Nana’s expression remained intent. I sighed and let my shoulders slump. I’m the one who picked up where she left off, she’d said. Unwed mother. My gaze fell to Nana’s lap, to her fisted, wrinkled, old hands.
Nana had picked me up and set me on my feet. Angered by the responsibility thrust upon her by my mother’s flawed character—worried I might grow up the same—she’d been hard on me. It was an imperfect situation, like mine and Beverley’s. But Nana was always there. She never gave up.
As I watched, her fists unclenched … opened. Searching her face, I saw her sigh, too, as if she’d just let something go. Something heavy. She nodded at me.
Am I that strong?
I faced forward in my seat and stared at the road be-fore us.
The silence lasted for several minutes. Johnny was the one to break it.
“I know the two of you have plenty of reasons to be really ticked at Eris. But to put my two unrequested cents in: I just lost Ig. I hadn’t gone to see him in years, but I knew he was there. Now I know he isn’t.” He adjusted his seat belt. “He was all I had. I’m hopeful this Arcanum may be able to unlock my past and let me know if I have parents out there. I want to know. I want that. You have that and it seems you don’t want it but … just think about the other side of it.”
I touched his arm and made my voice soft. “But, Johnny, what if your family is …” It was harder to say than I’d thought. I had to push the words out. “What if they are biased against wæres?”
“Then I’ll know it’s their loss for having their heads stuck up their asses.”
“It’s not as tidy as you make it out to be. The pain of not knowing how your parents feel can’t be as bad as knowing that they feel only animosity.” I wanted Eris to feel the pain of my animosity. As I stared down at the Allegheny River we were crossing, I wondered, Am I an awful person for feeling that?
“What have you got to lose, Red? Can she possibly hurt you more than she already has?”
“If I let her back into my life, yeah. She could.”
Johnny snorted just as the GPS commanded that we take the upcoming exit. He switched lanes. “You’re scared.”
“I am not.” My palms were sweaty but that wasn’t the same thing.
“Yes, you are. You’re scared because you want to be good enough in her eyes, you want to be loved by her so things will be like they’re supposed to be.”
“No, I don’t. Nana loves me. Nana raised me. That’s good enough.”
Johnny guided the car around the ramp to Bigelow. “If a stranger flips you off because they don’t like the way you drive, would you even remember it at the end of the day?”
“Probably not.”
“Because their opinion means nothing to you. But what if it was your overbearing boss and he recognized you? You’d remember that.”
“This isn’t about road rage.”
“Oooo. That’s a great analogy. Road rage is angry people being unconditionally judgmental of other’s actions and behaving aggressively and putting the lives of innocent others in danger.”
I twisted around, seeking Nana’s support in fending off this absurdity. She shrugged. “I’d give him that one.”
I wasn’t giving up so easily. “Bullies with cars might work as a metaphor for child endangerment, but not so much as a metaphor for the emotional abuse of a child.”
He was zigzagging through the impressive downtown area of Pittsburgh with its myriad tall buildings. In their shadows, I felt small—as small as the defenseless child I once was. With all that we were talking about, I didn’t like feeling small just now.
“Okay, how about this,” Johnny tried again. “Road rage can occur at high speeds or in traffic jams. One is the moment when you must act or lose your chance to get ahead, the other is the moment when the feeling of being stuck overwhelms you to the point of lashing out.”
I rubbed at my temple. “So are you making the child represent the car or the road conditions?”
“The child is a passenger, swept along with the bully driving.”
He was beginning to sound a lot like Amenemhab. “Okay. What’s your end point, Mr. Freud?”
He drove onto South Tenth Street and ahead was another bridge. We’d be over the Monongahela River in seconds. “My point is, it’s your car now.” Under his breath he added, “And what a lovely ride it is.” Continuing in normal tones, he said, “So who did you learn more about driving from, Red? From Eris or from Demeter?”
On the south shore, we made a left onto East Carson as the GPS instructed. “Arriving at destination,” the voice crooned.
Johnny cruised through the intersection of South Fourteenth and there it was, beside Pittsburgh Guitars. “Huh,” he said continuing past.
“What?”
“The guitar shop. I’m still not saying I’m superstitious, but I’ll take that as a good omen.”
We stopped in a parking lot up the street and a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe pulled in beside us on the driver’s side. It was Kirk and Todd. They had intended to ride in the back with Zhan between them, but when they heard Nana was coming they happily agreed to drive separately.
I twisted my hair up, poked bobby pins in to secure it, then donned my blond bob wig. The knit cap again hid the most obvious fakeness of the wig. After checking in the mirror and smoothing the ends, I asked Johnny, “What do you think?”
He wiggled his brows at me and drove back up Carson, parking in front of the guitar shop. Kirk and Todd drove around the corner to wait.
“Five minutes,” Johnny said.
“Give me ten.”
“Eight,” he countered.
“Deal.”
“Here.” Nana punched me in the arm with something. “Wear these, too.”
She handed me her oversize sunglasses. They were one step removed from those post–glaucoma treatment glasses. With much eye-rolling and a deep sigh, I slid them on. As I opened the door to get out Nana said, “What? No smooch for Johnny-boy?”
I slammed the car door and stomped away.
Still unsure what I was going to say, I was glad Nana set me off before I headed in. The edge of anger felt right.
I passed the guitar shop, walking slowly, taking in what was beyond the glass. As the edge of their storefront ended, I could see into the Arcane Ink Emporium. Their glass had an inner covering of UV protection, darkening it. The front was set up like a waiting room, but no one was behind the counter.
I went inside, jingling the bell on the door.
Scream-o metal music was playing just one increment louder than any background music should be, and the smell of menthol cigarettes filled my nostrils. The weak track lighting from above was subdued. I let the glasses slide down my nose a bit and looked around over the top of them.
To my left and right were red leather couches, each paired with a rustic-style coffee table laden with binders bearing printout sheets with a photograph and a name in large lettering placed into the front display pocket. A counter sat ahead to my right, and a narrow hallway stretched down the center of the building beyond it.
Around me, the black walls were cluttered with metal band posters and movie posters in dark red frames hung at odd angles. Smaller frames held things like concert tickets, or photos of famous people with tattoos. Motorcycle paraphernalia—wheels, handlebars, fenders—were also displayed like art. There were large pots with ficus trees and smaller ones with spider plants or cacti set here and there.
The floors were old, the wood worn, and, as I stepped farther in, I discovered they were also creaky. The floor was covered only by oriental area rugs under the coffee tables. There were more binders and bar seats at the counter. Behind it, on a slightly lower table, I could see a monitor screen divided into eight squares. In one, a male artist was working on another man’s arm. Each of the others revealed an empty room set up like a doctor’s office, except the last one—in which I saw myself standing in the main front area.