I rummaged around the backseat, pulled out the bottle of otalith tincture, and held it in front of her. “Life is a highway,” I said. “You’re low on oil. You need this. Life is a highway.”
Recognition sparked in her eyes, and to my relief, she took the bottle from me and gulped down the potion in seconds. Afterward, she stood in silence as I watched her face, waiting for the otalith cackle to do its job.
More than once, I blinked away tears and swallowed a sob. Regardless of her faults, she was my mom, and seeing her in pain, on drugs, not herself, always hurt, always made me feel alone and exposed like a child lost in a crowd.
A few minutes passed before she looked up at me. “My sweet little boy,” she said, and I hugged her, and she petted my back and told me everything was going to be okay. “But we should go before the rest of Naomi’s harem shows up.”
I nodded and let go, and we both got in the car, and as we pulled onto the road, I took off the hood to my suit.
My mom sat with perfect posture, as she always did when she wasn’t using. A slight smile was stamped on her face.
“What’s going on?” I said. “How did this happen?”
“I was looking for you,” she said, “and the next thing I know I’m in highway land. I’m lucky you came around. Look at you in your suit. My little hero.”
I smiled.
“Is Naomi your girlfriend?”
“Was.”
“Did you have sex with her?”
“What?”
“That’s a yes,” she said. “Wandas are notoriously great in bed. Was it amazing? I’m jealous.”
“I’m not talking about this with you.”
“Why? I’m your mother. You can tell me anything. We don’t have secrets.”
“You serious? You kept entire races of people a secret from me. Entire subcultures. I didn’t even know what cackle was until a few days ago. Turns out it’s everywhere.”
My mom crossed her arms, her slight smile gone. “Everything I did was to protect you, all of you. You don’t know what I went through before you came along, what I had to do to escape. There was no way I was going to put my children through that same pain. That’s why I’m here now, to protect you, as I always have, as I always will. The Memoirist is after you, and I’m the only one who can save you.”
“How long has Blanche been your bond?”
“Don’t say her name out loud.” My mom pointed ahead. “Take a left up here.”
I put on the blinker and was about to repeat my question, minus the name Blanche, when my mom said, “I joined the Friends of the Memoirist when I was pregnant with you. I was desperate to find something to keep the seasons at bay besides heroin. The Memoirist said she could help, and she did for a while, but then when you got older, she tried to take you from me, so I grabbed you and your sisters, and we ran and hid. I had to start taking heroin again but I had no choice. I’m sorry. You know that.”
“What do they want from me?”
“I’ll show you when we get to my truck,” she said. “If it hasn’t been towed already. I’ve been trapped in that damn metaphor the last two days.”
I followed my mom’s directions to her truck, which needed new tires and, knowing her, an oil change and several lights replaced. It was an old red Ford diesel, with a rusty cab-over camper shell. She’d parked it at the vista point overlooking Clam Beach and the mouth of the Mad River. While she retrieved her hidden key, I took in the view.
The ocean was rough and the sky overcast. A group of Harbor seals—grey sausages from where I stood high on the bluff—lounged on the bank of the river among the driftwood, their barking carried by the wind. The air was wet and salty and cold.
When my mom found the key, she called me over, and I followed her into the camper, where we sat on a bench seat opposite a sink and mini-fridge. An unmade bed was over the cab. The smell of dirty laundry, slept-in sheets, and mildew brought me back to my childhood.
My mom told me to hold out my hand, and I did, almost reflexively. She’d always said the same thing when I was a kid and she had a surprise for me like candy or pastries. But this time her surprise was very different. In two fluid movements, she pulled a knife out of her pocket, flipped the blade from the handle, and sliced open my palm. I flinched and jumped back. The pain was sharp, stinging, and full of voices. I watched the skin split apart. The cut was deep. Scared and confused, I kept an eye on my mom while looking for something to wrap my hand in before the bleeding began.
“Calm down,” she said. “Look at your hand. Shhh, shhh. Look at your hand. It’s okay.”
I searched her eyes. Had she finally gone completely crazy? Was this one of her drug-induced manic episodes? Was this part of the metaphor spell? Did she think there were demons inside me? Or did she think there was water in my oil?
“Look at your hand,” she said again.
I found a dirty shirt on the floor, but as I went to wrap my hand, blue scrill foamed over my wound. The pain was gone, replaced by a tingling sensation. The rekulak saliva dissipated in seconds, leaving my palm healed and without a scar. I let the shirt drop to the floor and sat down, staring at my palm, marveling at what had just happened.
“That’s why the Memoirist is after you,” my mom said, scooting close and wrapping an arm
