Chapter 16 #2
I nod in response. “I hope this isn’t getting too personal, but… Well, I heard you’ve been telling them love isn’t real.”
Phemie frowns and crosses her arms. “Who said that?”
There was a show Mom used to watch called Touched by an Angel about an angel who went around changing everyone’s lives for the better.
There’d always come a point where her subtle nudges weren’t enough to get the job done.
So, she’d reveal her true identity, and the people would be in such awe that God had literally sent a divine messenger to set them on the right track.
It worked every time. I decide to take a cue from that.
“Aphrodite,” I answer. “I’m her cleric. She sent me on a mission to help those who have turned away from love.”
“Hmph!” Phemie’s manner has shifted from warm to cold in a blink. “She can take her ‘help’ and shove it up Hera’s ass! Fat lot of good either of them have ever done me.”
Maybe mentioning Aphrodite was the wrong tactic.
“I understand,” I say. “You thought you’d found a love match with your husband, but he turned out to be a monster in disguise. No one could blame you for resenting the Goddess of Love and the goddess of marriage. But giving up on love? That’s only hurting yourself.”
“I’m an old woman,” Phemie says, her tone still just as irritated as when she cursed two goddesses. “Can I not enjoy this time of my life without feeling pressured to be with some man?”
That’s a fair point, but my side quest wasn’t to hook her up with anyone. I’m here to prove to her she shouldn’t let her past ruin her children’s happiness.
“You’re absolutely right. Wanting to be single is perfectly fine.”
Phemie chuckles. “Be careful. Aphrodite might make your lady parts fall off.”
Wow, sounds like the Goddess of Love has a pattern. I wonder how that incel is doing.
“Trust me, I’m not saying anything she’d be unhappy with,” I tell Phemie. “I’m not saying you should go out and get a man. I don’t think you should forgive and forget what your husband did to you. But I’ve met your children. The love you share with them is so obvious.”
“That’s not the same.”
I shake my head. “It’s not the same love, but it’s still love. If that kind of love exists, isn’t it possible that romantic love can be real, too? Even if your husband turned out to be lying about his feelings?”
Phemie’s silent now. She’s spent decades believing that romantic love doesn’t exist because she’s never received it herself. But my words are still getting through to her. I can see the doubt in her eyes, the way her crossed arms are loosening.
“I suppose my daughter Erianthe has been happy enough with her marriage,” Phemie says at last. “She and her husband certainly can’t keep their hands off each other. Ten babies and another on the way!”
“And that’s even with you telling her that love doesn’t exist,” I say. “But some of your other children are taking it to heart, and it’s hurting them.”
“It is?”
I nod. “Three of your daughters are maids, and one of them is ready to marry some stable boy she doesn’t have feelings for just so she can be a mother. And it’s all because she doesn’t believe that the man she yearns for could ever love her. She even said love doesn’t exist.”
“Ione said that?” Phemie uncrosses her arms and sits down at her table. Her eyebrows knit together in worry. “My youngest child, the one with the kindest, sweetest heart. I’ve failed her.”
I sit on the chair next to Phemie. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been a wonderful mother, even when your husband spent his life hurting you.” I squeeze her hand. “And it’s never too late to tell her to take a chance on love.”
Phemie nods as a tear makes a slender path down her cheek. “I’ll talk to her,” she says. “It’s not dark yet. I can get to her house and be home in time to eat and sleep.”
To my surprise, the woman hugs me. I stiffen with shock but then relax into the embrace. I forgot how good it could feel to be hugged like this. Since Mom’s mind started deteriorating, I hadn’t experienced a good motherly touch. I cry. No, not just cry—sob.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Phemie asks, releasing her hold on me to look into my eyes.
“I really miss my mom,” I answer and hope she can understand what I’m saying since my words are wavering with despair. “She’s sick, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get to see her again.”
Phemie wipes away her own tear and places her palm against my cheek. She may be an NPC, but her fingers are calloused from years of work. It feels good, though. It feels real.
“You’ll see her,” she says. “Maybe not how you think, but she’ll be in your dreams or on the whisper of a cool breeze.
She’ll show herself in a field of her favorite flowers.
You’ll feel her when you hear a certain song and when you eat a meal she used to cook for you.
That’s what I tell my children, and I’m sure she’d want you to know that. ”
As sweet as those words are, they make me cry even harder. Phemie is right, but I don’t want to see Mom like that. I want to sit beside her and lay my head on her shoulder. I want her to know I’m okay.
“Let me get you something to eat,” Phemie says, patting my hand.
I wipe away my tears and sniff. “Sorry, I can’t stay. My friends are waiting for me back at camp.”
“Then, I’ll pack it up for you,” she says as she walks to the pot boiling over her hearth fire. “How many people are in your camp?”
“You don’t have to—”
“I asked how many people are in your camp,” she responds, “not whether I have to do this. I know don’t have to, but I want to.”
“Six, including me,” I answer.
Phemie gets a pot and takes the lid off. She ladles generations portions of stew into it and then puts the lid back on. Then she tightly binds it all up with twine and puts it into a bag.
“Take this and eat well,” she says, handing it over. “And know your mother’s wish for you to be well is answered this day.”