Page 61 of Secret Pucking Unicorn

“I’m not claiming I’m a witch. Declan and Sophie told me I am a witch. Back when we were kids, I saw a unicorn. It was Declan. My witch powers made his unicorn come out. I don’t know. And then earlier today I pointed at someone while saying, ‘shift,’ and she shifted into a goose.” I point to show what I did to Brick. “I made her shift into a goose. I have magical powers I know nothing about!”

Mother sighs as she takes a seat on the sofa and gestures for me to sit in the chair across from her. I take my tea and sit down.

“I can’t believe you are this gullible. You did not turn that woman into a goose. You do not have any magical powers. Yes, I am a witch. But my powers did not get passed down to you. You are ordinary in every way, like your father. They were playing a trick on you, making you think you had powers.”

She shakes her head sadly and gives me a look full of pity. Well, if she is capable of pity. I have another objection I can’t quite grasp. It’s in me, but it’s not breaking the surface.

“Now I’m here trying to take care of you, and nothing I do is good enough. All you ever do is reject me. I don’t know why you can’t love me?”

It’s like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Ungrateful. Reject her. I don’t love her. I must have landed in an alternate universe. She’s claiming ownership of all the things I’ve wondered about for myself.

“Mother, of course I’m grateful. Thank you for coming here. It’s wonderful we live close together now. That’s one of the reasons I moved back here.” Experience has taught me it’s best to placate her.

I take a sip of the tea. It’s cooler than I like but I drink it anyway. It’s the least I can do after my mother went to the trouble to make it for me. It’s the same tea she made me as a child, and drinking it brings a sense of comfort. She wouldn’t send me birthday cards or call me, but she’d send packages of her tea. This tea was essentially the one sign of nurturing she’s ever provided me. When I was upset or, more often, had displeased her, she would give me this tea. After drinking it, I would inevitably apologize for whatever she thought I had done wrong and she would thank me, nodding with approval. She never gave me a hug or a kiss or said I love you, but I lived for those nods and her acknowledgement she knew I was trying. When I was at school, I’d drink it a few times a week, stretching it out to maintain some semblance of a relationship with my parents. Once they moved to Argentina the tea stopped coming. I guess I wasn’t worth the international postage.

“So, you’re sleeping with Declan now?” she asks.

I choke on my tea. I was not expecting to have this conversation with my mother. Ever. But here she is. And here we are. So, I guess this is what we’re talking about.

“Um,” I run a finger around the rim of my teacup. Round and round. It’s mesmerizing.

“Please, Miranda, don’t mumble,” she says.

Heat rises in my cheeks as I snap back to our conversation. “Yes, Mother. Declan and I are in love. He wants to marry me.”

Mother scoffs. “That’s what he said to get you to open your legs for him. I don’t see a ring on your finger.”

I tuck my hand behind my back even though it’s pointless. “It’s new.”

“We raised you better than this, Miranda. I thought you had more pride in yourself.” She clucks her tongue. “Are you going to whore yourself to the entire hockey team? I assume you’ve been with Trevor as well.”

I gasp. “Mother, no. Trevor is my best friend. There has been nothing like that between us.” I blink rapidly to hold back my tears because I know they will anger Mother. “What Declan and I have is special. I am most certainly not a whore. I was a virgin until last night.”

“Hmm,” Mother says in a disbelieving tone. “Well, now he’s gotten what he wants. I hope you don’t expect a proposal now. Declan and Sophie have always ganged up on you. Don’t you remember from when you were a child? All the McKenzie children were always being mean to you, and you would run off and cry.” She sighs and shakes her head. “You were always needy. And yes, Declan shifted into a unicorn because he could not control himself. They tried to blame you because it was easier to blame the poor little human girl no one would believe.”

Mother leans forward to put her hand on mine. I can’t remember the last time she reached out to me first. At least, in any sort of comforting way.

“That’s why we took you away from there. You weren’t safe.”

“What?” I press my fingers into my temples, hoping to nudge the confusion clouding my mind into some sort of clarity. “What do you mean, I wasn’t safe? The Mackenzies would never hurt me.”

Mother pats my hand and leans back. I didn’t know it was possible for a pat to be condescending. It is descending, right? Or is it comforting? Is physical closeness so foreign to me I can’t tell the difference between comfort and condescension?

All those muffled voices in the back of my head are trying to scream something at me. Something along the lines of that’s condescension you twit, if the sound could get through the fog.

“Like I said, you are gullible and naïve. If it came down to their children or you, who do you think they’d pick? Their sons were getting older, and Declan proved he could not be trusted to control himself around you. We had to sacrifice and put you in a school away from them, where you would be safe from interference by Declan or any of the male Mackenzies. You were a defenseless little girl.”

My skin grows clammy. I know what my mother is inferring, and she’s wrong. None of the Mackenzies would ever hurt me or molest me or whatever disgusting things she is intimating. I was safe there. I was loved there.

“We always tried to do what was best for you, Miranda. And you never appreciated it.”

She shakes her head sadly. “We would no sooner get you settled into a school when you would start causing trouble or failing in your courses. We had responsibilities to the horses and our employers, and you were constantly causing distractions and making us have to spend time and a lot of money to find you a new school. I don’t know what we did to deserve such a demanding child.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I say instinctively. I learned long ago it was easier to apologize rather than explain or defend.

“Yes, well. We all have our burdens to bear, and you are mine. I can stay for a day or two to help you decide where to go next. You obviously can’t stay here with people who pretend to be your friends and play such horrible tricks on you. Maybe you could go back to New Zealand if you haven’t burned those bridges. I can reach out to friends in Argentina. There are rugby teams there.”

My eyes widen, and a pang in my heart tempts me to rub my chest but I don’t want to show that kind of weakness in front of my mother. “I’ve been here a week. I don’t want to leave. They need me.” How can I revive a relationship with my parents if we’re on separate continents? Why must there always be all this distance, physical and emotional between us?

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