I run as fast as my numb feet can go. Clopping down the long white hall, I barge into the room where Mom held her strategic huddle an hour ago. But the paper on the examination bed is empty, crinkled with the ghost-white dents of someone who has been sent somewhere else.
I should have seen it coming. Mom is always playing hero in her work, and with us. Dad's been there for some heavy-hitter moments like the field trip, but Mom does the daily sacrificing that mostly goes unnoticed. The small ways flood my memory: taking me to the doctor and missing an important meeting; letting me play my music in the car even though she hates rap; reading to me every night before I could do it myself. And the big ways: calling the mom of that bully brat in fourth grade to finally put a stop to the nasty notes; teaching me to drive without screaming and panicking; and organizing the volunteers at every swim meet, until this last one - that was my fault.
The doors to the surgery room are barred. We can't go in there, only wait to see who survives, and the agony burns that Mom is yet again fixing my mess. I never got to even share with her the stuff Cord told me, to prepare her for surgery so she can live.
Cord finds me and holds me while I thrash at the door. Dad hovers behind him, unsure if it's safe to make physical contact with my caged-animal ranting. What will I do if she doesn't make it? What if Lemon survives and Mom doesn't? How will I ever be able to look at her again?
Dad mumbles about finding coffee and backs away from us as Cord leads me to the waiting room. In the lonely chair I sit. Everything around me feels frustrating: the clock ticking too slowly, the hushed voices of the nurses behind the desk, the crappy music some idiot thought would be soothing.
Cord reaches for a prop, anything to change my mood. "Hey, remember this?" He holds up one of the tattered books. It's as familiar as my home, worn and comfortable. He flips it open and starts to read, but it's the pictures that stir more deeply. In the faces of these illustrations are how I learned all the tribe names, their colors, their weaknesses and their strengths. I move closer to see them, to soak up the color and line that make me feel small and safe again. I'm in my room with Mom in the warm lamp light on a summer evening. The crickets chirp and the river hums perfectly through my open window.
I see my favorite page and jump. "Oh, read that one!"
Cord smirks in triumph that his distraction of child's play has worked but he's too nice to rub it in further. I settle in to this nostalgic medicine as he fully opens the book for me to see.
A sunny person in yellow is bowing to someone from my tribe under the shimmering Aspen leaves. The scene is framed by two Aspen trunks with all-seeing eyes - the eye of God we are taught that watches us, making sure we're being good. A Messenger hovers between them, delivering the Promise Kiss. The colors are bright and cheerful and bring back the sense of pride I felt when knowing I belonged to that pink-violet tribe. A thought hits me; as familiar as my tribe colors were to me as a kid, I had never met an Arnica before, not until Cord. They were always deeply mysterious.
The two characters could be us, a boy and a girl courting in the Grove. I get the strange sensation that I'm looking in a mirror as I stare into the blushing girl's face half hidden by fuchsia locks. She's in a princess gown to match the boy's noble suit and his mane of golden hair is swept back in a style from another era. But change the clothes and it could absolutely be us.
The rhyme stirs a memory. I'm wearing my favorite pajamas and holding my stuffed fish, Olive, when Mom pulls me from the bed so we can spin in a circle holding hands. She sings the words in a tune she must have learned when she was little, since there aren't any musical notes on the page:
Ring around the Grove
A promise kiss for my love
Arnica, Arnica, or we all fall down.
At the end, we would spin faster and faster until we fell down and giggled. When you're a kid, you can do the same thing over and over again and each time it's fresh. Mom played with me like she enjoyed the repetition just as much, unlike some parents who pretend along and then yawn when they want "me" time.
"Doing a little light reading?" A voice buzzes behind us. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach, and an evil burns deep there, fueling anger.
"YOU! It's your fault! I was supposed to save my parents, not kill them!" I stand and cross my arms at Burnish. A nurse cranes her neck at us and puts her finger to her lips, but I won't be silenced.
"You told me donating my nutrients for Lemon would save my parents; but you don't know them. They would never let me take the fall for their actions!" I lunge for him but Cord holds me back. Burnish shakes his head at me like I'm mental.
"I had no idea, ma Lady, now don't go shouting at a Messenger or I'll have to call my manager. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Fuch, get a grip," Cord says. Then he whispers into my ear, so only I can hear, "You know we don't want the Columbine guards involved."
He's right. I bury my head into Cord's shoulder and sob.
"Besides, Fuchsia, I'm here to help you save your mother," Burnish says with raised eyebrows.
"How, exactly can we save her when she's already in there?"
"You'll see, but you'd better come quickly."
"What's all this about?" Dad asks, holding a coffee tray.
"Mr. Brook, ma Lord," Burnish bows. "It's wonderful to see you. I am so sorry about the circumstances."
Dad nods, "Horrid, but it can't be helped, not when Quin sets her mind to something."
"Yes, ma Lord, Quin Brook is a force of nature. What a fantastic Tribeswoman." Burnish is pouring on the charm and Dad's taking the bait. "I want to help and I was just telling your lovely daughter and her friend that I know a way, if they're able to accompany me. It's a task that requires more than one set of hands."
"You're not thinking of" - Dad goes into whisper mode - "the Rings of Memory?"
"I am, Sir. There couldn't be a more perfect moment to use their power."
"It would be risky, should you - er, get caught."
"I know the risk, Sir."
"I can't lose my daughter and my wife in the same day."
"You have my word that no harm will come to her." Burnish bows low enough that his tiny wing remnants poke up at the ceiling.
Once out the doors, we walk fast behind Burnish's slow pedaling. I need to run, and stepping off the sidewalk I hop into a jog. Cord follows and soon we are picking up the pace. The wind in my hair and the pulling rhythm of muscles finding their place heals the agony of what I've done to Mom. For this moment, I'm free no matter what happens before or after.
We slow at the edge of town, before a zig zag trail cutting into the mountainside. Burnish climbs on his bike as we hike behind him. My heart pounds from the severity of the incline and sweat drenches me. We continue for a mile or more. At a clearing, Burnish stops. "We're looking for the giant All-seeing Eye."
"But there are so many."
"The Rings of Memory are in the largest eye in the Grove, the oldest tree of its generation. Legend says if you can tap into the rings when your heart desires a selfless need, it will grant you a wish."
"But our need isn't selfless," I remind him. "I need my mom to live and you need my dad to help your dad become a citizen of the Grove before he dies, that's why we're in this mess."
"That's why we brought Cord of Arinca tribe. He gains nothing by asking."
"Okay, but Dad said something about getting caught."
"It is forbidden by the Grove, as the leaders want to use the power only for when they need it. I will protect you as promised." Burnish looks up from his GPS and points to a clearing. "It should be right here, according to my calculations."
But where he points there is nothing standing tall with a giant eye. Instead, round stumps emit the sap smell of cut flesh. The wood has been clear cut in all directions.
A/N: Don't cha hate it when they cut down all the trees in the hood to build more concrete structures? Trust me, I can rant on this one but I'll spare you so you can enjoy the rest of the story.
This chapter is dedicated to @Mrs_FictionalAffairs who writes and reads from her heart, and loves completed stories, so be sure to let her know if you have any recommendations.