Page 70 of The Child of Rue Royale
Aven sucks on his fists as I hold him, and it just drives home that this can’t go on for much longer. There are so many puzzle pieces, so much that needs to be mended before we tell them the truth, and for one, it’s the fact that there’s a witch out there in the world that has worked against me. If she’s a bayou witch from another coven, why does Mother insist her dream has led her to believe something will be revealed here today?
“Okay, girlie. No turning back now,” Chantal says as we approach the witches that’ve gathered in Aunt Violetta’s back yard.
“The guest of honor has arrived,” Aunt Violetta announces with a clap, and all the women turn to us. Mother winks at me, cool as a cucumber.
Chantal is not cool as a cucumber because she’s biting her nails, so I swat her hand out of her mouth, and she growls at me.
“Coven,” Mother calls as she approaches the witches sipping on apple wine and mulled cider. “I formally give you my grandchild, Aven Wildes.” Placing a hand over her heart as if she birthed the boy herself, she bows her head.
My eyes fight not to roll as I approach the circle of women, and Aunt Violetta moves forward with open arms to pull Aven into hers. My heart bellows in my chest as our coven claps. I look for familiar faces in the crowd of witches I hardly know. Jade meets my eyes, her two toddler daughters laughing in circles on the lawn. I swallow because I want to run to hug her, but she winks at me, telling me to keep my cool. June, her mother, smiles all while Aunt Rosemary has the normal scowl on her face that I’ve become familiar with. Summer, Chantal’s cousin, has that maternal look, that “How precious” face, as Violetta places her hands on Aven.
Everything in my body goes frigid, and I clasp on to him tighter. Just as I’m about to protest, Mother swipes him from my arms and places him in Aunt Violetta’s. My arms stiffen, hands clenching without my baby in them.
“Oh, she’s a beauty like her mother,” Aunt Violetta says as the women gather to look at the seed of a true witch.
“You mean her grandmother,” Mother cackles with a high-pitched trill, and I can’t help but sneer. I know she’s playing the part for our safety, but she is just too much sometimes.
“Look at those eyes,” Violetta hisses, and my jaw locks.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Mother coos, running her hand along Aven’s baby head.
“The father’s eyes, what color were they?” Violetta sings the question, her eyes taking in all my son, from his dark hair to the tips of his toes.
I swallow, deciding to lie as little as possible.
“Green.”
“And is he still in the picture?” She looks up at me, swaying back and forth, that movement that becomes so natural in a woman holding a baby.
“No.” I wish I could offer a more detailed lie, but a lump forms in the base of my throat. Because it’s a lie, but I have no choice.
She tsks, swaying Aven back and forth. “Well, we know that a witch’s life is dedicated to no man. Her life is dedicated to her coven and her daughters. May many more little girls be running under your legs.” Her thin lips form a smile, and she looks to Mother, a dig at her for only having me, even though it wasn’t her fault she could only have one child.
“This birth was seamless. There will be plenty more daughters in the years to come,” Mother says with a straight face. Because even though it was expected for her to have more children, she was pleased she could only have one.
Jade joins us, a sympathetic look on her face. She’s not supposed to be reading my mind due to witch code, but if she did, she would see that I am not happy with this at all. Her face tells me, “It will be over soon,” and she looks at Aven andoohsandahhsfrom finally seeing him for the first time in person. We appear to be okay actresses, the four of us.
Aunt Rosemary approaches, her short salt and pepper hair slicked back, always looking chic. “We should begin. May I?”
“Yes, of course,” Aunt Violetta sings, handing Aven to her sister, the meanest one of the coven. “Ladies,” Aunt Violetta calls to the chattering women. “Let’s all eat in celebration of our newest true witch and then gather for the blessing ceremony.”
“She’s pure sugar,” Rosemary tuts, hiding the sourness inside her. She puts Aven on her shoulder and gently pats his back, her mature fingers looking kind for the first time in my life.
Memories flood my mind, memories of Chantal and me, just girls, running through this very grass. Aunt Rosemary and Aunt Violetta drank together on the back patio and yelled at us to quiet down because children’s laughter gave them headaches. One day I was stung by a bald-faced hornet, whose nests loved Violetta’s tall Cyprus trees, and was reprimanded for weeping from the pain. We weren’t sophisticated, we were children, and that deeply irked them.
My grandmother would chide them for being cruel to us, but they never listened to her. She was unsophisticated to them as well, and while it didn’t seem to bother my grandmother too much, it bothered me. My grandmother was a true witch, and they treated her like she was below them all because they had more money, more daughters,more of everything. The Wildes women may have been true witches, but we were unlucky when it came to reproducing, and that too was looked down upon.
“Oh,” Aunt Rosemary calls out, yanking me from my memories. “She should be changed before dinner.” She pats Aven’s diaper beneath his gown. “Yes, it’s full. Where’s the diaper bag?”
My mouth falls open. This woman who never cared a lick about me was offering to change my baby’s diaper. And that clearly could not happen.
“Oh, I forgot it in the car. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” I say, reaching for Aven, but the old witch pulls away from my grasp. My eyes meet Mother’s as everything in my stomach swirls like a hurricane.
“I can do it. It’s been so long since I changed a little one.” She takes a step as if she’s going to march toward my car and change my son who is supposed to be a daughter’s diaper. The one thing I was scared could happen was about to, and I couldn’t let it.
“Aunt Rosemary, you don’t want to change a diaper, I can do it. I want to,” I say, my voice going up too many octaves, and Rosemary just bounces like she’s a fucking basketball, and rage bubbles deep beneath my skin. If she doesn’t hand me my child, there will be war.
As if Aven knows what’s at stake, as if he knows what could happen if his gender is revealed, he opens his precious little mouth and spits up all down the shoulder and back of Rosemary’s Chanel blazer.
