Coming back was worse than before. I could hear the heart monitor beeping faster than normal and the breath coming short in my lungs. Someone was dabbing my forehead with a damp cloth and whispering. It was my mother’s voice, Francis’s in the background, equally soft. I didn’t want to wake up—Rena was crying and Francis’s voice sounded fragile.

“What time did she call?” Rena whispered.

“About an hour ago. She said she was flying out as soon as possible,” Francis replied.

“Good, good. Lucian will love to see her.”

I tensed, afraid of whom they were talking about. I tried to feel beyond their presence’s, finding Ophelia’s somewhere near the sink. I continually called to her in my head until she acknowledged me.

Please let me go back, I can’t be here now.

You prefer your memories?

Now, yes.

“Mallory’s coming back, baby. She’s coming to see you.”

XxXxX

Alex stayed with me frequently. Rena never cared or questioned it. I think she knew, to an extent. But she treated Alex like another son, insisting he always eat, eat, eat.

“You and Lucian both are just so thin,” she would say while putting full plates in front of us. I thought it was good for Alex, the constant care. He seemed malnourished in that department.

We went to school as normal, picking our way through the hallways getting shoved in the back and jeered at as we passed. In the beginning, it was the worst treatment. Then it became a joke to us, and we fed it.

Roger Paris was a constant nag in our lives. He felt it necessary to call both Alex and me fags every chance he got, even if I happened to be clutching Mallory to my side, Alex walking beside us. Just because of his persistence, I sometimes applauded him and asked, “Great, feel better now?” He never knew exactly what to say to that, but only snickered and turned away.

Three weeks after Alex had been staying at my house, I asked one morning if his father had tried to do anything about it.

“I’ve called once or twice,” Alex shrugged as he loaded books into his bag. “He talks through his teeth and tells me to come home. I say maybe, and then I don’t show up.”

“Good,” I nodded. I was afraid of what his father might do to him if he went back. Alex may have been eighteen, but he was adamant about finishing school. I admired him for that at least, because you wouldn’t expect that of him.

“God, it’s fucking cold,” Alex shuddered as he closed his locker. I silently agreed and followed him down the hall towards our last class. We walked over flyers that had been thrown down the hall advertising the pointless winter formal. I purposely stepped on as many as I could, remembering how Alex and I had planned on corrupting the whole thing.

“Hey guys!”

The mocking tone was enough to make me roll my eyes. You couldn’t go a day without hearing one of Roger’s wisecracks.

“Did you just come from the gym?” he asked, grabbing his crotch in a suggestive way. His friends laughed heartily as I just cocked an eyebrow.

“You know it,” Alex replied huskily, putting a hand on my shoulder and giving my cheek a long lick. I faked a shudder and smirked, making Roger’s smile fail a bit. Did he still think I’d ignore the comments and deny, deny, deny until it sounded true? Fucker.

I might have gotten a thick punch in the back had I not ducked into the nearest doorway, laughing.

“Fuck this, let’s just leave now,” I said, still laughing as Roger tried to regain his composure and look good again. He yelled ‘fags’ after us, earning him an echoing laugh until we disappeared out the door.

“What now?” Alex asked when we stood outside the school. Standing in the deep doorway, we were shielded from the wind and snow, which was blowing around wildly and gradually building up on the ground.

“I don’t know. We could go out for coffee somewhere, or just go back home,” I said, searching my pockets for change. “Vandalize Roger’s car, you know, the works.”

Alex didn’t reply, and I looked up to see if he was thinking over our choices. He was squinting through the snow at the parking lot, looking unsure.

“Is that your dad?” he asked.

“My dad?” I repeated, following his gaze. There was a man standing against a car, a long, baggy jacket hanging off his slender frame, a cigarette between his lips. His dark hair shielded most of the black sunglasses that hid his eyes. He was drumming his fingers against the hood of his car impatiently, watching us. Yes, it was my father.

“I’m going to go back to your place, all right?” Alex said, already going down the steps.

“Okay,” I replied vaguely, still staring. I had no idea why he would come back. It wasn’t my birthday, I wasn’t about to graduate or anything. Rena hardly called him at all except on New Year’s or if she was in desperate need of some extra cash. I couldn’t fathom why he was here.

I walked down the steps and across the lawn, watching him toss his cigarette to the ground and crush the embers with the toe of his worn boot. He gave me that awkward smile, sweeping some of the hair back from his hollow cheeks. It wasn’t that he was thin and starved, he’d always had those sharp features: straight nose, handsome square jaw, and high cheekbones. I’d inherited some of those looks, mainly his nose and lips I think, but Rena’s softer features had smoothed his out on my face.

“Lucian,” he said when I stopped in front of him. He lifted his sunglasses off, exposing his eyes, ones that I remembered from way back in my childhood. They were kind eyes that held too many memories.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice almost carried away with the cold wind.

He shrugged. “I thought I’d come by. I miss this place in this sort of weather.” He looked at me slowly, putting his hands in his deep pockets. “You look different.”

“So do you,” I replied.

“Come on, I’ll buy you coffee.” He opened the car door and got in, not waiting for me to reply. I breathed deep, the cold burning my throat. It wouldn’t hurt to catch up.

His car smelled dark, like him. Something like incense and fire filled the small space as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“You don’t get out for another hour,” he commented as we drove.

“Yeah,” I said, resting my feet on the dashboard. I could see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye.

“You do that often?”

“What, just leave?”

He nodded.

I shrugged. “Sometimes.”

He didn’t seem to have any further comments on that and pulled into the nearest café. It was one he always went to when he came back into town. I think he used to work there once when he lived at home, but I can’t be sure.

“I don’t have any cash on me,” I warned as I stepped out of the car.

“That’s all right, I do,” he replied, patting his coat pocket. A miracle—that’s what it was. The last two times we had gone to the café, I had paid for our drinks.

We sat at the same table inside, next to the huge fichus beside the window. Snow had piled on the sill, leaving the glass foggy around the edges. Incense burned overhead in brass lamps and music played softy from the speakers in the corner. It was all very familiar and awkward; I never went to the place unless I was with my father.

I didn’t listen to what he ordered for us as I drew a tic-tac-toe game on the foggy window. I would guzzle whatever it was so I could leave as fast as possible. His visits weren’t particularly enjoyable, just a way of passing the time and an etiquette I felt was almost required of me, being his son.

“You’re doing well in school?” he asked next, leaning on his arms on the tabletop.

“Yeah, pretty well,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Are you working?”

“Yes, I’ve been at the gallery for a year and a half.” He was only a curator and an aspiring artist. His work generally wasn’t pretty, just white canvases with thick oil paint all over it in no particular shape. My mother had saved one, which was still hanging over her bed. It was mostly black and red layered thick and textured. I think it’s still soggy and wet under the dry surface.

“Diane’s been working on the house and all,” he went on, scratching the patch of hair on his chin. Such an artist . . .

Diane was his wife of eight years. They lived fourteen hours away in a bigger city in an apartment on the river. They also had a son, Daniel, who had just turned seven. I’d only seen pictures of him and Diane, who was a woman I could never visualize my father beside. From what I remembered, she was short and petite with sunny blonde hair and big blue eyes. Quite the negative of Rena. Diane seemed very suburban, which was the complete opposite of my father. Maybe that was the attraction.

“Did you bring any pictures?” I asked, moving my hands off the table as the waitress returned with a small clay kettle and two tiny cups.

“No,” my father said, pouring himself some of the drink. It was the thick Aztec chocolate they served, hot and sweet with a subtle aftertaste of chili. I had to admit, I loved the stuff and poured myself as much as my small cup could hold.

I took a few savory sips before sitting back and looking at my father. “So you just came down here to say hi?”

He shrugged. “Generally.”

“Generally?”

He put his cup down and shifted in his chair, leaning closer. It seemed like he was trying to compose his fatherly figure before speaking. “Diane’s been off work lately—”

“I didn’t think she worked,” I said, trying to hide the anger in my voice.

“She does,” he replied, looking at me somewhat hard. I smirked to myself. Did he think he had a lot of power over me? He may have been my father, but that didn’t make him anything special to me.

“Okay, so what about her?” I asked.

“We’ve been talking about our lives lately and very seriously,” he went on. “And you know she already knows about you and your mother.”

‘Your mother’, like she had nothing to do with him anymore.

“And we’ve both decided it would be a wise idea to intertwine a few things.”

I nodded at the floor, drinking more of my chocolate.

“Diane would like to meet you, Lucian.”

There must have been a great deal of venom in my eyes when I glared up at him, putting my cup down.

“Hell no,” I said immediately. “She’s not my mother, why do I need any association with her?”

“But you are my son and she is my wife,” he said firmly. “I’m not asking you to treat her like a mother or anything, she would just like to meet you.”

“Well I don’t want to meet her,” I said in a finalizing tone.

“Be fair, Lucian,” he said with an almost whine in his voice.

“You be fair, Remus,” I snapped, using his name. I stood up, kicking my chair back towards the table as I swung my backpack over my shoulder. “Come talk to me if you ever want to reminisce your old life.”

I walked home swiftly, earning a runny nose and chattering teeth. Everyone was wrapped up nice and cozy when I got home, not knowing about the crap that had just gone on. Rena was sitting with Amelia on the couch, sipping China tea and watching a Disney movie. Alex was asleep in one of the wingchairs, a chenille blanket draped over him. I stopped in the kitchen to look around and wonder why Remus had ever left this.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Rena called to me quietly. “Where’ve you been?”

Obviously, Alex had mentioned nothing about whom we’d seen after school. “Doing some stuff.”

“Mallory’s in your room, she just stopped by before work.”

I closed my eyes for second in annoyance. I’d forgotten the fact that I had a job to attend to at the antique store. I was really not in the mood for dealing with snobbish customers and dust.

Sure enough, Mallory was sprawled on my bed, gazing out the window while Harry lay at her side, enjoying the attention.

“Where’d you go? Thanks for inviting me out of class, too,” Mallory said as she sat up.

“Sorry, it was on a whim,” I said, throwing my bag down. I kicked the stray cards out of my way and went to the couch, sitting down heavily and avoiding my reflection in the mirror on the ceiling.

“Are you okay?” Mallory asked, cautiously standing next to me.

“No,” I replied flatly. I didn’t want to talk about it either.

But Mallory was never one to leave a statement like that. She put her hands in my hair and sat in my lap, forcing me to look at her. I could see my sulking reflection in her very green eyes and felt my disposition melt away.

“My dad’s in town,” I said, relaxing. “I thought maybe he just dropped in to say hi or something, but he had a motive.”

I paused, reexamining my dislike of the idea of his other family.

“And? What was his motive?” Mallory asked.

“He wants me to meet his wife,” I replied bitterly. “And I said no. Fuck no. He chose to get involved in another life, so I’m not going to be part of it.”

Mallory shook her head at me a little, smiling as she kissed my temple. “You’re really stubborn, you know that?”

I smiled sarcastically and nodded.

“He still loves you, and he wants to keep you close, Lu.”

“Yeah well, he can leave his wife out of it. I don’t want to be involved with her. I have one good mother figure, I don’t need another.”

“I bet Remus doesn’t want you to think of her that way,” Mallory said with an all-knowing tone in her voice. I didn’t reply, not in the mood to argue anymore. Mallory could obviously see this, as she stopped her questioning and instead moved on to putting her cool hands under my shirt against my stomach. I felt a little pathetic sometimes in the way I fell to her whim so easily. But who’s to say I didn’t like it?

We fell together onto my red sheets, our bodies warming each other as our lips touched again and again. I liked the struggle of breathing deep and being quiet as her hips pressed into mine with such ardor. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes fluttered and her nails were in my back. We didn’t care about anything else at the time. I loved her and for some reason, this particular time stuck out in my mind for the duration of the memory.

We got dressed afterwards and pressed our backs against the cold glass of my window. I stared up at my ceiling at the magician’s oath that was painted there.

"As a magician I promise to never reveal the secret of my illusions to a non-magician, without first swearing them to the Oath. I promise never to perform any illusion to any non-magician, without first practicing the effect until I can perform it well enough to maintain the illusion of magic".

Illusions. So many things I did—everyone did—every day was an illusion. The way I spoke to my father, the way Alex went on about his day, like everything was all right. My mother went through the motions of life with a good outlook, though I sometimes caught a deep sadness in her eyes. I would ask her if she was okay when I caught it, and as quick as it was there, it was gone.

“I’m fine peep, why?” she would say. I didn’t believe her a vast majority of that time, but I was never brave enough to ask further.

I always used to want to make magic all the time. Believing it when I was a kid was half the fun. Now it was all starting to fade, and the illusions were no longer spectacular.