The Golden Thread by Suzy McKee Charnas Page B

like a boiled cauliflower. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from experience, it’s that when magical stuff gets into high gear, there are no time-outs. It also felt like a vote for my personal future to make an effort to avoid falling totally behind in my assignments. My future as a human being, that is, rather than whatever weird animal Bosanka might turn me into.
    It was a long evening, without a call to Barb. When I couldn’t stand struggling with any more history questions, I sewed up a hole in the sleeve of my Sir George Williams University sweatshirt that Mom had brought home for me from a publishing convention in Montreal. Then I went into the kitchen and washed dishes.
    Mom and I had this ongoing wrangle about getting a dishwashing machine, and how it was wasteful of energy and water for only two people living together, but on the other hand it would lighten the chore load on both of us, mainly me.
    That night I was happy to stand over the sink and let my mind wander while I soaped and scrubbed and rinsed.
    It wasn’t Barb or Joel or even Mom I needed, really. It was Paavo Latvela.
    Paavo the wizard was growing dim in my memory, which made me feel sad and scared and disconnected from myself, too. Certainly from the self that had joined with Paavo, Joel, and Gran to fight a monster. That monster-fighter had been one heck of a terrific Valentine Marsh. I missed her.
    Now I was older, and more scared.
    Mom stuck her head into the kitchen and said, “Doing the dishes? Sweetie, I appreciate the impulse, but it’s late. That stuff can wait til tomorrow. It’s not going anywhere unless the roaches run away with it all.”
    I thought of roach-burglars skittering away with clanking pillowcases full of swag slung over their beetley shoulders and I started to laugh, and next thing I knew I was bawling. I hated getting all soppy so suddenly, like a baby, but I didn’t have as much emotional control these days even when I wasn’t scared to pieces.
    Mom came and patted my shoulder. “Okay, let’s start again,” she said. “Just tell me, first thing, are you, personally, physically all right?”
    â€œSure.” I snuffled.
    She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and steered me into it, and then she sat down across from me with her elbows on the table, waiting. I would have to tell her something. My mom has no tolerance at all for the family talent, but she’s good at waiting.
    â€œI don’t know if you want to hear this,” I said.
    â€œWhatever’s got you this upset, I’d better hear it,” she said. “I’ll try not to blow up. Oh—my God, Val, it’s not anything like what happened to that Stowers girl, is it? Because if it is, I probably will blow up.”
    It took me a second to realize she meant Beth Stowers from eleventh grade who had gotten pregnant and been sent off to stay with some relatives in Ohio. Mom had this look of comical dismay. She knew me better than to really suspect me of anything so incredibly dumb. It was just on her mind because of course the parents must all be talking about Beth, too.
    I said almost gaily, “Heck, Mom, it’s nothing like that!”
    â€œBetter tell me what it is, then,” she said.
    It was all so homey and regular and comfy. I blurted out, “Mom, you must remember something from growing up with Gran. I need to talk to somebody who knows something. I need some magic.”
    Mom’s face went grim. “Oh, no, Val—not again! All right, come on, out with it—I want the whole story!”
    So then I had to tell her all about Bosanka. Well, almost all. I left out the leaf-taker, in the spirit of self-preservation.
    Mom jumped up and attacked the dirty dishes herself, flinging angry words at me over her shoulder. “I kept hoping,” she said fiercely, “that it was over, finally, after the last time. Jesus. Give me a break!”
    â€œYou