Chapter 37 #2
I jumped the steps of our trailer when she stepped outside. I held on to her leg when she started walking through the dirt road. She looked back at me, her little girl muddy and quiet. I didn't beg, but I wrapped myself tightly around her body.
Let go. You're dirty and disgusting.
My dad is the one who picked me up, and all I can feel now is embarrassment that I tried to hold on to someone who never deserved my love.
But I didn't know so well back then. My dad might be a terrible man, but addiction is a disease.
My mother left us knowing full well what she was doing.
She was of healthy body and mind. She chose to abandon us.
It's Achilles tightening his hand at the back of my neck that brings me back to reality.
I wonder how long I was stuck in my own past. It looks like we've been introduced to the crowd already, and I was out of it the whole time.
It must have made perfect sense for my role as a Hera.
Behind us, people are talking again. I'm pretty sure I hear moaning too, but I don't dare turn around.
My eyes stay on my mother. Catherine Mayer.
Or I guess it's Catherine Duval now. All these years, she was a mere forty-minute drive away from me.
Worse, she knows I was at SFU. I'm the recipient of her husband's scholarship.
"You're really going for family values this year, aren't you, Dad?" Achilles deadpans. "You get the mother, and you put the daughter in my way. And now look at us, a happy family. Let's not aim for any closer than that."
Eugene smirks. "As funny as ever, Son."
My mother doesn't say anything until Eugene taps her hip. "Catherine, say hello."
"Achilles, darling, how are you?" she says to her stepson. As warmly as an artificially intelligent robot who has learned from seeing how others act.
Her voice is different too, clearer, more articulate than I remember. Less raspy. Maybe she stopped smoking. Or maybe my memories are failing me. It's been so long.
I'm expectant, like a candidate in line for an audition, waiting for her moment. I keep a straight face, knowing exactly what my line is about to be. I’ve rehearsed it in my head.
"Welcome to our house, Nyx," she says simply, a smile as falsely welcoming as the one she offered Achilles still plastered on her face. But there's something in her voice. Pride. She’s telling me look. I made it. I got what I left you behind for.
"Hello, Mom," I say as casually as I promised myself. "I'm glad you got everything you wanted." It's not said in a sarcastic way. Instead, I take a cool tone straight out of Achilles's book.
I'm proud of myself, doing so well. Until…
"Nyx." She scoffs with all the disdain she can muster. "I'm not your mom."
I freeze at first, my brain short-circuiting so badly I think that maybe this isn't the woman who gave birth to me, and I called a random woman my mother.
Then reality hits me. The coldness of her heart, the hurt she's desperate for me to feel. The derision in her tone. My lungs turn to steel, and I blink at her as I feel tears filling my eyes uncontrollably.
Out of nowhere, I'm pulled out of water, given the possibility to survive this torturous moment by Achilles. It's discreet, caring in a way my mom could’ve never behaved toward me. At the back of my neck, his thumb caresses me to bring me back before he taps it against my skin.
I recognize the rhythm right away. It's the beginning of his concerto. My treasure.
I take a deep breath, practically choking under the emotions rushing through me.
"Of course." I nod. "Giving birth doesn't make someone a mom. It surely didn't make you one."
She rears her head back slightly, as if she's not the one who refused the title a second ago. Our conversation is cut short by a drunk woman in her underwear wrapping her arm around Catherine's waist.
"Catherine," she slurs, the champagne in her coupe sloshing and threatening to spill on my mother's dress. "Is this a real Fragonard? Impossible. It must be a copy?"
My mother's eyes go around the room, searching for something.
That's when I understand she has no idea what her friend is talking about. She went up in the world, but she still isn’t one of them.
She never took the time to care about art or culture.
It doesn't matter what social class she's in.
She only cares about what shines, not what has meaning.
Eugene jumps in, pointing at the painting of a woman on a swing so his wife can catch up.
"Absolutely is the original," he says. "The Wallace Collection lent it to me. I've got it for a month."
"Isn't it wonderful?" Catherine beams. "It was a big chunk of money, but Eugene doesn't count when it comes to my happiness."
My God, she's as tacky as she used to be. We're looking at a piece of art, and all she can mention is the cost.
"What period is this again?" the woman asks.
"Uh, Neoclassism," Catherine answers right away.
It drags a loud cackle out of me, bringing everyone's attention my way. Amazing, a chance to show everyone who my mother really is.
"This is Rococo," I say simply.
Catherine laughs carelessly, waving a hand. "Similar. I'm just tipsy. Anyway—"
"Actually," I cut her off. "One is early eighteenth-century romance and playfulness.
The other was born in the mid eighteenth-century quite literally to fight the former.
It's moralistic and structured. They're not similar. They’re practical opposites.
For pointers: Rococo is Fragonard, Boucher, Battista.
Neoclassical is Ingres, Canova, Kauffman. "
Achilles explodes with a genuine laugh that has the group turning to him.
It's so real that it burns in my own heart, so carefree and proud that his hand falls off my neck, and my first instinct is to grab it.
He wraps his around mine tightly, and I don't know if it's because he's so used to doing it, a muscle memory he didn't think of fighting off, or if he truly wants to.
But when it stays there, his thumb caressing the back of my hand, I feel like turning into a puddle of tears at his feet.
Achilles Duval loves me, no matter how much he wants to stop.
Catherine cocks an eyebrow at me as the woman next to her coos at how smart I am.
"Does North Shore High teach art now?" she spits.
"Catherine, darling," Eugene says politely. "Don't be so silly. She must have learned this at Silver Falls University."
"Of course," my mother confirms. "The bright young lady got a scholarship after all. Educated poor people are so touching."
My mouth drops open at what she dares to say to my face.
"I learned this when I was in middle school, Catherine," I say, with a little too much venom for someone trying to act undisturbed.
"If you must know, it was my violin teacher who taught me.
Because she believed you can't care about music without understanding the history around it, and the culture it was born in.
North Shore High doesn't teach art. It teaches you how to survive stabbings and fights.
But you wouldn't know because you left when I was in elementary school so you could whore yourself out to a rich man.
Uneducated rich people who think one's social class defines their intelligence are so sad. "
I take a deep breath, thinking I'm done, but more comes out.
"And, by the way, I don't learn about paintings at SFU.
I'm at the music school. Because that's what I do, Mom.
" I love the way she flinches at the word.
"I play the violin. I'm going to be our soloist before the end of the year, and probably in a famous orchestra soon after, and you, you still won't know the difference between any art period by then. "
This time, Eugene is the one who snorts. I'm pretty sure he means to laugh.
"Nyx," he says condescendingly, as if talking to a child.
"I'll proudly support you being the soloist of SFU's orchestra.
But you won't be part of anything after that.
Heras have the important duty of taking care of our home and our children.
Being a housewife is the only future you have, darling.
I hope you understand how lucky you are. "
My eyes round, my heart sinking. I turn to Achilles, refusing to understand. "W-What?"
His hand tightens around mine, but any word he means to say is cut off by his dad.
"Now." Eugene claps his hand. "It's time to get to business.
Our Heras must go home so our Aphrodites can join us.
" He slaps his son's shoulder. "I'm looking forward to you finally being part of this, Son.
But don't be so surprised if most people here want you dead.
We all know you were Hermes now, and they're still convinced that the only way for their secrets to stay safe is for you to be buried six feet under.
" He laughs heartedly. "You've got a lot of work to do to gain their trust back, and we better get started. "
My ears are ringing as the doors to the reception room open, and a line of at least thirty women in see-through long dresses come in. They're wearing a necklace too, but their pendant is a seashell.
The Aphrodites. Achilles told me they were the sex toys for the Circle. The ones who failed to make it as Heras during initiations. If Achilles hadn't caught me in that forest, I would be in that group.
I look at my Shadow, worried to death about what's about to happen here.
"Go home," he says calmly. "Our driver will get you back safely."
There's no reassurance in his words. He's a broken man, but still the same man he's always been.
Because I put him back together and shattered him again.
A sharp yet depressed mind that relied on me to rest and feel safety.
That's gone now. He's back to the boy who lost any feelings a long time ago, and he mindlessly goes along with whatever is thrown at him.
He lets go of my hand and presses his to my lower back, nudging me toward the door. All the other Heras are leaving, and I follow, not knowing how to push back.
The second we're in the grand entrance hall again, Catherine turns to me.
"I was an Aphrodite until four years ago," she explains. "I know everything those men truly love sexually, so it was hard the first night as a Hera when I was kicked out of the room. Just try not to imagine what he's doing with those beautiful women. Or do…"
My nostrils flare, and my fury finally bursts out, with only the other Heras as witnesses.
"You're absurd," I hiss. "You're cheap, and tacky, and you're poor.
You're poor in your heart, and in your soul.
You lack everything that makes humans rich.
Love and empathy. No money will buy you decency, class, and intelligence.
You're a sad excuse of a mother who walked out on her child and her husband because she wanted to be rich.
Do you understand how pathetic that makes you?
You never thought of me because you're not capable of thinking.
You're only capable of spreading your legs. "
She looks at me with such pride; I understand that I've given her exactly what she wanted.
"Oh, I thought of you. I thought of you when I told my husband I knew a student desperate enough to leave the North Shore she would accept any offer we made her.
Someone we could then use to get Achilles to join the Circle.
" She offers me the brightest smile she has this night so far.
"Do you think you deserved that scholarship?
No, sweetie, all my idea. You got it because we wanted to use you.
Turns out, I can think, can't I? I'm full of bright ideas. "
My heart shatters into a million pieces, my mind dismantling as I digest the real reason I ever went to SFU. Not for my talent…only for what they had planned for me.
"You and I were both ready to do anything to get out of the North Shore, and now we're both here," she purrs. "Not so different after all, are we?"
My hand flies to her cheek, slapping her hard and fast. The sound resonates against every surface as her face snaps to the side. But nothing is as loud as the other women's gasps.
"I hate you," I seethe.
I don't leave the Duvals' house. I'm kicked to the curb by their security.