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I dash into the house and grab my purse, popping a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Don't do anything that would make me ashamed of you,” she calls we get in the car.
Moms.
Peter
“I don't want you buying me clothes,” I say.
“Too bad. You need clothes and I'm going to buy them for you.” She turns the car on and backs down the driveway, barely looking in the mirror. Sometimes her driving skills make me nervous for her safety.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, leaving her without someone to protect her?” She is having second thoughts. Her indecision plucks at me.
“Viktor is here.”
“Oh, good.”
“Really, though, I'm not sure if this is a good idea. It seems like inviting trouble to frolic about going shopping and such when we should be hiding in a bunker with a lot of automatic weapons.” I try to follow her trail of thought. It is often like trying to find my way through a briar patch.
“I will protect you.” It does not appease her.
“I don't want you to have to. I want to protect you more.” I put my thumb on her lip, making her swerve in the road. I am not trying to silence her, but she does go mute. She straightens the wheel and I take my hand away. I should not distract her like that.
“Where are we going to buy clothes?” I say, changing the subject. I haven't bought clothes since I was human. Usually, I take them when I can. There is not much of a selection, but beggars can't be choosers. She taps her chin before she answers.
“Well, I can't really picture taking you to Walmart, so we're going to the thrift store in Sussex. You clearly don't have a problem wearing used clothes, so we'll find you something there. I would take you to some fancy place, but I can't really afford it.” She glances quickly at me as her cheeks pink. Her attention is diverted. For now.
“You don't have to buy me clothes.” I do not like her spending money on me. She has so little of it. I would spend all the money I possessed on her. If she would let me. What was once mine belongs to her. She has the key.
“Well, you need clothes and shoes and I'm not comfortable with you stealing them. I'll let you steal a car, but I'm not letting you steal clothes.” She laughs a little.
“What is funny?” She continues to giggle. The sound is warm and light and I want to bottle it.
“I have more qualms about you stealing clothes than a car. That's what's funny.” I do not find it funny, but enjoy her laugh anyway.
She puts on the radio and hums along. She reminds me of her mother so often. I don't think she knows how much like her she really is.
The place she takes us is in the back of downtown Sussex, on a side street. All the buildings are of old weathered brick. It is an old town, and I like that. I remember spending a night or two in a few of the churches in town, before her.
Churches were one of my many hobbies to pass my immortality. I made it a habit to visit a church in every place I visited. Sussex was no exception. Despite religion being out of fashion in the modern world, there are always churches.
Her car fits into the only available space out of three. Her car protests when she turns it off. I will get Viktor to look at it while she is sleeping.
“Come on,” she says, nodding to the store. “You're going to be my living Ken doll.”
Her arm slips through mine like a link in a chain. “What is a Ken doll?”
“It's...” She searches for the words, looking up at the cloudy sky. “Never mind. I'll show you sometime. It's too hard to explain. Basically what I mean is that you're going to be a doll and I'm going to put clothes on you.” My sisters had dolls. They would pester me to do the buttons on the backs of the dresses because their little fingers weren't nimble enough. I spent many afternoons that way, sitting in the little parlor that overlooked the garden, the sun streaming in through the bay window. I had worked hard to hold onto that memory.
“I do not care what I wear.” Unlike Ca, I had never cared for clothes.
“Yeah, I know.” She rolls her eyes back. Humans put much emphasis on the clothes you wear as a means of judging the person inside. Noctali do not judge this way.
Musty and cluttered, the store smells like dust and abandoned memories. Things are crammed in nooks and crannies and piled in tottering stacks everywhere. Damaged mannequins hide in corners like ghosts. There seems to be no form of organization as pants, jackets and scarves are all hung on the same rack with no tags for sizing. At least the men's and women's clothes are separated. That is a blessing.
There is only one other person here, an older woman who is in the back, moving boxes and cursing under her breath about her arthritis.
“What about this?” Ava places a black fedora on my head. I lean down so she can adjust it. She tips it to the side and stands back, squinting and leaning to one side, considering.
“Not bad.” She takes it off my head, but holds onto it. With laser precision, she scouts the racks, finding pants and holding them up to me, shirts and finally shoes.
“What size do you wear?”
“I do not know.” I knew once. But it was not something I held onto.
Her laugh rings through the shop. “One way to find out. Stick you feet in those.” I slip out of the flip flops and slide my feet into the shoes she puts in front of me.
“May I help you?” The owner emerges from behind a beaded curtain, her eyes squinting to find us in the dim light.
“No thanks, we're good,” Ava says. The woman squints in our direction for a few more seconds and then goes into the back again, muttering about her glasses.
I remove my feet from the shoes. “Too small.”
“Okay, try these.” She puts another pair down. They are made of leather and look soft.
“Better.”
“What about these?” The shoes are black with white laces. I put them on and cinch up the laces, tying a quick bow. They are comfortable.
“Yay, you can tie your shoes.” She claps. We add the two pairs of shoes to the hat and keep going. She piles things on my arms, without even consulting me. Every now and then she holds up something to me, squinting her eyes. I marvel again at how much expression passes across her face in one day. Finally she seems to be satisfied with my armful of garments.
“Now you're going to have to try this stuff on. To the dressing room!” She raises her arm as if she's riding into battle. Her mood has lifted from the day before, like a balloon floating into the sky.
She shoves me behind a curtain and pulls it shut. She hands me several items over the top, saying, “you're going to have to show me when you've put them on.”
