I really do.
Astrid kisses Jonah’s temple. “I’m glad we’re here, too,” she says softly. And then she goes over to where her other son is, to kiss his forehead and his cheek and to squeeze his hand, and even though she tries so hard to keep it together, she ends up crying. Not the kind of tears that are embarrassing, but the quiet kind, born of equal parts love and agony. Tears that tell me exactly how she feels about Kellan, how she wants so badly to do something, fix him, but ultimately knows she can’t do anything other than sit here and hold the hand of a man she considers to be her son, blood or not.
Her other children converge on her; Callie wraps her arms around her mom’s shoulders, pressing her cheek against Astrid’s, and Jonah’s hand goes to her back. And they stay there like that, for a long time—a family unit, connected not by blood but by the bonds of love.
Callie’s brought a deck of cards with her; apparently, she and the twins used to play all the time as a way to while away the hours when their parents were busy with Council work. She and Jonah are viciously competitive with one another, and it’s fascinating to watch them battle it out over the simple privilege of being called winner.
This is more Lotus-Whitecomb history that I’m not a part of, and only serves to remind me of all of the shared bits of history I’ve wanted but never gained with my own parents. So, during a rather intense match of—well, I don’t know what game it is, but I think it’s Elvin in nature considering Astrid grimaced while mentioning something about how it never went well for her as a child as she left for a meeting minutes before—but anyway, the point is, I decide to call my mom.
She answers after three or so rings, and I’m surprised by her intro, considering I’m calling on Jonah’s cell: “How are you feeling, Chloe?”
I make sure my head is turned completely away from the two people playing at the table behind me. My nose practically bumps the cool glass separating me from a six-story drop. And I can’t help it. I really can’t. My voice cracks and wavers when I say, “Hi, Mom.”
Not Mommy. Not Mama. Not even Mother. Just plain old-fashioned, stereotypical Mom, which is about as close as the two of us get when it comes to terms of endearments.
“You had me worried,” she says, and my insides do a pretty good approximation of hand wringing. “I spoke to Kate Blackthorn earlier today, though. She told me you’re doing better.”
I repeat dumbly, “You talked to my Shaman?”
“Well, of course I talked to Kate Blackthorn! Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve spoken to her daily about your condition after Jonah called to tell me you were found.”
My forehead presses against the glass. Maybe it’s weakness, or maybe it’s because I just witnessed a family acting like it ought to, but I decide to push the matter. “I guess . . . I’m surprised? Since you haven’t been here to visit?”
There’s a sigh, but across the phone line, it’s nearly impossible to decipher. “I’m on assignment right now in Chile, tracking down a plant I can use to cross with another I’m to find next week in Iceland. It’s been a tough go so far, the little bugger has been elusive, even for me.” She sighs again. “Your father . . . he’s in Annar, but the last I heard, he was drowning in meetings. You know how he gets. He’s probably forgotten to even eat or comb his hair, let alone remember to go see his daughter in the hospital.”
“You’d come, though?” I whisper. A tiny seed takes root in a bed within my heart all too often found lacking or too hopeful. “If you were here?”
“What a ridiculous question,” is her response. There’s a voice in the background, and she pulls away to answer it. Afterwards, to me she says, “I’m sorry to have to do this, but we’ve got a lead on the plant that I need to follow.”
I’m not ready to let her go yet, not ready to let go of the possibility of what might be. “Mom, can we—”
But she cuts me off. “Take care of yourself.” More words are said to somebody on her end. Then she’s back to me. “I’ll see you when I’m back in Annar next month, Chloe.”
And . . . she’s gone, with nothing but silence across the line to fill my ear. A whoop nearby breaks this; reflected in the glass, I can see Callie fist pumping in the air. “In your face, Whitecomb!”
“Two out of three,” he urges, collecting the cards. But then he turns towards me. “Chloe, do you want play?”