Seventeen
Elodie
As I slump in the backseat of my ride home, an ache sinks right through my ribs. The heaviest sort of homesickness swells inside me—the kind even going home wouldn’t fix.
I want my mom. I want her to pull me into one of her warm hugs, stroke her fingers over my hair, and tell me I can handle anything the world throws at me.
Even while she was alive, could she ever have imagined I’d need to handle the problems of not just one world but two?
When I get to Other Elodie’s house, the building feels empty. I drift into the vast, gleaming kitchen, drawn by an urge I can’t pinpoint until my gaze falls on the tea cannister.
My throat tightens, but the rest of my body moves with the confidence of habit. I set a little water to boil in a pot on the stove, check the cupboard to confirm there’s no loose leaf around, and settle for dropping a tea bag in.
It won’t be quite the same as Mom’s blend bought in her favorite Little India shop, but she always said the process mattered more than the leaves.
I find cinnamon and ginger in the cupboard and sprinkle a dash of each in to add a little punch. Then I pour in the milk, stirring constantly so it doesn’t film.
By the time I take the pot off the heat, a comfortingly creamy scent floods my lungs, dispelling the worst of the ache.
I pour the chai into a mug and immediately bring it to my lips. My first sip burns my tongue, but I don’t care.
Sitting at the island, I inhale even more of the steam and the familiar scent. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Mom didn’t share much of her cultural heritage with me. I don’t even know how much that’s because her family didn’t hold on to it after they left their country of origin, however many generations back that was, and how much it’s because she was purposefully avoiding it.
She was born here—I know that much. She told me she was the first in her family to show magical ability, a latent talent that sometimes pops up when two bloodlines collide. It could be that surprise caused the rift.
She never talked about her parents or any other relatives, no matter how much I pushed as a kid. We never visited anyone. She wouldn’t even say which exact country her family immigrated from.
“Don’t you have more important things to worry about than what happened ages before you were born?”she’d say with a tsk of her tongue.
When I was younger, I read every book on South Asian cultures and mythologies I could find in the library and tossed references at her to watch her reactions. Exclaimed the names of gods and goddesses to see if she’d chide me. Analyzed her phrasing and items around the house for hidden meaning.
I never uncovered any thrilling surprises. All that research simply mixed in with the other practices and myths I’ve read up on that float around in my head, only slightly more poignant because of my uncertain connection to it.
As a kid, I wanted to believe there was some special secret on that side of our family, to make up for the side I lost. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve accepted Mom was just who she said she was, and the tidbits she passed on to me were the only parts that really mattered to her.
If Uncle Nik hadn’t found me himself, I’d have no idea she even had a lucent younger brother. He never talked about the rest of the family either, only saying it’d be easier not to tell her he’d gotten in touch.
It could be Mom simply threw herself whole-heartedly into her new community, as much as her fellow lucents would allow it. For most of my life, I had no similar families to compare ours to. But when I mentioned to Byron once how closed-off I felt from that half of my identity, his chuckle came out sharp.
“Magic is our culture,”he said.“It’s so big, there’s no room for anything else, not if you’re committed to it. I guess most people figure it’s not much of a sacrifice for what you get in return.”
I couldn’t tell if he agreed. That was one question I never dared to ask him, not when he’d thrown his whole family away to stick with me.
I’m taking a larger gulp of the cooling tea when Aunt Daphne bustles into the kitchen. She pauses, her gaze flitting from my mug to the pot on the stove.
“Chai,” I say before she has to ask. “My mom used to make it. I had a craving.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sure—” She cuts off whatever she was going to say with a laugh and waves her hand toward the room at large. “Your father has a dinner meeting, so I thought we’d orderin. I don’t know— Do you like pizza? That’s what we’d usually get. Whatever toppings you’d want, it’s all good.”
“We” means her and Other Elodie, obviously.
At the thought of the grease-drenched slices, my stomach clenches up. I used to love pizza, before maintaining optimal health became so very important.
It doesn’t matter here, though. My glim isn’t active. It’ll stay that way as long as I’m in this reality.
A couple pieces couldn’t really hurt. If I can’t even indulge when I’m an entire parallel universe away from home, what kind of life am I living?
