Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(31)

“We have to fix him,” I say, and part of me wonders why it’s so much harder to ask for help from the people who love us. “Ma has enough on her hands with trying to be the midwife and healer to every magical being in the tristate area. The High Circle would probably put a stake through my heart without asking questions. Dad doesn’t even remember the last seven years. It has to remain with us.”

I place my hands on my sister’s shoulders. The next candle blows out.

“I’ll get you fresh candles,” Rose says.

“I’ll get the books.”

“I’ll make the potion.”

I walk up to my altar and blow out the last flame.

? ? ?

I get to work in the infirmary. I have to wade through everything I’m feeling and come out standing still.

My fingers tremble as I comb through our supplies and collect the jars of ingredients. My legs ache for a rest. I catch my reflection in a mirror, wishing I could see what Rose sees. Without her, how would I ever know my soul was detached? I press my finger over my heart, where I first felt the thread that led me to Maks. Was that a symptom? When I heal others, I always ask: When did the pain start? Does it hurt when I press right here? What hurts the most?

If I were to do that to myself now, I would answer, “It started with the maloscuros. It hurts when I come in contact with anything—when I sit, when I stand, when I blink, when I breathe. One pain always tries to overpower the others, so I don’t know what hurts the most.”

If I right my spirit, if I free Lady de la Muerte, if I help Maks will all of this stop hurting?

“Lula?” Mom’s voice makes me jump. I drop the jar of lavender I was holding.

“Sorry—I’m trying to make a calming draught.”

“I’ll get it,” she says, soothing. She must be trying to give me space because she doesn’t even ask me where I went. “Sit.”

At the word sit, my body groans. If I were made of metal, I’d be the creakiest robot ever, all rusted joints and pieces in need of repair.

“Why didn’t you ask me to make you one before?”

Because it’s not for me, I think. My heart races as she moves around the room. I’ve never lied to my mother like this. Not ever.

She gets a broom and dustpan from the corner and sweeps up the mess into the trash. The lavender heads are too mingled in with the glass to salvage. She goes to one of the wooden drawers, pulls out a new bundle. The scent reminds me of nights when I was little. A few weeks after Dad disappeared, she started making us all lavender and honey tea. Then we’d climb into her bed and sleep huddled together, a gathering of sorrow.

“I want to try and do things myself.”

She nods slowly but finishes the potion for me anyway. Her brown fingers move swiftly, and she barely looks at the jars that she pulls from the crowded shelves. She knows herbs by scent, not sight. She knows bones by their touch and weight. She’s the best healer and bruja I’ve ever known, and I’m certain if I tell her what I’ve done, it would crush her.

“I know things are hard right now,” she tells me. She grinds the mixture a little longer than I would have before putting it in the tea bag. “But the best thing to help you feel like yourself is getting back into a routine.”

A heavy thump resounds somewhere in the house. Ma doesn’t seem to notice, but I fear Maks might be waking up.

“I can’t even think about a routine right now,” I say, and that’s the most honest thing I’ve said all day.

She lets the tea steep before handing it to me. Her palms are still warm when she cups my face.

“Why don’t you help your father and me with this delivery tomorrow?” she asks. Another thumping sound, like a mallet hitting wood, makes both of us turn toward the door. “What are your sisters doing?”

“Delivery?” I ask, trying to keep her attention on me.

“Remember? We’re going to Montauk this weekend. I’ve delivered human children and mermaid children, but this will be my first half-human half-mermaid. Though I suppose mermaids are already half-human…”

“Ma, I can’t.”

“I don’t want to pressure you.” She throws her hands up in the air. She pulls out a heavy leather bag from the closet. “I didn’t want to leave you so soon, but I know you girls can take care of each other.”

She’s right about that at least.

“But it might be good for you.” She grabs thin glass vials of blue cohosh, milk thistle, gnarly roots with tiny, green sprouts, powders of all different colors, candles, and shells. She fits everything in her travel bag.

There’s a loud creaking sound, and this time, I know it comes from my bedroom. My mouth is dry with lies, but this is the closest truth I can manage: “I’m not ready.”

“You’ll never be ready if you don’t try.” She places her hand on her hip. Her head is cocked to the side. It makes me think of the homeless man in the subway, his head turning sideways and crunching.

I pull back when she tries to caress my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I need more time.”

I can see the struggle in her eyes. “Okay, baby. I’ll save you a plate for dinner.”

Then I leave her and hope that Maks is all right as I rush to my room.