Her skin was remarkably free of wrinkles. I could easily smell the lotions she wore. But then I was half kitsune. There wasn’t much I couldn’t smell, except for where the cleaning staff had sloshed too much ammonia with their cleaning products.
“Mom?”
She forced a trembling smile into place, daubing at her eyes. “Yes, dear, I’m here.”
“I’m okay, honest.” Except for this strange feeling inside me that I want to hit someone repeatedly, with a great deal of force. Mothers shouldn’t ever be made to cry. It’s not right.
She stood and leaned over the siderail to hug me, doing so gingerly, as if I were brittle. I devoured a new element of her scent, closing my eyes to savor it. This was the smell of love, of home. I felt better with her just being there, with the most important things understood and left unsaid. A freak or not, I would always be her child. Finally, she pulled away. Her smile became more real, taking the sting out of her words, “How dare you scare me like that. I have a good mind to stage a frightful scene, rife with weepy excess.”
I grinned, unrepentant. “You can always force feed me Jell-O with a turkey baster. That will teach me.”
Her face grew solemn. Shadows stirred in her eyes as fresh tears brimmed. “They called and said you’d been … shot by burglars. I couldn’t believe it. I told them, ‘I don’t appreciate such ill humor.’ The man on the phone was very kind and patient with me. Shot… My girls don’t get shot. They get honor roll, or they get things pierced that I’d rather not know about. They burst into flame, or pole dance, for God’s sake. But they don’t get shot .”
“Wait ‘til sis finds out. She’ll be green with envy. I’ve got street cred .”
Mom glared at me. “I don’t even want to know what that means. You have got to promise me you won’t ever do this again.”
I sighed. Necessary lies. Our family had always needed them. But I can’t lie. As a kitsune, honesty is a pathological obsession. Ancient legends warned that lying might even short-circuit some of my abilities. I gave her what I could. “Not if I can help it. Not that I’d seen this coming.”
“Yes, your Mr. Langley explained to me that you’d walked into a crime in progress.”
You could say that .
“He seems a nice man,” mom said. “Do you happen to know if he’s single?”
I stared at her.
“What? I’m entitled. It’s not like I’m—dead.” The last word came out low with shock. She brushed her eyes with the Kleenex. “Sorry, didn’t mean to go there. I can’t believe you’re awake and talking to me. There should be an oxygen mask, tubes and drips, bustling nurses and good-looking doctors gravely poring over your chart. My God, Grace, they said you came in suffering from massive blood loss, shot, with a collapsed lung. This is just … just…”
“Unnatural?” I suggested.
Her eyes darkened with fear. Her hands trembled until she clasped them together. “I don’t like that word.”
‘Cause you’ve always known how well it fits me. That’s one of the things we never talk about.
Time to make a virtue of necessity; a distraction was needed. “Mom, do you think you could come around to the other side of the bed and help me get to the bathroom?”
“Oh, sure. Just a moment.” Given something concrete to focus on, she became more her usual self, energetically rounding the bed. She drew aside the covers.
I still wore an open-backed hospital gown. It was puke green, matching the paint on the walls and the simulated marble tiles on the floor. The only remaining obstacle to my bladder’s happiness, the other bed, was empty, the bathroom beyond it. Mom helped me swing my legs off my bed, taking things achingly slow as I winced and groaned. I felt weak as a kitten, as she gripped my upper arm.
I gasped at the
“Mom?”
She forced a trembling smile into place, daubing at her eyes. “Yes, dear, I’m here.”
“I’m okay, honest.” Except for this strange feeling inside me that I want to hit someone repeatedly, with a great deal of force. Mothers shouldn’t ever be made to cry. It’s not right.
She stood and leaned over the siderail to hug me, doing so gingerly, as if I were brittle. I devoured a new element of her scent, closing my eyes to savor it. This was the smell of love, of home. I felt better with her just being there, with the most important things understood and left unsaid. A freak or not, I would always be her child. Finally, she pulled away. Her smile became more real, taking the sting out of her words, “How dare you scare me like that. I have a good mind to stage a frightful scene, rife with weepy excess.”
I grinned, unrepentant. “You can always force feed me Jell-O with a turkey baster. That will teach me.”
Her face grew solemn. Shadows stirred in her eyes as fresh tears brimmed. “They called and said you’d been … shot by burglars. I couldn’t believe it. I told them, ‘I don’t appreciate such ill humor.’ The man on the phone was very kind and patient with me. Shot… My girls don’t get shot. They get honor roll, or they get things pierced that I’d rather not know about. They burst into flame, or pole dance, for God’s sake. But they don’t get shot .”
“Wait ‘til sis finds out. She’ll be green with envy. I’ve got street cred .”
Mom glared at me. “I don’t even want to know what that means. You have got to promise me you won’t ever do this again.”
I sighed. Necessary lies. Our family had always needed them. But I can’t lie. As a kitsune, honesty is a pathological obsession. Ancient legends warned that lying might even short-circuit some of my abilities. I gave her what I could. “Not if I can help it. Not that I’d seen this coming.”
“Yes, your Mr. Langley explained to me that you’d walked into a crime in progress.”
You could say that .
“He seems a nice man,” mom said. “Do you happen to know if he’s single?”
I stared at her.
“What? I’m entitled. It’s not like I’m—dead.” The last word came out low with shock. She brushed her eyes with the Kleenex. “Sorry, didn’t mean to go there. I can’t believe you’re awake and talking to me. There should be an oxygen mask, tubes and drips, bustling nurses and good-looking doctors gravely poring over your chart. My God, Grace, they said you came in suffering from massive blood loss, shot, with a collapsed lung. This is just … just…”
“Unnatural?” I suggested.
Her eyes darkened with fear. Her hands trembled until she clasped them together. “I don’t like that word.”
‘Cause you’ve always known how well it fits me. That’s one of the things we never talk about.
Time to make a virtue of necessity; a distraction was needed. “Mom, do you think you could come around to the other side of the bed and help me get to the bathroom?”
“Oh, sure. Just a moment.” Given something concrete to focus on, she became more her usual self, energetically rounding the bed. She drew aside the covers.
I still wore an open-backed hospital gown. It was puke green, matching the paint on the walls and the simulated marble tiles on the floor. The only remaining obstacle to my bladder’s happiness, the other bed, was empty, the bathroom beyond it. Mom helped me swing my legs off my bed, taking things achingly slow as I winced and groaned. I felt weak as a kitten, as she gripped my upper arm.
I gasped at the
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