Agrippa
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Wake-up Call – Chapter 61
🕑 Added 2022-11-10 03:57:19 +0000 UTC“Don’t call me that,” I say. Reflexively, harshly, unbidden.
And my biological mother stares at me in incomprehension.
“What—Sarah, what are you—”
“That. Sarah. Don’t call me that. Not anymore.”
Her arms are still tight around me, and I shrug my shoulders in discomfort until she lets me go. Then I step around her to close the door to my apartment.
Mine.
“Sarah—”
I whirl toward her, my face right in front of her, my hair whipping back around me.
“Lisa. My name’s Lisa. It’s been since… Lisa.”
It starts harshly, a rebuke.
It… doesn’t end like that.
Emotional imbalance due to external stressors—
Stay out of this. Please. Just… just for a while. I’ll call you if I need you, OK?
…
Right. I’m sorry, Power.
“Why… your name...?” she says, taking half a step back, the ringlets framing her face swaying with the motion.
“Why? Because… Because I…” I look into her eyes, so much like mine, with all the details I learned to recognize after Power and I went through a handbook about how to be a police sketch artist, and then we decided to delve a bit deeper.
I look at the undeniable proof that, yes, she’s my mother, unless she’s a Changer, or a Stranger, or even the product of a wet Tinker going above and beyond to mess with me.
But… Occam’s Razor.
She’s my mother.
Because why would any of those stand barely past my door with a lost, hurt expression? Why would any of them pretend not to understand why I am a barely coherent mess? Why would any of them hurt me without finishing me off?
Never deal a light wound, to paraphrase Machiavelli.
He was a chump. A good writer, but a chump.
And now there’s a soft hand that stopped doing harsh labor a few months before Re—before my brother’s birth cupping my cheek, the skin as soft as it ever was once she fully recovered from being a waitress and started having regular beauty treatments.
Because God forbid Dad was ever seen with anything but the very best by his side once his own parents settled on him taking responsibility for being a fucking creep.
Funny the things you learn about your family once you’re no longer living with them.
“Lisa?” she asks, still lost, but trying to smile through it.
And I want to slap her.
So I grab her wrist and pull her hand away before dragging her to my open kitchen and sitting her on the side of the counter farthest from the expresso machine so that at least a piece of architecture will shield me from being too close to the one woman who could destroy me without meaning to and is not called Taylor.
“Chamomile tea?” I ask, already pouring a white stream of water on a black mug that nobody here is too fond of and I can smash to pieces if I need to get away from any reminders of what’s about to go down.
“I… Yes. Thank you.”
She still doesn’t know how to react.
So I open the microwave and regretfully take out a couple of partially heated waffles I’m definitely not in the mood to eat before I put the mug in and turn to my left to start making myself a cup of coffee—
“Wouldn’t you like something more soothing?” she tries to ask gently because she never knew how to deal with silence.
“No. I don’t want to be soothed. I want to be precisely as high-strung as I need to be so that I don’t collapse beneath the wave of emotions soaring and cresting above me. I want to have something holding me up as the world tries to crash around me,” I say to the tiled wall and white cupboard in front of me, the blurry Lisa looking back at me seeming about as lost as I try not to feel.
“Sa—Lisa! What—what are you even saying—”
I push the button on the front of my coffee maker, and the rumbling pump and hissing steam interrupt her like punctuation.
I wish I had had this years ago.
I stare at the twin streams of brown, cougar-like foam pouring down into the white cup, and refrain from making any mental jokes about Hannah and her MILF tendencies because I’m just not in the mood to try and be in a better mood.
All the while, I can feel Mom’s stare on my back, the silence as forced as I wanted to make it, but no less tense for it.
And then, with a sigh, before it overflows, I turn off the machine and turn toward the microwave just as it dings, signaling that the water reached the boiling point seconds ago.
I open the glass door, almost burn myself when reaching for the handle of the mug, and take it out before dropping the bag of chamomile tea inside.
Some people say that the essential oils of the herbs are volatile, and that is why you should cover any recipient as you allow the tea to brew so that those active substances can precipitate back down into the drink.
I can’t be arsed to check with Power just how true that is, and I’m certainly not feeling up to doing anything but the barest showing of hospitality.
“It’s… You have a beautiful place,” she tries once again when I turn toward her and deposit a black mug on a grey counter. “You always had great taste,” she offers with the start of a wistful smile.
“I had to renovate a few days ago. To get all the blood out,” I tell her, not even trying to get a reaction.
Other than the one I get.
Eyes wide, breath halted, hand stilled whilst reaching for her mug to have something to fiddle with.
I don’t use Power.
But… He’s told me often enough, hasn’t he? How I’ve learned. How I’ve been taught as he developed, as we guided one another into becoming something other than what we were at the start of it all.
That was the point. That has always been the point.
So I know she’s shocked but not surprised. I know she knows about Tattletale, if not Lisa. I know she’s been sent here by someone.
Someone who just got at the top of a very short list of people that used to include Coil.
“Do you have a wire?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
And she pales before frantically shaking her head.
“Sarah—”
“Lisa.”
“I… Whatever you’re called, you’re my daughter! How could you believe I would—”
“Someone tipped you off. Someone told you where to find me, and it was believable enough for you to cross the country, so there must’ve been photos and—”
“You’re my daughter!” she yells, standing up so suddenly that her stool clatters to the floor in a way I hope won’t leave a scuff on the wooden floor before she slams her hand hard enough that her mug rattles. “Cross the country? I would travel the world if—”
“You would travel the world, but you wouldn’t stop Dad.”
She freezes once again as if slapped.
Tears brim in the corner of her eyes, and, for the first time in my life, I see my mother look at me with hatred.
“I lost my son. You triggered, wondering what was it that you missed? What could’ve been different? That’s… That’s how it worked, isn’t it? How you got your power—”
“Don’t get Power involved in—”
“Shut up. Shut! Up! I didn’t wonder what I missed; I craved for a reason not to join him! And you were that reason!”
There’s hot anger in her eyes, her cheeks flushed beneath the artful makeup, her pupils dilated to the point the green around them darkens.
And I…
I sway on my feet, the world no longer stable, the lines of the counter in front of me curving, turning from flat to concave, and I—
Pamela Livsey’s lack of theatrical training—
She could still be faking—
Quickening of heartbeat visible on side of neck, breathing syncopated, pupils shrinking—
Are you… sure?
Clusters of deception not apparent—
Thanks. Thank you, Power.
Anthropomorphizing of parahuman abilities’ interfaces—
You cheeky little shit.
And, with a slight smile tugging at the corner of my lips, I fall forward as the world darkens.
***
I wake up with a dull throbbing on my forehead and the soothing sensation of something warm and wet dabbing at it.
My eyes remain closed, my back on something soft and yielding, my head on…
Her lap.
Mom’s lap.
“It’s just a scratch,” she murmurs. “You bumped your head against the counter, but it’s just a scratch. It won’t leave a mark, it… It’s just a scratch.”
Chamomile.
She taught me, once, when I was a little runt running after a big brother, and I kept falling and skinning my knees, that chamomile was a magic plant. That it heals.
It’s… kind of true. Other than when drunk to soothe an upset stomach or to help with anxiety, chamomile is a natural antiseptic, and it helps promote wound healing in a way that outperforms corticosteroids.
Quite magic, if you ask me. Except not, because chamomile, unlike magic, works.
Placebo effect—
Fuck off. Don’t even try to convince me magic is actually useful; neither of us is that much of a romantic.
Taylor Hebert—
You’re awful.
“Better?” Mom asks, likely inferring something wrong from my nascent smile at the voice in my head playing the idealist to my natural cynicism that doesn’t believe in true love and destiny, no sire.
I wet my lips before daring to open my eyes, and I…
I see her.
She’s still beautiful. I used to wonder if I would grow up to look like her, back when I was a gangly thing, all limbs and little else, wrecking my ballet shoes halfway through my first class. I feel a brief pang of… something when I realize I could try again, with Power backing me, and I would be incapable of being anything but great as long as I trained my body for it.
I repress the natural shudder the notion brings, and I look up into green eyes that are far too much like mine, looking down at me with worry as I struggle to know whether I should be relaxed when surrounded by the familiar warmth or on edge at being… touched.
By her.
“I don’t know,” I finally tell her, the words anathema to me—damn it.
I… No. I really don’t know.
Her eyebrows droop, and her lips contort in something too close to suffering.
“Sa—Lisa. Lisa, I… I never wanted to…”
She stops, looking down into green eyes too much like hers, the hand with a soft tea towel resting on my forehead as the damp patch of chamomile tea grows cold over my split skin.
“What? You never wanted what?” I ask. Despite myself.
“I never wanted to hurt you…” she finally answers, low enough I have to guess at some of the words.
My jaw clenches.
“You still did,” I say.
She takes away the tea towel and dips it on the mug sitting on the other side of her lap, on my sofa’s armrest, beyond my sight, before once again dabbing at my forehead as gently as she used to do.
“Yes. I did,” she finally answers.
And…
It’s a start.
***
We’re back at the counter, both the chamomile and my coffee thrown down the drain after they have gone cold while I struggled on top of her lap, feeling too drained to be angry, too restless to be relaxed.
I… I’m not quite there yet.
Emotional distress and instability when confronting reminders of past trauma—
Past trauma? Have you seen me, Power? What is current trauma to you?
Choice to remain in environment associated with Taylor Hebert’s bullet wound—
… OK, I can kinda see where you’re coming from—
“You’re using it? Right now?” Mom asks as I take out the newest mug with hot water out of the microwave, hoping that Taylor’s swarm will take the cold waffles as a generous offering from a terrified supplicant eager to appease it.
I drop another bag of chamomile in the hot water, hoping this time around half of the brew won’t end up on an open wound on my body, and grab my coffee before turning to her once again.
“Yes,” I say to the woman fidgeting on top of the same stool she threw behind her moments ago.
“What are you asking it to—”
“Nothing. It’s… He has grown. Sometimes, he just wants to talk,” I tell her.
The burst of fear across her face fills me with dark vindication, which, I’m sure, is a perfectly healthy response.
“He? You mean your power—”
“Is a person. Or… close enough. He’s growing more with every day that passes, with every shared experience, and he… He cares for me, you know? It took him quite a while to reach that point and for me to acknowledge it, but… He’s… He’s like a younger sibling, sometimes, fussing about me, stumbling with clumsiness, freaking out when I’m hurt… It’s… Reassuring. To have the thoughts of something caring and undeniably on my side constantly propping me up.”
I look at her wide, uncomprehending eyes.
And then I deal the last blow.
“It’s like what family’s supposed to be,” I whisper, my eyes struggling not to drop down from the woman I just stabbed.
I can see the moment the words land, the trembling at the sides of her jaw, the slight divot between her eyebrows.
Corrugator supercilii.
Muscles on the corner of the eyelids that wrinkle the forehead. It’s… if you look at a bad actor? One that tries to convey emotion without feeling it? It likely won’t be… properly used. They know that the forehead should be furrowed, and so they engage any and all muscles that help with that, leading to something overexaggerated, something that conveys something instinctually fake.
It’s called the grief muscle.
It’s… noticeable. But not overly so.
Like my mother’s pain.
She takes the mug from my hand, reaching across the counter for it without touching me, the tips of long fingers closing around the rim of black pottery, above the line where nearly boiling water would’ve hurt her.
She takes it away and deposits it in front of her with a clacking noise that echoes around my silent apartment.
And I set my coffee with a twin announcement and sit in front of her.
“I love you,” she says, her voice rough. “You’re my daughter, and I’ll always love you, and no matter how much you hurt me, that will never change.”
I look at her.
“I wish I could say the same.”
The pain flashes again. The grief muscle engages.
And…
And Mom takes my right hand between hers.
“You should have this,” she whispers before pushing a white envelope across the counter to me.
“What—”
“The ones who contacted me? Who told me where to find you? They only asked that I give you this. And I… I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to play into their hands, but… But you can handle it. You’re… You’re Tattletale. You’re Tattletale, and you can handle them.”
She looks at my hand between hers, her thumb trying to play soothing circles over the back of it like she used to do when something didn’t go right, when I broke something expensive with my clumsiness, or Rex told me to give him some space, or Dad was… Dad.
And then her lips move once again, the words barely audible.
“You… You can handle anything. You’re much stronger than I ever was.”
I clench my teeth to the point they almost hurt and take the envelope as the marvelous excuse it is not to be touched as I pull my hand away from hers and take a moment to look at it—
White stationery, crumpled at the top corners. Sender not used to writing letters, clumsy, or emotionally compromised—
Right. Maybe I should read it. Any signs of explosives, poison—?
Thinness—
OK, no explosives. So, poison?
Pamela Livsey’s—
That only tells me that there’s no contact poison on the outside of the envelope, it still could be—
Lisa Wilbourn’s stalling tactics—
You’re an ass.
Lisa Wilbourn’s fickleness—
Me insulting you doesn’t take away from anything I already said. You’re an ass, but you’re my ass.
… Anatomical improbability—
Shut up. Don’t make me laugh. You ass.
I take a deep breath, and I finally open the envelope.
The letter inside of it is pretty brief, barely worth the effort:
‘How does it feel to have someone mess with your family, Tattletale?’
I stare at it.
I read it thrice over.
And the paper in my hands crumples as my permanently half-formed plans to deal with Panacea shift into something far less contrite and apologetic.
“Is… Is everything all—”
“Mom, one of the very few persons who could conceivably be more dangerous than an Endbringer just declared war on me. No, everything isn’t all right.”
She blinks at me in shock.
And then, reaching for the coat draped over the stool at her left, she pulls out a SIG Sauer that she gently and fearfully sets on the counter.
“I have a gun?” she offers.
And I, for the first time since I saw her on the other side of my door, allow myself to laugh.
Comments
Agrippa
Oh, a pissed off parental visit would be hilarious to write. Even more so if it's three parents, one of whom has to do it through a Zoom meeting.
Evilreadermaximum
Welp, guess we know at least part of what Piggot told Amy now. And I wonder what the fallout of this will be, I doubt anyone in the Parahuman community outside of new wave will consider the confrontation at the bank anything but the cost of doing business. So this could bite Amy in the ass. On the other hand the unwritten rules are *unwritten* And then theres the wild cards of course, specifically Armsmaster and company. I have to admit I find the idea of Lisa going "Daaaaad!" and then the Dallons getting an unexpected visit by a *thoroughly* unimpressed Dadmaster to be rather amusing.
Agrippa
I mean, Lisa certainly isn't feeling up to a friendly, conciliatory talk at the moment, but--oh, right. Spoilers.
Damon Fitzgerald
Lisa you really shouldn't have procrastinated! Still as hard as this probably hit it was very amateur for someone on Lisa's level. I just hope that they can come to some sort of accord. Although a bit of a bumpy ride to getting there would be good.
