“Get up,” Marlow said. Their voice was ever soft and encouraging as they leaned their head in close to his, although the statement had an imploring force behind it. “Seb, get up. Come on. It’s alright — she’s waiting for you.”
“Marlow,” he whined. “I can’t. I can’t — I can’t talk to her.”
“Why?”
“She — I told you, there’s a lot of reasons — you’re smart, you should have figured that out! And anyway, it’s just, it’s just that she shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
They scoffed. “But your siblings should?”
“That’s not the same, you wouldn’t know because you don’t... siblings are, okay, she — how about this, she’s absolutely already moved on, she shouldn’t have her memory of her son ruined by all... this.”
“But you want to see her.”
“Yes, I do, I did, we’re all good now.”
“Seb, she came all this way. To the middle of nowhere. At your siblings’ behest, mind you. And she’s your mother — I know she’s seen worse.”
A breathy and exasperated exhale before he growled. “Yeah,” he said, his voice bitter and spiteful. “Like the thing she saw on trial? Or the thing she saw in prison, when she left me to die?”
“...I’m sure she regretted that — hey, hell, I’m sure she regrets it now. Everyone does things they wish they didn’t. And besides, there’s no way she doesn’t know you didn’t do it now, if that’s what you’re worried about. It was kind of a whole thing?”
“It’s not just that, it’s — I d—”
“You won’t know anything unless you talk to her,” they interrupted. “Seriously. Come, sit up. Everything will be fine.” They paused. “And you know, either way we’re here for you, no matter what happens.”
He gave them a shaking, breathy sigh, closing his eyes. “...Fine,” he said, “but if this goes badly, I’m never forgiving you.”
We both know you don’t mean that.
He pushed himself up from the ground and coiled back up into his old upright position, straightening up like he’d done a hundred times before in his shop, as he looked off towards where his mother now stood — pulled into conversation by their ever-conversational host — and clasped his hands together. Marlow, too, rose, sitting back on their haunches again, adjusting their arms to sit back with Painter in tow rather than cradling him in their extra-limbs.
Finally, as he sat in the grass, Sheila’s eyes caught his long enough and, in one sure motion she pointed right towards him and spoke something, which meant his mother’s attention turning to focus right on him. Marlow could see the way she froze, the way she gasped, the way her body language changed, and feared the worst, especially as Sebastian flinched — but she stepped forward anyway, her face plain with shock, and called to him. “Sebastian,” came her choked-up and somewhat confused voice, dammed with held-back tears. “Mijo, is... is that you? This lady — she says it’s you. I don’t know her, I don’t know why she would bring you up if... your siblings said — I— maybe I recognize you still, I think, but you are so... different.”
“I...” he began, ears drooping. He stopped himself short, wringing his hands. His voice, despite himself, was ever familiar, though maybe a bit rougher around the edges; perhaps yet one thing they’d never managed to take from him, amidst everything else. “I-it’s me, mamá.” He gave a small, nervous wave. “Hi.”
“What has... what has happened to you? What are you? How are you alive? ...Am I dreaming? Why did you never come home...?”
“I-I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you, mamá. I don’t know how to tell you.”
She took another few steps forward, moon-shine catching on her glasses, squinting to see him in the combined light of the moon and that of his own lure — his expression was frightened, cowed and childlike in a particular way that Marlow had only seen in their worst hour. If he could, it seemed, he would have rushed to her, but all the world had trained him otherwise, and so he could only stare back at her lost and afraid, like a deer caught in the headlights.
“...I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, ma, I really am. For not being better. For—for being... me. For, um, for everything.”
Her expression softened, and she drew ever closer, each step closing the gap between them. “Oh, my love,” she replied, as she finally came close enough to look up at him, though he quickly brought himself down to about her level, balancing himself on his palms. Her hands were trembling, and she brought them up to his face, moving to cradle his cheeks — which he allowed, even if he seemed apprehensive at the touch. “My baby, there is nothing to be sorry for. I...” Now the both of them really were starting to tear up, Marlow noted, the outpouring of emotion now too much to hold back. “Please, I am the one who should be sorry, and I am so very sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have believed you, I-I don’t know why I said or did those things, those awful things. They were so terrible. I was so terrible.”
Her hands still unsteady, she moved to wrap her arms around him with a weary ease, as if this were all she’d been waiting for, all she’d been waiting the last decade-and-then-some to do. Another flinch from him again went unspoken. She squeezed her eyes shut; he moved to wrap his own arms around her, and carefully so.
“Your siblings always believed in you,” she said, “and I couldn’t, and they were so... oh, tesoro, I have missed you too much. I have regretted every day of my life — I have only wanted to hold you again, have only prayed for your forgiveness. I was such a terrible fool, yes? Such a terrible mamá. I am sorry I left you all alone in that awful place. I am sorry for whatever has made you this way. I say it, please, but I am sorry even if you cannot ever forgive me, for that I understand. But I am here now.”
“...Of course I forgive you, ma,” he croaked. “I’m just — happy you’re here. I just wanted to see you again. I was so scared, I didn’t want you to hate me, I-I was so worried you did, and then...”
“Only a fool would hate you — I was so very foolish, I know. But it only brought me pain, and sadness, and regret. It was like a big cloud over my life. I thought one day I would feel better, and I never did, not after all this time, after what I did. I hope I have learned better — I love you so very, very much. I am glad you are alive.”
He sniffled. “Mom... aren’t you afraid of me? Of what I am now — all this? After what — what happened to me?”
“No,” she replied. “No, of course not, you are my son, no matter what. No matter how long it took this old fool to realize — mijo, you are loved by me no matter what, I don’t care. Please, never forget. I don’t know what has happened to you, but I can tell you are hurting. I would take it all back if I could, take all your hurt away.”
They stood there for awhile like that, in an embrace; neither spoke, though both cried. There was no need, and in the end there was nothing to say, for what had happened defied explanation and what needed to be exchanged was long beyond words.
“I love you,” he mumbled, finally.
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes. I love you too. So much.”
...After a time, at last, they separated, his mother stepping back as he curled in on himself again, rubbing at his eyes with a palm. “I wish I could have come home,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t have wanted anything more. But I couldn’t. I can’t.”
It seemed she made to answer, but she had currently found her attention rapt by Marlow — and by Painter — as if they had suddenly manifested into the world apropos of nothing, craning her neck to squint at them as if they were figments of her imagination, ocean mirages of some strange kind. It seemed Sebastian, too, had taken note of her surprise. “...Oh, ma, those are my... my—”
“Friends,” Painter finished. Yes, friends. That would do.
“Yes — yes! Friends. I mean, you remember Marlow, right?” He gestured to them. “From school? They... came over to our house a few times, um, way back?”
“I do remember a Marlow... but, not like this,” she replied, her eyes looking deep into their orange ones, pupilless and unnatural.
Marlow laughed, clicking their beak. “Never like this,” they said. “That’s very true. But I guess we have all grown strange from what we were, eh?”
Her gaze shifted downward. “And this is—”
“...Painter,” the computer interjected. “Artist. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I... mom, I-I never could have done it without them. I wouldn’t be here, without them. They’ve both saved my life. More than a couple of times.”
“Well, then if that is the case,” she said, turning to face them head-on, closing her eyes and nodding with a deep gratitude. “Then... I must thank you. For keeping my son safe. And for... well, for giving this sad old woman some closure.”
“Of course,” Marlow replied, tilting their head. It was nice to be useful, to be appreciated, was all they had ever wanted or sought for, but... “It’s just... really, it’s okay. It’s no big deal. It’s just what friends do — look out for each other. And, you know, especially when each other is all you have. It gets mean out there.” They clicked their beak, as if to accentuate their point.
“Yes, very,” Painter replied, though he couldn’t quite help himself, and added with a subdued giggle — “But you know — when the going gets tough, the tough get going!”
The quiet rumbling of another vehicle became plainly apparent as the four of them, plus Sheila-up-the-road, sat there and conversed some more, doing their best to stir up some small conversation in light of the heavier elephant-in-the-grass that seemed to nip at their heels now. That, then, would mark the arrival of their actual agreed-upon guests; and indeed, as the van, this time, pulled up beside the other vehicle, it became quickly apparent that now their party of four-or-five would be growing to at least a party of nine, the four occupants of the automotive very apparently locked in heated conversation within.
Sheila moved to greet them; most of them stayed put, but Sebastian fought the urge to duck back down into the grass, although it seemed much easier not to resort to hiding this time if the worst was truly over. Now came the next part — though, perhaps, not as hard a part as this. One step closer.