The Northern Lights

Chapter 34. Jacket.

France, 2019

On the way home from school, Arlo sits with his head pressed against the car window. His mother changes gear, and Arlo's eyes notice that her hand has new wrinkles that he hadn't been there before. She still wears the ring, he thinks to himself, admiring the glittering diamond. He lifts his head from the numbingly cold window, "Mama-" Before he can finish his question, Azra pulls over. She reaches to the backseat, unveiling a neatly wrapped box.

"A present," she says, a gleaming smile on her face, "from your father and I."

It's almost been a decade since he's sliced his own cake, "You know how I feel about birthday presents mama..."

"It isn't a birthday present Arlo; your birthday was last week!"

She's right, today marks a week since he turned sixteen, since he laid in bed on his phone all day, scrolling and scrolling through hundreds of posts. Despite receiving birthday messages from more people than he could count, he felt so desperately alone, like an Earth with no moon, a mountain with no sky, "Alright," Arlo smirks, "you got me there."

Azra watches him intensely as he begins to unwrap the present. Eventually, he peels the last bit of cheap wrapping paper off, "You got me a box?" he jokes.

"Open it silly."

And so, he does. Inside the box, a folded leather jacket, one a biker would wear into the bitter night, "Isn't this yours, mama?"

Azra sees the look of confusion on his face, "I never told you this, but your dad used to ride a motorcycle. He thought he was the coolest dude in town," she laughs, stares at the jacket with content in her eyes "he'd wear that jacket everywhere, he even wore it when you were born. I want you to have it now."

"It was papa's?" Arlo couldn't believe how blind he was, that's why it's so big on her... He turns to his mother, gives her a warm hug and grateful kiss, "Thank you."

"Try it on!"

Arlo sweeps the vintage jacket onto himself, its sleeves flow loosely on his thin arms and slightly off his fingertips, "I love it." It warms his soul, like a hug from his father.

His mother smiles, and they continue their drive home, "You look just like him."

Arlo's feet lay flat on newspapers rather than floormats. They had to sell their old car, that one was bought in the hopes of filling all five seats. Arlo's hair already grazes the ceiling.

"How was that test?" Azra asks, as rain begins to thump against the roof, she flicks the windshield wipers on, they move sluggishly, as though they are hesitant. She prays silently for them to work.

The wipers gain speed, "I think I did okay," Arlo says, knowing full well he had aced it. Sometimes he wonders if his mama would hug him the same way if he didn't do well in school. Again, Arlo presses his head against the window, thousands of tiny droplets trickle down, "Mama?"

"Yes?" she replies, as the traffic light transitions from green to yellow.

Arlo thinks deeply about the person that used to wear this jacket every day, the man that rode his motorcycle into the sunset, "What do you actually think happens to us when we die?"

"Oh God, not this shit again Arlo," her eyes roll as she laughs, she prays for the light to go green.

Arlo folds his fingertips over the leather sleeves, "What?"

"You would ask me this all the time when you were younger," her head pivots left, right, no speeding car in sight, "it would drive me mad."

"Huh, I guess your right," his mind flooded with memories he thought he had forgotten, "but seriously, what do you think happens?"

"Don't you remember what I told you when you were little?"

"What? That our souls go to the Northern Lights?" Arlo pauses, tries to remember the last time he thought about those lights, how obsessed he really was. But now they sound too good to be true; a fairy tale, "Mama what do you actually think happens to us when we die?"

Hearing her son use the world 'actually' felt like a dagger twisting in her gut, with the wound spelling out to her that Arlo was no longer a young adventurier craving the sight of the Northern Lights, longing to be with his father. The Arlo that believed in seeing his father again was long gone, and with that, a little piece of Azra had died, "You are just like your father," she states, trying to change the subject. A little bit of her has begun to believe that tale she told Arlo those years ago. She no longer thinks that dream, was just a dream.

"What'd I do this time?"

"You ask unanswerable questions." Before pulling up to the driveway, she glances at Arlo, beaming with joy, "His curiosity lived beyond his death."

"I remember you saying something else. Right after he died." Arlo states with certainty in his voice as he steps out the car, droplets of rain begin to splash against his dimpled cheeks.

"And what was that?"

"Something like he could be in the wind that gives me a hug, the rain that kisses my cheeks,"

"Oh yeah." She questions how good her boy's memory really is, "I remember."

They open the wooden door and step into the narrow hall, rain no longer seeps through Arlo's wavy brown hair, "Do you believe it?"

"In a way, yes," she realizes that Arlo is taller than her already, "now stop asking me these complicated questions."

"Alright, alright," he chuckles, before heading to his new, smaller bedroom. He sinks into his mattress, calls out to his mama, "Do you need help with cooking dinner?"

For a split second, Azra thought he was joking, "No thank you my mountain." Her voice echoes down the short hallway.

"Okay!" he yells back.

✧

With an older, cracked phone in his other hand, Arlo takes a sip from his freshly brewed coffee. The house is so small, the kitchen and living room are practically in the same space. In her faded yellow jersey, she rests her feet up on the table, watches the early morning news, "Do you have to sip so loudly Arlo?"

"Do you have to rest your feet where I eat cereal?" he sasses back.

Azra giggles, "Fair enough. Where are you going with François today?"

"We're just going to grab some food in the city," he replies, before gulping the last bit of brown elixir from his mug, "do you want me to grab you anything?"

"No thanks dear, be safe okay?"

"Nah, Franco and I are thinking of taking hardcore drugs."

Despite the sarcasm in his voice, Azra can't laugh at that one, "Not. Funny."

Arlo still giggles as he walks back to his room. He swings open his wardrobe, at the bottom is a box of all the birthday cards his Grandmother has sent him, all the emergency cash. His fingers glide along the limited selection of clothes, before pulling out an outfit.

After his shower, Arlo steps into the living room. The colourful rays from the television shine off of his mother's hazel skin. Azra's eyes flick away from the screen and onto Arlo. He wears a grey hoodie and his usual black jeans, but today, a layer of leather wraps around his hoodie, "Nice jacket."

"I know." He winks, before approaching the couch, with a kiss and smile he tells her, "I'll be home before dark."

"I know."