Through the Break in Her Hair

Chapter 21

Incidentally, it turned out that my mom did remember what color shirt I was wearing that morning, and it was not navy blue. It crossed my mind that perhaps I should have asked the fog for both gifts—knowledge and foresight, what could be better? Screw Van! What did he need mine for anyway?

"John?" she asked, eyes skipping over to me more times than what I was comfortable with. "Weren't you wearing a green pullover?" I probed her mind, trying assess just how set she was on that memory. But, she was absolutely certain that my shirt did not start off at any shade of blue. And according to this gift of knowledge, I wouldn't be persuading her otherwise. The words, "hunter or sage," kept rolling over her brain for some odd reason.

"Uh..."

I held back for a few seconds, hoping that my new gift would supply me with the kind of lie that my mom would actually believe, without further questioning that is. Then, I don't know how exactly, but I knew that if I mixed just the right amount of truth to a lie, the lie being the lesser in the equation, that she would believe me. And not only her, but this factoid told me that 99% of the population would believe a lie if it were encased in some sort of truth, no matter how recent or relevant.

So here's how I started. "I tripped and fell onto some gravel—truth—and busted my hands up—truth again—and I thought they were just wet, so I wiped them on my shirt—lie—turns out it wasn't water, it was blood—truth—so we went to the general store to buy me a new shirt—truth."

And...bingo. Distress exploded within her brain, momentarily overriding her course of action. "Say what?!" Mom shouted, jerking the wheel of the car.

The Camry jumped off the pavement and up onto the curb. Panic filled the cabin as she tried to fix the blunder. Mom yanked the wheel back onto the road, narrowly avoiding a crash collision with a brightly painted mailbox. She pulled the car to a stop just in front of mailbox house, and punched on the hazard lights. Before I could even brace myself, she turned on me, frantically searching for my injuries. "Show me your hands!"

I was elated to see how well my new gift was working. So much so, that I thought I would try that facial investigation thing. You know, the one where Van broke down all of Lindsey's facial expressions and then interpreted them into how she was feeling or what she saying without using words. Except, I would be practicing on my mom. Felt kind of weird, to measure and scrutinize my own mother, but Van did tell me that I needed more practice.

My eyes narrowed in on the beating lump in her throat, running double the speed that a pulse normally would or should. My brain told me that this was an indication of fear, excitement, or overexertion, but under the circumstances I narrowed it down to just fear. Ok she's afraid, check. Most likely afraid that I have indeed caught an incurable, infectious disease. Cue the coughing for effect.

I coughed once, and mom dropped my hand, eyes protruding from her face. Her mouth went slack and I could feel a mountain of worry taking shape inside of her. Aha! So she was scared that I picked up some kind of illness. But since I only meant to prove a theory, I thought it would be better not let her dangle over the edge of dread for too long. I cleared my throat. "Swallowed my spit wrong," I shrugged with a smile. That should be good enough to deescalate her, for now anyway.

She let out a short rasp of a breath, and reached for my hands again. A sheet of her hair fell forward, brushing her cheek. Without a pause, she raked it back from her face, grunting when the strands refused their new placement. She dug through her change purse and brandished a bobby pin that she used to secure her hair behind her ear.

A v-shaped crease formed just above the bridge of her nose, joining her eyebrows together. Her eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared slightly. Anger? She was mad? Wait, was she mad at me? Crap! I'm in for it now.