Hex

* E I G H T E E N *

©  Amber Kalkes 2015

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"Castles Made Of Sand" By Jimi Hendrix

E I G H T E E N *

The words are out my mouth before I can even think, “Bullshit.”

“Ruth—“

“No, bullshit, Brandon.” I snap at him, getting off the couch. Turning towards him I throw my hands up in the air, “That’s impossible.”

“No it isn’t.” He tells me quietly. “You don’t see the similarities because you don’t want to. You have the same eyes, Ruth. You stand the same, you even make the same gestures. If she’s not your mom then she’s something else just as close to you, an aunt maybe.”

I sit down on the floor and put my palms against my forehead. Brandon’s words sink into my brain and my subconscious doesn’t fight them. They don’t feel like a lie, they feel like a forgotten truth. Didn’t I think she seemed familiar when I first met Nadine? Didn’t I push that aside as an impossibility as soon as I noticed it? Yes, I did both those things. Why? Because of my adoptive parents.

They told me I had no family. They said my birth mother was a teen who made a mistake and gave me up as soon as she could. They said she did it for herself as well as me because of her unhealthy lifestyle that would have soiled me. They said that she was a drug addict one day and a prostitute the next. I never gave me any straight answers and the ones they did give me were obviously biased.

So I just stopped thinking about her.

“She would have told me.” I say quietly before looking up at Brandon, “She would have told me.”

Brandon comes to sit in front of me, his golden eyes earnest as he tries to catch my gaze, “Nadine already acts like a mother to you, Ruth. She wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” I scoff, “Why would her being my mother hurt me? Do you know how often I’ve wished she was my mother? Prayed that maybe my birth mother could be as patient and loving as Nadine has been to me over the years?”

I don’t realize I’m crying by the end of my little speech until Brandon pulls me into his chest. His t-shirt’s fabric dampens as I set my cheek against his shoulder and I quickly try to wipe the tears away. I feel stupid enough as it is.

Wrapping my arms around his neck as he sits back with me in his lap. One of his hands is wrapped around my legs and drawing errant patterns on my upper thigh. The other one is around my back, soothing away all the unexplainable betrayal I feel.

Should I feel hurt? No, not about her actually being my mom. I’m actually more hurt that she didn’t tell me. I mean sure, not within five minutes of us meeting but after the years we’ve known each other…I should have been at least warned. I’m I the asshole in this situation for not figuring it out on my own? Maybe. Does that make me feel any better about it? Not at all.

“Your beating yourself up about it aren’t you?”

I scowl but don’t look at him as I answer, “No.”

“Liar.”

“You don’t understand.” I groan, “You’ve had a family, a pack around you you’re whole life. Sure I had my adoptive parents and Mary but I always felt other, different compared to them. It’s not even about being a witch. It’s about being treated different and expected to appreciate that I was even treated like anything at all.”