Assigning roles.
And, most notably, pretending she isn’t dying.
“Well?” she asks.
I have her hand clasped between mine as I rotate her arm between us. Dull grey flesh stretches from her wrist to deep beneath her long sleeves. The darkened skin is dry and flaking, and something tells me the decay goes far beneath the surface.
She’s already had three vials of blood this week.
“It’s not enough,” I say. My voice cracks, but I’m quick to clear it, to steady my next words. My emotions won’t get me anywhere, earnest as they may be. “You’re dying, Mama.”
“Slower than I was,” she says. She stares at her arm, attention only briefly flicking to my face before returning. “You’ve done well, Elliot. Better than I dared to hope.”
“You’re dying,” I repeat. I release her hand, chest clenching as she tugs her sleeve back into place. Like this, she doesn’t look sick. She looks normal. Powerful.
How much longer until it’s everywhere? How much longer until it kills her?
“You need to come to the clinic,” I say. I step back, putting distance between us, doing my best to look at her, not as my mama, but as an extremely sick patient. “This isn’t enough. Once we get a better idea?—”
“The annual meeting is in two weeks,” Mama says. She lets out a breathy laugh and brushes a strand of graying hair over her shoulder. Even in the face of death, she’s fearless, and I hate it. “There’s too much to do, Elliot. Besides, I already told you I won’t go to the clinic. As soon as people know, I’ll lose any semblance of control.”
Don’t you want to stay?I want to scream.Why am I fighting when you’re not?
“You’re going to lose your control or your life, Mama,” I say through a tight jaw. “I think it’s clear which you should prioritize.”
“My life belongs to the Mother,” she says. She offers a soft smile now, but it’s far from comforting. It’s a punch in the stomach, a slap to the face. It’s every form of physical pain, wrapped into the minimal tilt of her lips.
“I’ll put together a team,” I say. When she opens her mouth to interrupt, I only speak faster. Louder. “They’ll come to my house. They won’t know the reason. I’ll have them diagnose you. I’ll get enough Dismemrate for the lot of them, and they’ll forget it ever happened. No one will know, Mama. All right? So let’s?—”
“Since when do you condone Dismemrate?” she asks.
It’s an illegal drug, so normally I wouldn’t. Maybe it’s my tentative alliance with Cora Reed that’s messed with my head. Or maybe it’s my aggravating, stubborn mother who won’t accept help, even when I’m desperate to give it.
“Mama,” I say. “You can’t put me through this. All right? You’re all I have here, and?—”
A sharp knock on the door cuts through my pathetic rant.
“Come in,” Mama calls. She doesn’t breathe out in relief, and that, more than anything, makes me realize just how hopeless my arguing is. For Mama, it doesn’t matter what I do or say. There’s nothing to sway her stubborn mind—she’s merely letting me vent like she would when I was a child.
I grit my teeth as the council’s attendant steps through the office door. Her ringlets are tighter than I remember. Her glasses bigger. Her curled lip more pronounced.
“Madam Lyrie,” Vera says. Then, nodding to me, “Mister Elliot.”
“Yes?” Mama asks. In a quick movement that Vera likely doesn’t notice, but I sure as hells do, she checks her sleeves. She only looks up once she’s confirmed her decaying skin is hidden.
“Mister Rierson is here for you,” Vera says. She glances at me with a fake, apologetic grimace, before looking back. “For your ten o’clock.”
“I’ll come to him,” Mama says. She rises from her chair, crossing the room in a few strides. I tell myself I’m imagining it, but I’m certain she’s walking differently. Staggered, almost, as though in pain.
“Mama—”
“We’ll continue this next week,” she says. She places her hands on my face, soft fingers splaying either side of my jaw. “You have to trust me, Elliot.”
I glance over her shoulder, confirming Vera is gone.
“We might not have that long,” I say. “It’s spreading. With the medicine I’m giving, it shouldn’t possibly be spreading. But it is. We don’t have time.”
Mama doesn’t immediately reply. She keeps her hands on the edges of my face, her eyes carefully looking over my features. She’s looking at me like it might be the last time. There’s no fear in her expression, only nauseating acceptance.
