[SESSION id=0.21]: Flush Terminal
One. Fifteen.
"Come along, child," her voice was soft, it always was. "It's time for us to have tea."
I was sitting at garden, staring at that same chain of messages. Every dozen cycles or so, another would come through. I couldn't reply, no matter how much I wanted to. She was better off without me. I knew it. She knew it.
"Yes, mother," my voice had gotten gruffer, deeper, against my will. I only spoke when I had to. She didn't fight me over it. I always wished she would.
We walked down the hall past the guest bedroom door that we never opened. We never had guests. Even before I left. Especially after I came back.
"You know, mother," I said as we reached the living area, "I'm not a child anymore. You could call me something less diminutive."
"I'm not calling you 'adult'," she snapped. "And you'd scowl if I called you 'boy' or 'man'. So 'child' it is, and 'child' it will remain."
"Fine." It wasn't a fight worth having. "What sort of tea are we having?" I didn't have to ask. It was always the same tea. The one that smelled sweet like love and soft like joy, with a metallic hue colouring the back end.
"I'm being adventuresome this cycle. I added honey!" That was always her way. Colour the ordinary as extraordinary. It's why she was the perfect mother.
"Where are we in the book?" She paused as she stepped into the living area. I almost bowled her over.
"Section 12.6.5, and I'm working on something delightful." Her whole body brightened as she said it. "That Plantain Duchess or whatever inspired me."
"Flower_Princess, mother. And she's just a public nuisance."
"I don't think so," she grinned. "I think she's an artist. A good one. Like you."
"You only say that because you're my mother."
"Nonsense. I say it because it's true." She slapped my shoulder. "I believe it because I'm your mother."
Two. Eighteen.
"Tell me again why you're outfitting the guest room." It didn't make sense. The things in that room hadn't changed in my entire life, and now she was changing everything. "Or at least try to make it make sense for me, mother."
"I told you once. I told you twice. I told you over and again, with each new item that arrived." She shook her head. "We're expecting a guest soon. A trip that's been planned for almost a supercycle."
"And who exactly is this mystery guest?" I looked into the room at the clearly-meant-for-two space. "Or I suppose the mystery guests. Plural."
"Secret." She giggled before bolting from the room and closing the door. "And it's time for you to study, child."
"I know, I know." She was waving her hands about, shooing me toward the living area. I was focused on the word she used. 'Child'. She'd never called me that until the last supercycle or so. I'd asked. She'd never answered. "Where are we in the book?"
"Section 2.4.7, and I'm looking for recipes that our guest will enjoy." She smiled. I didn't have to see it. I could hear it. She smiled so broadly it changed the way she spoke. "And we'll share with each other what we're finding. It'll be excellent."
The tea was already on the small table in front of the couch. The book was open, spine up, the pages holding their place. Her mobile workstation was still there. Her cup was in my spot. That was new. The lipstick stain pointed straight toward me when I sat down.
"Did you mean to get the cups backward?" I asked, but she just giggled as she sat. "Everything alright in that head of yours, mother?"
"It most certainly is." She took a sip from her cup, leaving a bit of that same soft pink behind where her lips touched it. "Perfectly on purpose, child."
Three. Fifteen.
We sat and worked side-by-side every cycle. I was working on a project to get noticed by TERRA, the government agency tasked with handling crackers. She was writing her life's story. At least, that's what she told me. But she never let me look.
Most cycles, we drank the tea as we worked. Or rather, she drank tea. I drank stimulant brew. It was our way. I'd find something particularly interesting and share it with her. She'd share a funny anecdote about me, my other parent, anyone or anything. It was a comfortable rhythm.
We didn't make it to the tea that cycle. I didn't even lift the book from the table.
"Mother," I whispered. "How much longer, do you think? When are you going to get your SIGTERM and be taken away?"
"If I knew the answer to that, child, I wouldn't have told you I was sick." She always said that. "You left. I assumed you wanted to forget me. Doctor Star made me call you or I'd still be stuck at the hospital."
"Doctor Star did the right thing." I didn't want to growl at her. I think I did. She sighed. "You're all I have in [world], mother. All I have left. All I've ever had."
"Well, you're lucky you have anything, the way you ruined everything three supercycles ago." What did that mean? "But that's none of your business or mine. You didn't care back then. I shouldn't care now."
"I left because you acted like I slapped you and stole your favourite fingers." She gasped at the accusation. It was true. "You didn't have to act like that."
"And you didn't have to make everything so difficult." She stood a little too quickly, yanking the power cord from her mobile workstation. Mother was prone to dizzy spells as part of her illness, and she fell back to the couch beside me. "Imagine I stormed off very dramatically. Imagine I slammed my bedroom door. Imagine I'm not sitting here."
"Consider me thoroughly chastised and chided, mother."
"Good."
"Your blanket might help some. I'll start supper." I wrapped her up as I stood then moved to the kitchen. "Some nice salty soup will serve us both well."
Four. Eighteen.
"It's coming up in a few cycles, child," she had been counting down for a while. Almost a full season. The guest was coming. The guest would be here soon. It was incessant. And I was trying desperately to ignore it.
"Yes, mother. I suppose it is." I smiled. "You said the guest would be here on cycle two-eighty, right?" She grinned, blushing. "Any particular reason you're planning it for my generation anniversary?"
"Not important. How's that project going? The one with your friend?"
She was talking about Flower_Princess. I hadn't told her that Flower_Princess was separate from J.N. or that I was trying to make something big that would get me noticed in two different ways. Ways that were contradictory. Ways that if anyone discovered, it would be worse than if they knew I was cross-coded.
"I just finished the first big thing." Changing the value of pi. J.N. would love it. Just chaotic enough that no one could ignore it. Not chaotic enough that it would cause real harm. I desperately wanted to tell her. I couldn't.
"Well, what does your friend think of it?" She was awfully interested in J.N.'s thoughts. "I'm sure she's looking forward to putting in her part."
She didn't know, mother. She didn't know what I was doing, and that hurt more than the fact that I was doing it without her. At least if she knew, I could feel some measure of absolution.
"I'm looking forward to her part in it, mother." I took a deep breath. Lying hurt far too much. "Is it time for tea, mother?"
"Yes, child. You were saying you wanted to try stimulant brew," she grinned, "so I bought a stimulant brew maker, and that's what you're having."
"What if I hate it?" Impractical. Impulsive. Thoughtful. Wonderful. That was my mother.
"Then we learn something!" Also my mother. Excited for learning. It's why we handled our tea time the way we did.
I did hate the stimulant brew. I never told her.
Five. Fifteen.
"What kind of soup are you making, child?" Mother pulled the blanket tightly around herself. When she got dizzy, she got cold.
"I think it's going to be chicken with noddles." I opened the cooling unit and looked around. "And rolled layer pastries on the side."
"Skip the layer pastries." She looked so weak. So old. "They take too long."
"Fine. It's your supper too." My stomach growled. "And I suppose you're not wrong about time." She didn't laugh. Didn't even smile. "So, mother. Are you ever going to tell me just what I did wrong three supercycles ago?"
"I'll tell you the moment you tell me why you did it." She knew I couldn't do that. I didn't know what I'd done. I had an idea. But no proof. "But I suppose that's unfair of me. She would be disappointed if I told you."
"For just a moment, mother, I was certain you were saying it was unfair to me." I grimaced as I cut open the ready soup mix. "But I never knew who the guest was, and you never explained how it was my fault that, I suppose, she cancelled the trip."
"Child, you are an idiot." She said that a lot more after I returned home. I probably deserved it, but that didn't make it sting any less. How do you take your mother calling you stupid. "Not stupid. An idiot. One of the smartest people I ever knew, and a complete fucking moron."
"So I've heard, mother." Water in the kettle. Mix in the pan. "You know I'm not going to figure it out without a hint. Especially if I am such an idiot."
No answer. She just sat. Quietly staring at me, waiting for me to crack. I listened as the kettle started making that weird noise that implied it was trying to boil. We could both be stubborn.
"What ever happened to that friend of yours? J.N. Flowers?" Her eyes were puffing. She was fighting back tears. "She was so good for you, and then you left. You haven't talked about her since you came back."
"I'm not sure where that came from, mother," the kettle clicked. "She and I stopped talking ages ago. With good reason."
"Oh? What reason might that be?"
"You already said it, mother. I'm an idiot."
Six. Eighteen.
I hadn't spoken to J.N. in several cycles. I was still angry. I knew she'd like the crack. I didn't know she'd be obsessed with the 'artistry' of it. She loved Flower_Princess far too much. Did it matter that I was her? No. Because J.N. didn't know. Mother didn't know. No one did except me.
Not talking to her was harder than anything I'd ever done. Harder by far than being cross-coded.
"What in the cursed name of Cyphera did you do, child?" Where had that come from? Mother never invoked the sectors. "I just got word from our guest that the trip has been cancelled. And I know I didn't do it. So what happened?"
How was I supposed to know? I didn't even know who the guest was supposed to be. I didn't know if our guest was a male, female, or neuter. I knew nothing about our supposed guest.
"You tell me," I groaned. "You've been planning this for a supercycle, mother. How am I to know what I did?"
"Idiot. Ruining the surprise. Unwilling to see past your own nose. Barely grown enough to recognise what's directly in front of you." She shook her head. "Spending all that time in front of that computing unit. And you can't even do one thing right."
"What do you mean?" I stood and crossed the room to her. She had been standing in the doorway, nearly screaming at me. "You want this for me. You are building this up. You didn't tell me anything, and you expected me to not mess it up? How did that work out, mother?"
"Child, if I didn't love you, I wouldn't do any of the things I do for you." She threw up her hands and stormed off.
I shouldn't have followed her, but I did. "Tell me, oh benevolent progenitor. What is it you're doing for me! Answer honestly. From the time I was young, you've gone out of your way not to tell me the truth."
She stopped in front of the guest bedroom door and threw it open. "You want the truth? It's been waiting for you in this room for five rest cycles now. And if you'd spent even two cycle ticks thinking about it, you'd already know. You are an idiot."
"I'm not an idiot. Ignorance is not the fault of the truth seeker, but the people withholding the truth." It was one of my favourite lines to throw at the education facilitators. Mx. Loyal hated it. The moment I said it to my mother, I regretted my choice. "I'm sorry."
"Not my problem." She walked further down the hall and into her room, where she slammed the door.
I didn't look in the guest room. I didn't try to keep up the conversation. I left.
I shouldn't have left.
Seven. Fifteen.
The soup was hot as I ladled it into the bowls. I set them on the counter, then went to fill up the kettle. Mother stood from the couch and started her way to the counter. I forgot to turn off the faucet as I raced to help her.
"Stop fussing over me, child." She pushed me away and kept working her way over to her seat. "I'm not helpless."
I could see her shaking. She didn't let me help her into the seat. I let her go it alone. Once she was settled, I took up the seat next to her.
"You know, mother," I whispered, "I really wish I hadn't pushed J.N. away. I loved her. And I messed that up."
"At least you're finally admitting it." She sighed. "I know you did. She told me."
"Our guest. It was her." Not a question. The final piece falling into place. Some part of me always knew, but I couldn't admit it. "And I was an idiot."
"You are an idiot." She chuckled, then started eating her soup. "And she was the one person who might've been able to change that."
I sighed and picked up my own spoon.
"Mother. I'm glad you called me when you got sick."
"That's not when I got sick, Lillian." Her words took my breath. "I've been sick since you named that silly little computing unit garden. I just didn't tell you. The doctors were sure it'd clear up. It didn't."
"How long have you known. About 'Lillian'?"
"Since I started planning for J.N. to visit, child." She groaned. "You left the water running, Lillian."
I couldn't stop her. She stood. She made it four steps. Then she fell. She didn't make it to the hospital. She didn't make it even to the front door. She was gone.
And with her, that flower we both loved. The smell was gone. As was the memory.