The Northern Lights

Chapter 10. Grand-mère.

France, 2003

Eden is wrapped in his mother's sincere arms, her hair has slithers of grey, scent of coconut. She guides him to the dining room, none of his portraits hang along the walls anymore. Edith commands him to sit while she prepares tea in the kitchen. Two generations separated by a thin wall. A mechanical switch flicks, the kettle rumbles.

"Your father is better now," Eden isn't sure if her voice voyages through the door that connects their rooms or the walls that separate them, "He misses you."

Eden snickers, then why hasn't he called, he wants to say, but keeps his mouth shut instead. He observes the ceiling, exactly the same as he remembers, a blank canvas for his imagination. Edith pulls her son out of his reverie, places the mugs onto the table, staring at his stubbly chin. A sense of guilt turns in her stomach as she sips her freshly brewed tea. Her tongue is scalded instantly, met with lava rather than sweetness.

"Careful," Eden whispers, seeing the pain in her expression as she places the unfamiliar mug down. Steam rises from it, slowly drifting into the air like smoke from a faraway bushfire.

She doesn't like how he hasn't called her mama once since he's arrived. The tip of Edith's tongue is still numb, "Why the visit?"

Eden's fingers press against the mug he used as a child, instantly pull back, "Wanted to see how you were," his mellow voice lingers barely arriving to his mother's aging ears, "are you still racist?"

Edith is taken aback, Eden was raised with more manners than that, "I was never racist."

He scoffs, head points up to gaze at the ceiling, tries to slow down his heartbeat with intense focus, "The wedding was perfect."

"I'm sure it was."

"I proposed to her in Norway, saw the lights" Eden fixates back down to see his mother's face, her expression changes, her cheeks dimple. She remembers the promise. For a second, Eden forgets why he came in the first place, "Azra is pregnant."

Edith's eyes widen, palms become greasy with sweat, "Are you sure?" she gulps, maybe we were wrong, maybe God did want them together.

"It kicks," Eden utters, "due next week."

Edith thinks her heart might stop beating, while believing that it might beat so fast it could fly out here chest.

Eden's voice cords almost snap, "Please mama," Edith's eyes begin to flood, "Please come back." He pauses, holds back years of tears, over half a decade of evanescence that surrounds his parents, "I don't know how to raise a child."

I never should have done this. She cries harder than hail from a thunderstorm, "I'm sorry," she begs for forgiveness, mercy, from Eden and an entity she no longer fully understands. Her countenance is an aching sorrow. She wraps her arms around her only son, hugging him tighter than a python around its prey. In that instance Eden knows, she is sorry. That she had missed him, more than anything in the world. He does not understand how hard it was to choose between one's God and one's child.

Eden's cell phone vibrates in his pocket, he pulls back from his mother's clutch. An unfamiliar voice speaks to him through the muffled speaker. Edith wipes the tears from her eyes with her sleeve, listens to Eden speak, "Yes." His eyes widen, voice becomes louder, "Where? Okay. Thank you, I'm on my way now." He stands from his chair frantically, runs his hands through his chestnut hair. Tension grows like a tumour in the room, "Azra is in labour," he says frantically, with his backside facing Edith, rushing out the door and to his car. She follows him like a scent. Soon she will be a Grand-mère.