“Who was that at the door?”
The sharpness of his mother’s tone made Zachary look up. Sophia was at the top of the staircase in a forest green evening gown that made her skin pale in comparison; she flipped her limp, golden-brown hair over one boney shoulder and started down the steps.
Zachary turned back to his homework, frowning at the numbers that danced in their equations, confusing and senseless. He was working in the sitting room with his father, Carwyn, who was reading the evening paper by the fire. Carwyn had told him countless times how lucky he was to even be in school at all, let alone one taught at the highest academic caliber when most people could not afford the tuition to schools whose teachers had never gone to university. Still, Zachary couldn’t see when he would ever use calculus outside of passing his upcoming exam.
“It was the mailman,” Carwyn said, his eyes trained on his newspaper.
Zachary was about to ask for help when the lie stopped him cold. Nervously he ran his fingers through the hairs of the sheep rug while he waited to see what his mother would say.
“Where’s the mail?” Sophia asked entering the sitting room.
“It was just junk. I threw it out,” replied Carwyn.
“Father, could you help me with this problem?”
Carwyn sighed in an unconscious, disappointed sort of way as he came around the oak coffee table to sit next to Zachary on the carpet, pulling a pen from the pocket of his shirt. Zachary was distracted by the lipstick stuck to the edges of his mother’s teeth that he didn’t see what Carwyn was scribbling.
“Isn’t it George’s job to get the mail?” Sophia asked, sitting in Carwyn’s now vacant armchair. She blinked as though the lights were too bright, but they only had two bio lights, both of them handmade, shaded lamps, the kind with beaded tassels.
George, the butler, stiffened from his position by the door.
“I was by the door so I took it upon myself to answer,” Carwyn lied coolly.
He tapped the edge of Zachary’s notebook twice and he looked down to find the words Don’t tell your mother scrawled in the margins. Zachary glanced back at Carwyn questioningly, but he’d already moved to the divan and picked up his paper.
Silence fell over the room. Sophia was sitting with prenatural stillness. The sleeve of her dress had fallen off her shoulder and she hadn’t lifted it back up. Something was wrong, but Sophia was always getting ill. Zachary thought that perhaps it was his fault this time. He had given her a hug after school. But Carwyn had kissed her goodnight at dinner… Still she needed Carwyn’s affection as a reminder of what she was fighting for. She did not need Zachary the same way and Father had warned him not to get too close. The hollowness in her eyes could be his fault. He shouldn’t look at her this long; it might upset her.
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Zachary turned back to his notebook to find that the problem still made no sense. Carwyn was no help. Zachary heaved open the textbook and started idly flipping the pages, looking for the sections Kiera had highlighted for him during lunch. He could feel his mother’s eyes on him in the unnatural quiet, but he didn’t say anything. He forced himself to ignore the thundering of his heart.
“Honey, don’t bite your nails. It’s such a nasty habit.” Her voice sounded raspy, as though she’d been crying.
“Sorry Mother,” Zachary said, yanking his hand from his lips and hiding it behind his back as though it had never happened. He had not even realized he’d been doing it. He bent his head low over his books again, trying to concentrate.
“Did you see this article? It says the tim-”
“It’s a foul and loathsome and utterly disgusting habit,” Sophia shouted, interrupting Carwyn who’d opened his newspaper to her. “I don’t know where you ever picked it up because I certainly never taught you those manners. What did I ever do for you to disrespect me like this?”
She was standing up now, looming over Zachary, so thin the evening light rendered her nearly invisible till all he could see were her gaping, depthless eyes, framed by moats of bruised shadow. Eyes that could not see the tears dampening her son’s lashes. She was not Zachary’s mother anymore yet he could not stop thinking of her that way.
He tried desperately to think of something to say. Something that would make sense. Something that would sound like himself, but be exactly what she wanted to hear. His mouth opened, but the words kept tripping on his lips. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, spreading goose bumps down his arms and he had to consciously keep himself from jumping up and sprinting to the door. It was painful watching her arms bend above her head, her wrists twisting backward with clawing fingers, teeth bared. Before Zachary knew what was happening she slapped him across the face, nails scratching his cheek.
It stung a bit, but Zachary could hardly feel it. His whole body had gone numb and trembling. I deserve it, he thought. It’s just a reminder to be better next time. He should not hurt her this way, should not have looked at her for so long. It’s just a scratch, a scratch that by the time it heals will have taught him to mind his manners and keep his nails long. Long like normal people did. Zachary needed to stop biting them, it was disgusting. Just take a deep breath, Zachary told himself. You’re okay. Stop worrying.
“Sophia, angel. Why don’t you lie down.”
Zachary’s head snapped to Carwyn whose voice was a warning, laced with fabricated calm, the newspaper forgotten beside him on the divan.
He always looked after Zachary. He always rescued him from his mistakes, proving he would never be strong enough to look after himself.
“It’s just a side effect of his anxiety. He’s got an exam tomorrow. He’s nervous. It’s not his fault and he’s working on it. We’ve spoken about this, remember?”
The second Sophia’s head turned to face Carwyn, Zachary felt the rushing heat of the fireplace around his shoulders and the world came into focus, flooding with color he had not realized disappeared under her black gaze. He remembered where he was and what he was doing. Sophia was having one of her fits. She was dying, again.