Linked

Thirty-One : Bread

Eggs and toast. I eat in silence the following morning, mindlessly consuming my food as dark thoughts swirl through my mind. 

With half an ear I register Corin making small talk with Petra, charming his way back into friendship. It's something I could do with more practice at, but it makes me think of my father and I don't appreciate that. I wonder if he is still searching for me. Does he regret pushing me into an appointment with Dr. Frenchwood, giving me a reason to run? As I chew, I recall eggs are my father's favourite breakfast. I picture him at the table for eight, alone. His bushy-eyebrowed assistant Cee standing at attention in one corner of the room, Mrs. Plum busying herself pouring coffee in the other. Both nearby, neither really present. I hope he is lonely. He did this to himself. I imagine him frantically jabbing at various contacts on his notepad, trying to track me down. Our reunion: does he pull me into his arms? No, he pushes me into Dr. Frenchwood's. But it's okay. I have my mother back now. I think I am finally ready to make things right with her.

"Let's wash up." I say, stacking Corin's empty plate atop mine. He seems surprised. I have initiated a chore, for once. His eyes, sparkling in the morning light, slide to the kitchen. My mother sieves flour into a large metal mixing bowl, humming. Her expression is changing rapidly, like she is conversing with an invisible friend. She must be Linking. All I know of her Link is it's a woman. Curious, many years ago, I asked. But that's all the detail she would share. Now I understand why. The less I knew of Mindlinking, the better.

Watching her Link makes me mad. The double standard of it, the way she wanted to keep Corin and my own Link a secret, yet everyone here is probably communicating with their Links all the damn time.

"What are you making, Charla?" Corin asks casually. He dumps the plates and cups into the sink and turns the tap. Water gushes onto the crumbs, spiralling them down the plughole. I reach over with the plug and seal it off.

"Bread." My mother replies, adding a pinch of salt to the bowl. She brushes an errant strand of ash blonde hair off her forehead, leaving a dusting of flour in it's place.

"You don't know how to make bread," I blurt out. Never, in the fifteen years she raised me, did I ever see her bake. Nothing. Not once. We had cooks for that.

Mom pours what looks like cloudy water into the mixture. "I'll have you know, I'm not completely useless," she says. "Pass me that wooden spoon, please, darling."

Absently, I do. She takes it and our fingertips brush. It makes me want to hug her, but I don't. Instead, I add a chunk of dish soap to the sink. Corin takes charge of the scrubbing, I grab a rag to dry. His elbow bumps mine as we work.

"I've learned a lot of new skills, Benna." My mother says tentatively. She swallows, as if nervous. "You will, too. It's okay here. If you give it a chance." She stares into the mixing bowl instead of at me.

"We could have learned together, if you'd brought me with you." I reply, sniffing. I focus my attention on the mug I am attempting to dry. I can do this. I need to do this. "Why didn't you? Take me with you, I mean. Or come back for me, or anything?"

Hands trembling, I slam the mug down on the bench, surprised it doesn't crack. I swing around to face her, frowning. Stupid as it sounds, I am terrified of finally having an answer. What if I don't like what I hear? Words can't be sucked back in. There's no verbal eraser.

To my surprise, her lips curve into a smile. She stops stirring, rests the spoon on the edge of the bowl, and holds me with her gaze. Her eyes in this moment are so dark and familiar and comforting, so full of love that I could just sink into them. "It's about time." She says. "I was starting to worry you would never be ready to talk."