Burn (Pure #3)(82)

“Mom?” Lyda says.

Lyda’s mother steps forward. She lifts her gaze until finally she meets Lyda’s eyes, crimping her lips and drawing in her breath as if bracing for something—what does she expect? What has she been told? Does she know Lyda’s pregnant?

Lyda doesn’t know if she’s supposed to hug her mother or not. And her mother seems equally unsure. “Lyda, dear,” she says softly.

And Lyda feels a rush of love that seems to buoy her. She’s missed her mother more deeply than she let herself admit. She sets her pocketbook down carefully on an end table, keeping Freedle safe and sound, and walks to her mother quickly, wrapping her arms around her neck. Her mother stiffens but then pats her back. “I didn’t think you’d come to see me. I wasn’t sure you even knew I was here.”

“I know everything,” her mother says. But Lyda isn’t sure what version of everything she’s been fed.

Lyda squeezes her mother’s hands. “Let’s go talk—just the two of us,” Lyda says and then turns to Chandry, Mr. Culp, and Vienna. “Do you mind if we have some privacy?”

“No, no!” Lyda’s mother says. “It’s okay. There’s no need to disrupt the get-together.” She walks to the television. “It’s going to be a lovely event for all of us to share”—she looks at Lyda—“and accept.”

Lyda feels like she’s been slapped. Her ears are ringing. The nursery. She wants to retreat to the nursery, feel the weight of a spear, the ash on her skin. Those things are real. Her mother’s retribution is always made of air. She can’t ever pin it down. She can’t ever accuse her of anything concretely. But now Lyda knows why she’s here: to tell Lyda that her relationship with Partridge is over. This wedding isn’t a fake. It’s going to stand. There’s no reversing it—only accepting it. Her mother is here to help her accept this ending.

Lyda wants this to be a dream. She wants to wake up—gasping for air. But it isn’t a dream.

She can’t speak. She reaches out and grips the back of a chair.

“Are you going to be okay?” Vienna says. “You don’t look good.”

“It’s starting!” Chandry shouts and turns to the TV. She pulls a tissue from her purse and presses it to her cheek. “Here she comes! Oh my!”

“Doesn’t she look nice!” Mr. Culp says.

The whole little Culp family huddles together in front of the glowing screen, with Lyda’s mother standing in front of Mr. Culp. There’s orchestral music blaring from the television. Lyda imagines Iralene in a long white gown, the audience rising up.

They’re all gaping at the television except Lyda’s mother, who’s looking at Lyda now, gazing at her. “Come and watch,” she says.

Lyda shakes her head.

Her mother says with no anger in her voice—just resignation—“Lyda, don’t be stubborn. This is what you must do.”

Lyda says, “No, thank you.”

Her mother walks over to her. “Lyda,” she says softly, “It’s going to be okay. You and the baby. All of it. I will be here for you now. This is my new role.”

“Is it a paying gig? How much did they offer you?” Lyda says sharply.

“What? Lyda, you know that I want to be here. Where else on earth would I more want to be than at your side?” She reaches out for Lyda’s hand, but Lyda pulls it from her.

“I have mothers,” Lyda says. “I have so many mothers out there I don’t need you. Do you hear me? I don’t need you at all.” Lyda turns, scoops up her pocketbook—Freedle safely within it—and walks down the hall.

“Lyda! Don’t do this!” her mother shouts, running after her.

Lyda opens the nursery door, but before she can shut it, her mother jams her body into the frame. She sees the wrecked crib, the pile of spears, the wood shavings, the knife, the stack of ripped baby books, the bowl of ash—all of it lost in the swirling cinders projected by the small orb sitting in the center of the room. “My God. Lyda.”

“Get out. This is for me. It’s mine alone.”

Mrs. Mertz locks her eyes on Lyda. “What have you become?” Her mother stumbles backward, catching herself on the wall, leaning against it, breathing heavily.

Lyda shuts the door and locks it. She slides down, presses her back to the door, and sits on the floor. What have I become? She opens her pocketbook and pulls out the swirled nest of the hand towel where Freedle is sleeping.

“Freedle,” she whispers. “How did we get here?”

Freedle’s eyes blink open. He stretches his frail wings. She wants to dig through her maternity dresses and pull out the armor. She wants to feel encased, protected.

“How do we get back out?” she says.

And then suddenly she feels like her chest is filled with rage. She finds a seam in the side of her dress, grips the dress in her fists, and rips its skirt all the way to her waist. She takes more fabric and rips it, rips more and more, until it’s shredded.

“My mothers,” she whispers. “I miss my mothers.”





PRESSIA





DOORS




Mother Hestra walks Pressia to the periphery of the woods. There, a few mothers work quickly. They’ve pulled out catapult machinery and baskets of robotic spider grenades.