The Apparent Junction of Earth and Sky

The Apparent Junction of Earth and Sky, Part IX

The bitter taste of tea was strong in his mouth. He hated tea, always had. Sitting there on the balcony, looking over the dark, empty streets, the taste was no better. Though perhaps it was the company that made it so bitter tonight.

Children ran through the rooms behind them, cackling and jumping across beds. Normally, he thought, she probably stopped them from doing that. Tonight, though, she was in a merry mood. Her smile never faltered. Not that she would look directly at him. Her eyes were fixed only on the boy, as if looking away would mean he might disappear again. Maybe she thought it was possible.

Brendan leaned forward and sat the cooling cup of tea on a white saucer. Crystal taps rang across the balcony courtesy of his shaking hands. He had barely spoken a word all night. He wasn't invited to. Instead, he pretended to be entranced by the hanging potted plants that stood still in the humid air. Instead, he watched the sliver of moon that hung over the decaying rooftops of the city. Instead, he looked at anything but Ciaran and his mother.

There was nothing but candlelight here. It illuminated their world the same as when they sat around their campfires in the woods a lifetime ago. There were dozens of flames now, though, spread across the tables and railings of the balcony. It was bright enough, in bursts, to see their orange faces from the corner of his eyes. Still, he silently waited for his turn to speak.

Ciaran told her almost everything. Their days in the wet cabin. How they traveled south and found their new home on the coast. The constant festivities and the yearly trips to the islands, just the two of them. He left out the drinking, of course. The smoking, too. He left out the drugs and the girls and waking up half-naked on the beach.

He did tell her about the whale, though. Brendan didn't even know about that. He accused himself of jealousy, told himself to stop being childish. But there was a harsh reality in that place: he was miserably unwanted.

Ciaran excused himself to the restroom, leaving Brendan with her in a long evening silence.

"I didn't think I'd see him again," she said. "I told myself I wouldn't. I almost got used to the idea."

Brendan smiled. For something to do, he grabbed the teacup again and took a sip. It was now much too cold and he did his best to hide a grimace.

"Did you want more?" she asked.

"No, no. I'm fine."

She ran her hands over her thighs, straightening the fabric nervously.

"He seems happy."

Brendan shrugged.

"Don't really know."

"He doesn't talk to you about things?"

"He used to. Not much anymore."

He cleared his throat, wishing silently for a whiskey. Neat.

"Well. He is eighteen--"

"Seventeen."

"Still," she said, swallowing hard, "we have plenty of kids who come through here and they shut down around that age. It's normal."

"Normal," he said, forcing himself to smile with his lips pressed together. "Not easy."

Ciaran stepped back onto the balcony. He sat down again next to his mother. His eyes as large as his grin, he looked at her without a word. She began to laugh a little. As her laughter grew, she let her forehead fall toward his. They hugged.

Brendan got to his feet. He walked clumsily into the dark, open bedroom beyond. Most of the children were asleep now, but some were still shuffling from one corner of the room to another. They were playing Ghost In the Graveyard, he thought, or something like it. Soon, one of them would jump out from under a bed and scare the others. That would wake them all up.