I need to cry in her arms for hours right now, but she's looking at me like she thinks I do. I expect a lecture. A barrage of questions. Instead, it's just: "Are you sure about this?"

I run a hand back through my hair. Not because it's in my face. Just because my hands are shaking so badly that I have to move them to hide it. "Of course I'm sure. Why would I not be sure? She's my mom."

I almost think I catch a flicker of hurt pass Sybil's face, but it's gone before I can ask. If I was going to. I don't know. "You're right," she says, with an exhale. "She is."

Then she does something I don't expect, something she hasn't done since I was really, really little, like prepubescent little. She takes my face in her hands, smooths my hair back, and kisses my forehead.

Then she just looks at me. "Whatever it is, Grey," she says, her voice mostly a whisper, "it will all be alright in the end. I love you."

She pats my knee and gets up, leaving me there, perplexed.

The air shimmers in front of me, the flames of the candles licking up suddenly. When they simmer down again, my mother sits behind them, or at least a fuzzy projection of her, like a web call with a poor signal. She's dressed in what looks like a kimono, which is painted with pink sakura trees and little golden bells. Her hair, normally frizzy and unkempt, is pulled back into a low bun, and a traditional hairpiece sticks out behind her ear.

It worked.

Not that I expected it not to work; it's Sybil, after all. She has way too much extra time on her hands not to be a spectacular spell caster.

"Grey?" my mother says, and for a moment, she sounds excited, until something in her voice dips. "I thought...you didn't want to talk to me."

"I didn't," I say, and she flinches as if I've thrown something at her. Exhaling, I try to loosen my shoulders, to level my head. "I just—why are you wearing a kimono? Aren't you in Iceland?"

Mom shakes her head. "I left Iceland three days ago. I'm touring Asia now. First stop"—she gestures toward her attire—"Nihon."

"I see."

"I'll also be making my way to Thailand sometime soon. We have relatives there."

I narrow my eyes. I've always known I'm Thai, but I guess I've never thought of it in the sense of any extended family. It's just always been my dad, Sybil, and me—and my mom, I guess, when she wasn't busy. "We do?"