“You must be the mysterious Wren,” Mom says as she follows us into the kitchen.
Wren wipes their palm on their cargoes, then shakes Mom’s hand. “I guess that’s one way of describing me.”
Mom laughs. “Well, I’m Lorraine, and I’d like to think I’m mysterious too. Oh, your hands are freezing. And shaking.” She turns to me. “What trouble did you get this…Wren…into?”
“We ran into some trouble on the way over here,” I say, dancing over the details.
“Thank you for the crystals,” Wren says. “I’m grateful for all the help I can get right now.”
Mom narrows her eyes when she looks at me. “He’s a good boy, for the most part, but can be a menace when he wants to. Come in, take your coat off. You both look like you could use a drink.”
I set my bags down on the counter, and Wren helps unpack without being asked. But I see the way they weigh up the window and rear door, as if checking their exits.
Mom clocks it too and just rolls to put a pot of coffee on.
The house smells like cedar and cinnamon. It’s cozy and safe.
We never had much, but Mom made it home. She kept us anchored when Dad walked. Even when things got hard, we never felt it.
“You know what you two need?” Mom asks.
“Not sure I want to hear the answer to that,” I reply, and Wren grins. Winking at them feels like the easiest thing.
“Pff. You need Irish coffee.”
“That sounds good,” Wren says. “And much appreciated.”
Mom pulls three thick glass mugs that are etched with strange patterns. “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she says.
I take the glasses off her lap and put them on the counter near the coffee maker. “What’s with all the fancy glassware?”
“Friend of mine in Aspen does them. They’re sigils.”
Wren picks one up. “Inscribed symbols believed to have magical powers.”
Mom nods. “Yes. You can have your coffee in that one. It saysI trust the universe is looking out for me. I’ll have this one”—she points to the center one—“it saysmy sleep is deep, sound, and restful. And River can have the one on the end.”
“Why, does it say I’ll be a good son or some bullshit?”
Mom glances at Wren and then smiles. “No, it saysmy story is just beginning.”
I turn and grab the whiskey from the cupboard so neither of them can see my smile. “Here.”
Mom grins as she takes the bottle from me, and we all work in silence for a moment as Wren finishes emptying the bags, Mom makes our Irish coffees, and I put the groceries away.
Once we’re done, Mom encourages us to move to the family room, where she has a fire going. Unable to resist its charm, I open the glass door, stoke it, and throw a couple more logs on the fire.
“Remind me to bring you some more wood in from outside before I go.”
“I can manage,” she says, stubbornly.
“I have no doubt you can. But I don’t want you getting cold unnecessarily.”
“Wren, can you pass me that blue book from the shelf? The thick one,” Mom says.
“No,” I say. “Don’t fucking move, Wren.”
Mom chuckles. “Oh yes. It’s baby book time.”
