Page 28 of Fallen Thorns
I promised it would be a surprise.
We stay hidden, as necessary. A thousand years of history dulling our whispers. We lie low; I observe.
Just like we arranged.
Once I bring my Star home, it can begin.
Soon, the three of us will rise as one.
Iwoke up to the smell of eggs as a crack of muted sunlight smiled through the curtains. I’d forgotten how small my bedroom was, with just enough room for a bed, wardrobe and my small, battered desk that was tucked away in the corner. It was more than comfortable though, all I needed.
I yawned, stretching out of bed and rubbing my sleep-clad eyes. A familiar voice called from downstairs. “Arlo! Breakfast!” Three loud barks followed and a moment later, my bedroom door shuffled open and my dog, Bess, bounded in, jumping onto the bed, and pushing me back down onto the mattress. I laughed as she frantically licked all parts of my face, smothering me with her golden mane. There’s a saying that dogs always have a look of their owners. I remember thinking it silly at first, until I realised how accurate owning a Golden Retriever was for me and my mum.
“Arlo, it’s going cold!” my mum shouted again, sterner this time.
“Coming, coming!” I playfully pushed Bess off my chest and let her trail behind me to the kitchen. I always felt mean eating on our high chairs while Bess lay on the floor, constantly pawing at my feet with big, sad eyes. She had grown too big to sit on my knee.
My mum had made us scrambled eggs on toast and was in the middle of retrieving the fresh orange juice from the fridge when I came down to greet her.
“Morning sleepy head,” she beamed, reaching up awkwardly to ruffle my hair, as she always did. I bent down to help her. She did it deliberately now, normally following it with the line “please stop growing, I can’t afford new clothes!”
I hadn’t grown an inch since I was seventeen. Everyone in the village always had something to say about the height difference between us both. Our elderly neighbour John’s favourite joke being: ‘Is the weather nice up there?’
We never really talked about it alone. I never liked to push my mum; I knew my dad was a difficult topic for her. But she did once mention he was where I got my height from. When I was young and just starting to understand that sometimes parents split up, I asked her if it was because of me. Holding me tightly in her lap, she kissed my forehead and promised it had nothing to do with me. In fact, he disappeared before she even learned she was pregnant with me. Vanished from the face of the earth, she said. An inquest followed his absence, and a few people came forward to claim sightings across the Northwest. The statements were valid enough to drop the case entirely, but my mum had already lost interest by that point. She said she always knew in her gut that he was still out there somewhere, but he had no relevance in our lives because of what he did. And she was right. Even as I grew older, through my own choice, I never went looking for him. My mum was my parent. We managed. We didn’t need anyone else. No matter what his reasons were for leaving, he never deserved her. And I was content in that belief.
We had once walked to the local corner shop when I was about eleven years old; the cashier wouldn’t stop staring at me, and once we got to the till, she looked at my mum with a grin saying: “By Melissa, that’s Jerry’s kid right there.” My mum wasn’t facing me, but she didn’t need to be for me to know what she was feeling. We paid for our things and left without saying a word.
She cried that night, and though she tried to hide it, I heard her muffled sobs through the walls. I went into her room to find her holding a photograph, squeezing it tightly in a fist. She wiped her face and pushed the duvet aside to let me in. That was the first time I saw a picture of my dad. September 1997, two years before I was born. I remember the first thing I thought was how pretty my mummy looked: blond curls down to her waist, a beaming smile and a floaty blue dress with delicately embroidered flowers around the neckline. Then I looked at him. My Dad. He had deep, thick red hair, long and wispy, and a face full of freckles. He wasn’t at all what I expected, though I never thought about him enough to care. I concluded he looked nothing like me, and I said as such. My mum tilted her head to the side solemnly, tucking me in for a hug. “You’remybaby,” she whispered into my hair, placing three gentle kisses to my crown. “Nothing will change that.”
“I hadto get a different brand of orange juice,” my mum announced, pouring us both a glass as I sat down. “It claims to be premium, though I doubt the price really changes the taste,” she chuckled.
“Living the lavish life now, are we?” I joked.
“If only kiddo.”
We tucked into our eggs while Bess circled the table. Oh, how I’d missed her.
“How’s uni life then, son?” my mum asked after taking a big sip of her juice.
“Good, good. You know. Uni.”
She laughed. “Ahh yes, I remember the days. Working but not working.”
I smiled sheepishly. “I am working I swear!”
“I know, I know. Let me have some fun. I’ve missed winding you up.”
“I missed you too, mum.”
She pushed her finished plate to the side, feeding her burned crusts to Bess. “Don’t forget about your old mum when you’re all big and famous now will you?”
I had another mouthful. “Don’t worry, that won’t be happening.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. Stop putting yourself down. I’ve seen you write, those lovely poems you used to make me. You are beyond talented, sweetheart.”
I shrugged and went in for another mouthful, but then I realised there was nothing on my fork and when I looked down at my plate, I noticed I’d not touched my food at all.Huh.
My mum continued to talk but her voice grew muffled.
