“I think my boy is taken with this human, all the same,” she murmurs. Before Otis can become even more tongue-tied, I step forward.
“Hello, Mrs Cane.” I reach out my hand, and she takes it in her free one. Her hand is bigger than mine, bony and mapped with blue veins under the green of her skin. Surprisingly, her grasp is strong, and she strokes my hand and muses, “Such lovely soft pale skin.” Then, she holds out the photo.
“May I introduce you to my husband, Bradley. He’s had to go away on very important business, but he’ll be back soon.”
“Mom…” Otis remonstrates softly.
“I’m telling you, son of mine, he’ll be home soon.” There’s a sudden determined set to her mouth.
I take the photo from her and study it.
It’s a family shot, I realize. A big, handsome male orc smiles at the camera with his younglings around him. “I took that photo of Bradley and our orclings on a picnic at One Moonbeam Lake. It’s our favorite place to visit.”
I glance at Otis. There’s a fixed smile on his face, but his eyes are hollow. It breaks my heart. I nod and smile, not sure whatto say as I hand back the photo. Luckily, Moe bursts through the doors at that moment, with the cake on a trolley piled with plates. Suddenly all the residents raise their snouts, scenting the air.
“Cake time!” Moe calls out.
With quite a commotion they converge on the table, some swooping on wings, others hobbling on crutches, all chattering in their own languages.
“Come on, Mom.” Otis puts out a hand to Sally and gently helps her out of the chair. “Put Dad in your pocket for now, eh?”
Reluctantly, she puts the photo in the large pocket of her dress.
She’s weak, I realize. She stumbles with each step, and Otis steadies her with gentle care. “Shall I take your other arm?” I ask.
“Yes please, my dear.” Sally is a fair bit taller than me, but because she’s bent over, I don’t have to reach up far to take her hand.
We shuffle her over to the table and to my surprise, as she partakes of the cake, Sally starts chatting with the others, explaining how she taught Otis all her baking tips when he was a youngling. “It’s all about how long you beat the batter for,” she explains to a beaked creature seated next to her. “It has to be so light and airy it almost floats out of the bowl.”
Otis glances at me and I smile, remembering my arm lust watching him beat that cake.
Now all the monsters are voicing their approval, smacking their lips and grabbing more cake. Soon there’s nothing left but a few crumbs on a platter and the odd berry or two.
And yes, I had a piece, and it was divine. I can’t help thinking that’s because it was made with so much passion.
“We did a good job,” Otis says.
His eyes are gentle and warm as they rest on me, and I try to identify the emotion there.
It’s gratitude, I realize.
He’s grateful I’m here to share in his mom’s care. To alleviate the loneliness of it. I get it. I spent years looking after my own dad, bearing his sorrow and mine, and that shared suffering brings me and Otis even closer somehow.
“Yes,” I say, “we make a great baking team.”
But of course, I mean so much more than that.
OTIS.
When we finally take our leave of Mom, everyone’s stomachs are well and truly stuffed with cake. We even had an impromptu sing-along, with me and Mom taking the lead in some traditional orc songs. That hasn’t happened since Dad died, and my chest swells as all the monster voices join in with the chorus. I even hear Clem managing a few words with her sweet soprano.
Then we walk Mom back to her room. She lies on her bed, takes the photo of Dad out of her pocket and rests it against her heart.
“Where he belongs,” she murmurs, patting it softly with her bony hand. She looks up at me with questioning eyes. “Will the twins be coming by next week?”
This is the part of the conversation I always dread. I skirt around the issue to keep her happy.
“I hope so, Mom.”
