Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Labor was the worst pain imaginable, and it definitely shouldn’t have been possible for me to be experiencing it. There’s a multitude of reasons for this impossibility: the Nexplanon I’d had inserted in my arm since I was sixteen, the lesbian flag that had been hanging in my dorm room for a good year and a half, and the simple reality that I definitely had not spent the last nine months of my life pregnant. Despite all these reasons, I still found myself laid back in a hospital bed, crinkly blue gown scrunched around my thighs, and a ring of nurses coaxing what seemed to be a very large boulder out of my vagina. Yeah. Fun times, I know. I could go into detail about the sheer amount of blood and pain and liquid that was happening around my lower half, and as a prospective nurse myself, this could’ve been a great time to get some first-hand knowledge of a person giving birth. Unfortunately, the experience of birth is much less educational when you’re the one performing it; the most I saw was the panicked faces of the staff and my raised legs. 

What I did hear, and what caused me to spiral into a panic, was that the boulder baby’s legs were coming out first: the little monster’s head was still, miraculously, lodged into my private parts like a coin in a slot. Joy. Not only am I in labor, but the baby is breeching. 

So, labor. I was currently in it, despite all odds, and I wanted to be out of it as quickly as possible, preferably without hurting the innocent infant that was stuck inside of my womb somehow, so I could pull my hospital gown down and ask all the healthcare workers what the hell was going on. Naturally, I grasped onto the only piece of advice I’d ever heard, straight from the lips of my own mother: Push! She commanded, and that I did. 

Thank the popcorn ceiling above my head, the baby slipped into the arms of the nurse like the little parasite had been lubed up. The nurse blinked rapidly, and her confusion would’ve almost been funny if I hadn’t been feeling the side effects of expelling everything from my lower half. Ew. The baby was shrieking, and bloody, but very much alive. The nurses were quick to swaddle the infant, delicately swipe at its little face with those hospital-issued towels, and deposit the howling little creature into a baby tank near my bed. 

I wanted to stand up and object and demand answers from them but - well, I was gratefully taking a warm towel from the nurse, wiping down there as quickly as possible, and rolling up the jumbo-sized birthing pad beneath me to deposit into her gloved hands. I let my legs drift onto the too-warm bed, and fixed my glazed eyes onto the baby in the tank, now that the nurses were speaking more softly. 

The baby was sniffling. They looked cold, I thought absently and swatting away the hands of the nurse, I lifted the tiny bundle from the baby cage onto my chest. Don’t babies need skin to skin? I shimmied my arms from the papery gown until my bare chest was exposed; the nurses had just watched my ground beef convulse for the better half of twenty minutes; I figured they could deal with some free nipple action. I pressed the baby against my chest and - oh. That was nice. The baby thought so too, because their tiny green (why were they not blue?) eyes flickered up to meet my own. They were still sniffling but in that typical baby way. They had a curl of thick black hair atop their head. My mystery baby was born with hair, I thought hysterically, barely suppressing my desperate giggles. My mystery baby was born with hair and green eyes and oh I’m so not prepared to be a mother, I didn’t even get the nine-month prep period - 

“Ms. Jackson?” I snapped my eyes to the nurse. That was most decidedly not my last name, so she couldn’t be talking to me - but she was looking at me, and only me, the topless college student who had just gotten done shitting herself in addition to giving birth. I’ll give her points: she didn’t even flinch in the face of my dead-eyed gaze, showing me what had to be a birth certificate with a name pre-printed under mother. She rapped her finger on the line that was meant for the baby’s name; asked me something about what I would like it to be, but the wave in my ears drowned out her voice. 

Excuse me for my next reaction. SALLY ANN JACKSON was underneath “mother.” Mother = woman who just gave birth and shit herself and was definitely not named after a fictional fucking character. The father line was blank. The date was all wrong - I shouldn’t have been a thought in my middle-school-aged mother’s brain, but the government-issued birth certificate, sure enough, let me know it was the summer of 1992, and I had just given birth. I hazarded a glance out the hospital window - greater New York, with the bay visible. I went to a University in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. My head spun. I looked back at my green-eyed baby. “Percy?” I said and my voice was all wrong - too sweet and too lilting. 

My eyes rolled back, and I knew no more. Poor nurse. She did not get paid enough for this. 

So. Me. Sally Ann Jackson - I guess that’s who I am now, unless the past twenty-four hours have been a non stop hyper vivid hallucination. After I came to from my dramatic faint, the baby (Percy?) had presumably been taken away to the baby-keeping room, and I was still laying on my hospital bed, but the sky outside the windows was dark. Something in the room was beeping slowly, and I let my head fall back onto the pillow, counting the raised bumps and grooves into the ceiling. I’m shit at math - ask me how my mathematics class is going and I’ll say it sure is going - but I count when I’m stressed, and right then I was counting those ceiling bumps like my life depended on it. I still wasn't wearing a shirt - and none of the nurses had pulled my gown up, so there I was, top-out and still in distress.

My brain was whirling. The last time I’d read any Percy Jackson book I’d been a snot-nosed thirteen-year-old, nearly a decade ago. I’d eaten those books up like a man starving - I’d written so many notebooks full of fanfiction about the exact same scenario I’d found myself in: me, the bravest of all tweenagers, hopping in between the pages of any one of those books and duking it out with monsters and mean kids and middle school morality. Realistically though: 13-year-old me, with her dorky glasses and aversion to sunlight would’ve been eaten alive by any demigod situation on a good day. My odds of surviving any mystical encounter were still very low. 

I guess the good news is that I had no one to miss. I’d worked two jobs up until my transposition into this strange new body, so I didn’t have time for friends - all of my siblings lived a state away, and I’d had seven of them, so I’m sure they could deal with the loss of their eldest sister. My parents, bless their souls, were so haggard trying to keep all seven of the little shits alive and well that the most I communicated with them was with a monthly “How are you?” text. The only people who would miss me were (some) of my professors and the people who worked the financial aid office at my college. 

But I’d found myself in a pickle that stretched beyond the matter of my previous existence. My new existence, as this Sally Ann Jackson, was the problem. I didn’t look anything like myself anymore - I glanced into the glass of the dark window and, yeah, there was Ms. Jackson herself, albeit no more than 19 and fresh-faced, lacking her characteristic gray streaks. My discomfort around that would have to be dealt with - but more pressingly, I had to think about the circumstances I found myself stuck in. I’d just had a whole ass baby. A baby who, if all of this was real, would be relentlessly hunted down by monsters the moment the little tot started, well, toddling. Even now, some kind of mist disguised monster could be making grabs for the infant - and wasn’t that a scary thought. And where was Sally anyway? A four-letter word drifted in my head and was swiftly shoved underneath a rug - I figured I could deal with that existential crisis on another day. 

I couldn’t raise a baby. I’d taken care of my siblings from the moment I could walk - perks of being the eldest daughter - changed diapers, soothed boo-boos, and stayed up to comfort nightmares, but raising a kid was entirely different. Especially a superpowered kid, who was going to grow up, save the world, take a breather, and then save it again. A superpowered kid who only survived so long because his mother made all the smartest moves - Sally, the real Sally, had done her best, and it was good enough - I didn’t know if I could say the same, or make the same things happen. And furthermore, selfishly, I didn’t think I could raise a baby - but what were my options? 

I could give him up but - what if I handed him into the arms of the next monster who crossed the street? What about CPS? They didn’t even have answers for the average child, let alone those who were adjacent to waterbenders with a stench that attracted fucking demons of all things. And Poseidon…despite being portrayed as a good-natured, but absent father to Percy by Riordan, I wondered what the tumultuous god of the sea would do to his former lover if he caught wind that she’d given up their lovechild. Maybe the real Sally could soothe over his temper - I knew I certainly could not. So. No giving up the baby, as much as it might be for the best. Getting smited (smought?) didn’t sound fun to me.

And the baby - Percy. I tried to stretch my mind back to what little I remembered about the books outside of my own fascination with them as a tweenager. He - he went through a lot, a fuck ton, really, and through it all he always had Sally, arguably the best mom of the year going seventeen years strong, who always made the right choices - the hardest choices, but the right ones. She’d raised Percy as a hero, as a good person, just by being herself, and loving him, and giving him all she had. Could I do the same? 

My spiral was interrupted by the appearance of several nurses, bustling into the room, a familiar bundle of blankets wrapped in one of their arms. At my come hither look, he - the baby - my baby (?) - Percy was deposited neatly into my arms, alongside the birth certificate. And - Oh. My. God. Should I be saying Gods, now? Huh. Shoving aside my latent ex-catholicism, I allowed myself to hysterically giggle as I viewed the paper, waving away the nurses who looked tempted to pump me full of anesthesia and have my frontal lobe removed, old-school style. 

PERCY JACKSON in big bold letters right across the certificate. If I remembered anything from those damn books, I remembered that his full name was Perseus - after the Greek Hero. Well, I’d already screwed that up. No middle name either. Great job so far, already interrupting canon. Percy awoke at my giggling, making happy baby gurgles and staring up at me with his uncanny valley green eyes - and Jesus Christ on a bicycle, could this kid get any more abnormal? - flexing the beginnings of his baby-soft tufts of eyebrows. So, that’s how this whole debacle starts - me, still nineteen, still topless, in another woman’s body, holding the literal savior of my new world while he, if my nose is correct, shits himself. With nurses staring at me like a total nut-job while I cackle, tears dripping down my face onto my disgustingly soiled nightgown. I think I might’ve peed myself a little, or a lot, from laughing or from giving birth a literal hour ago- when I tell the nearest nurse, she looks pitying. 

This joke isn’t very funny, I know. 

Chapter Text

Picture October in New York. Halloween Day. All the kids, screaming and wearing costumes and almost getting hit by cars because those little fuckers don’t understand that wearing a witch hat doesn’t make you impervious to getting ran over. The exasperated parents. Picture the fact that it’s forty degrees out, so all of the kids are Spider-Man Wearing a Puffer-Jacket instead of just Spider-Man, which blows.

Now, picture me. Technically Sally Jackson, 19, new mother to the fussiest three-month old demi-god in the New York Area, clad in the cheapest coat I could get from the Salvation Army down the street, with an admittedly adorable fussy demigod in a fuzzy knit hat with cat ears in my arms. The beauty of the spookiest holiday is lost to me, because, surprise, surprise, I’m running for my life, dodging and weaving and pushing through all of the nice kids and their much less nice parents, yelling apologies, but still beating the sidewalk like my life depends on it - because it does. 

Monsters. Demons. Assholes. Whatever you call them, one of them was somewhere behind us, snarling and sounding way too much like a dog with rabies instead of some horrible hybrid snake-wolf thing with six limbs. A rabies infected dog was probably what the unfortunate people I was pushing through were seeing behind me, given their shouts of alarm and the odd cry of, “Doggy!” Kids say the darndest things.

Either way, I was sprinting, not looking back. In my arms, Percy was screaming - and as much as I couldn’t blame him, I wished my baby would read the air, and understand that me, his mother (?) was Usain Bolt-ing my way through the crowded city for both of our lives. As ashamed as I was to admit it, I had no plan in the slightest, besides powering through the burning of my lungs and hoping that the monster would lose our scent in the confusion of the city. And one turn down an alley later, there it was - my possible out, a fire-escape ladder, just enough for me to reach and climb if I could just jump and -

My palms were bloody from gripping rusted metal, after I had to frantically haul myself up, baby still precariously cradled in the crook of one arm. My arms ached. I definitely had new bruises. Sorry kid. I managed to get us up, pulling up my foot and its accompanying raggedy gym shoe just as razor sharp jaws clamped down on the air I had just occupied. “Stupid fucker!” I yelled down at the thing, still climbing up the rickety stairs as fast as I could. I said it a few more times, just for good measure, once I figured out the thing could do nothing but growl from its place on the ground - not able to climb or jump, as my luck would have it. 

“Don’t repeat that” I said to the still screaming baby, now trying to bounce him, jiggle him a little, shush and murmur soft nothings even as I climbed ever higher. Once I got to a break in the fire escape, thankful that the accompanying window seemed to be void of occupancy, I finally let myself sit, pulling my backpack from my aching back and unzipping it, shushing as I went. I laid down his blanket first - he loves his blankie, which is really just a SeaWorld towel I got from a bargain bin a few days after leaving the hospital. Something about the blues and greens calmed him, the perks of being the son of the Sea God, I guessed, and I watched, smiling a little, as he happily accepted the blanket, shoving a corner into his mouth. His cries die. His body relaxes, and I feel mine do the same. I look out at the black night, the tall, glimmering buildings, the pollution smoke, the noise below -

It’s been a long day, for both of us, his first Halloween. Really, it’s been a long three months, since I woke up in the middle of labor.

I keep him firmly in my lap - no babies crawling around and falling off of the roof of the apartment building, no sir, not on my watch. It’s definitely too late to go back to the homeless shelter now - they close the doors at 9 sharp, and even then, we couldn’t have made it to the line before then; that horrible dog thing had been prickling my neck and prowling us all day, but it’d only begun chasing after dark. Smart, terrible creature. Even with the Mist, the lack of visibility was a major plus.

The past three months have been rough. I don’t know how Sally did it - or if she did this at all, being homeless with a baby and no job. Maybe it was a fault of mine, because I’d been kept in the hospital a little longer than usual. The doctors were concerned that I had some kind of postpartum which - might’ve been more true than I cared to admit. It’s not that I was sad about Percy, about him existing - he just didn’t feel like my kid, not all the way, and I couldn’t very well admit that he wasn’t really my kid in a room full of people who’d watched me push the little bowling ball out and cry about it afterwards. Excuse me, for being apprehensive - me, with my Nexplanon and chronic singleness and college student status paired with my sexuality - yeah, I hadn’t really been planning on kids, or leaving my small town University anytime soon.

So, yeah. Extra hospital time, free of charge due to a “mysterious benefactor” (I wonder who that could be, hint, hint) and when I’d left I - I had nowhere to go. Maybe the original Sally had an apartment, or a job, or, somewhere to go but - I, Sally The Clueless, Sally The Not Really, had no money, a backpack with my social-security card (Thank God), my freshly-earned license (Once again, thanking the intelligence of the OG Sarah), a thin wad of cash, a few diapers I’d stolen from the hospital, new-born human documents and a baby. 

I've been trying my best. I keep him clothed and breastfed (cheapest option, I thought optimistically) and I rock him to sleep and change his diapers even when it’s pitch-black inside some of the shelters we’ve slept in. I try to be mindful of others - I take him out the backdoor when he’s crying, because babies have no schedules, even when their caretakers very much do. I’m trying - he’s my baby, I know now, even if he doesn’t feel like it. Percy needs me. And - maybe, even if I don’t feel that deeply connected to him yet, I need him too. Some weird form of exposure therapy, me and this baby, dodging death and trying to figure out where to sleep and holding him in my arms when I attend failed job interview after failed job interview. 

Turns out, a hysterical looking homeless woman with a baby isn’t a hit with any potential employer. 

And today - today with the very first monster in a long-line of soon to be challengers, all come to rip the happily burbling baby out of my arms and into their jaws, all because of some stupid pseudo-Aliens that had screwed up thousands of years ago and were too powerful to directly attack. I still felt my body trembling. I’d dodged death. My foot had almost been ripped off. Stupid fake aliens. So, I wasn’t the fondest of the Gods - I tried to tamp down my irritation. Didn’t want to get struck by lightning, assuming anyone caught wind of my less than charitable thoughts.

“Hey, I love you kid, you know that?” Percy doesn’t understand yet, too happy to slobber all over his blanket, but - he looks up at me, and I take a deep breath, and I try to stop my chest from crumbling at the force of my panic. Me and him, against the world he’s bound to save later. Can we win? Who knows. A new chill sweeps through the air. Winter is coming. I have to meet the challenge, fast. 

Back in the before , what I’m choosing to call my pre-Sally Jackson era, I was a nobody. It sounds depressing, but it’s true. Like I said: two jobs, no family in the state I lived in, no roommate by pure chance, and squeezing in just enough classes at my University that I could be considered a full time nursing student. Nursing: that’s what I wanted to do, always had been. Me, a pimply college student with dorky glasses and a bad attitude and a childhood overbite I could never afford to have fixed because my family had no money - side effect of having eight children, I guess - was dedicated to my dream, come hell or highwater. Me, who had a chronic attitude problem and whose main descriptor had been “unpleasant” - I was going to be a Nurse, and help people, or I would tear the world down with me. That determination was elevated to the utmost degree the moment I entered high-school - my second to final frontier in achieving my dreams.

All throughout highschool, I maintained a near-perfect GPA. I made no friends there, either. Every day, day in and day out, was spent studying, scoring, calculating, pumping music louder and louder until chill lofi hip hop beats were at a constant loop through my cranium. I scored a 1300 on my SAT, narrowly granting me access to the college of my choice in The Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. No distractions, not ever. Even my siblings, little brats who begrudgingly held my heart - I pushed them away, in pursuit of…well, I don’t know what, not anymore. 

I didn’t exist outside of my academic achievement, and even then, if I did, I wasn’t someone worth knowing. You’ve seen me in action: I curse like a sailor and I’m unpleasant and I’m a bitch, really, at the best of times. It was better this way, for me to study and study until I, if my suspicions were correct, dropped dead, and awoke, in labor, in pain. This could be all a dream, or a hallucination, but probably not, because I don’t think it’s possible for you to dream inside of your dreams. Paradox, anyone? Wacky stuff.

Sexuality - I’d only figured out that I was a lesbian because I’d stumbled into it in the middle of a late-night study session much like my last, and the label had fit me just as easy as anything. No dramatic comings out or secret kisses exchanged with girls or anything - in fact, I hadn’t even told anyone. I wondered if I should’ve. I guess there was no point thinking about it now. 

Regardless, what I’m trying to say here is that I was uncomfortably numb at my new reality. It had sunken in, I had observed it, and there was no reason for me to be fucking crying on the rooftop of a building at 3 AM, thinking about my siblings and my parents and all the stupid years I’d wasted chasing something that I could never have, not under my current conditions. But who was I, without my dream being attainable?

The answer was deceptively simple. I was Sally Jackson, my tears were drying, and I was laying on a cold roof in the middle of the night with a sleeping baby held to my chest, wishing that I was anywhere but a fictional world, raising a fictional child who I had never wanted. He deserves better, but, really, considering the world we live in, I doubt he’s going to get much better than me. I do love the kid, I know I do, I'm just - having a hard time. 

I pry my eyes open, looking pointedly up at the polluted, black sky, like it’ll give me some answers. Answers; shove aside the emotional mushy-gushy stuff, I needed to find the plot, literally. Straining, I tried to remember more about “canon” , the canon I’d undoubtedly already disrupted. 

Percy Jackson and The Olympians - I really only remembered the end and the beginning, and some in-between details about Percy and his friends. Not all that important, considering that what I should be wary of where the gods and the monsters that ruled this earth - I had base knowledge of them, but I figured I would hit up the local library the next day after slathering myself with some deodorant, to read books inside the building until I was “politely” asked to leave. Heroes of Olympus - forget it, I hardly remembered a thing from those books outside of the characters names, and that Percy had fallen into literal hell with his girlfriend which was, hey, scary. 

All of the spin offs and novellas and the likewise? Never. I was totally hopeless. I couldn’t raise Percy to be the valiant hero of the books - but I could try to make him a boy who was equipped with the tools to survive, and maybe, something in my cold little heart panged, thinking about that literal child who saved the world over and over again just to get handed the backside of the Gods palm whenever they pleased. I had some cheat codes, knew some things I definitely should not have known, and bonus points, I could see through the veil or the mist or whatever the plot called for it to be. There had be some crumb of intelligence within me, some plan I could formulate - I knew there was, because you don’t get raised in modern poverty and graduate with a bucketload of scholarship money without picking up a few tips and tricks. I could get us somewhere, which was better than nowhere. Maybe this was a latent maternal instinct - wanting something better for him, and pushing my current skill set to reach that goal.

I couldn’t raise this baby the same way the original Sally had, couldn’t imbue him with the qualities that he had learned from her. I wouldn’t even know where to start, to retrace her footsteps. And, furthermore, maybe the idea of just pretending I was the original Sally and play-by-playing each day as her, imagining what she might do, worsened my already deeply onset imposter syndrome, which made my feeling that I was raising a stranger’s child even worse than it currently was. But I could raise him, this baby, my way, and it would have to be good enough to keep him happy and healthy and alive. 

If canon crashed down around me in response to my parenting, well shit, too bad. I’d already altered the world, simply by being here and doing these things and ending up homeless, unless the OG Sally Jackson had skimped on sharing that romantic part of her already exceedingly difficult time raising her son. If I was going to ruin the world and doom everyone around me, I might as well do it by being the best mother I could be. Just like nursing, I would raise this child to the best of my ability or light the world on fire in my failure. All or nothing. 

That’s the thought that finally lulls me into a turbulent sleep.

Sink or Swim. Never so applicable as when you’re raising the son of a sea god.

Chapter Text

“Ma’am, you can’t do that here” the poor librarian looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot as he and two security guards stared at me from the opening of the bathroom. Snipping off a final piece of hair, I send him a thumbs up, sweeping the hair into a trashcan and gathering my baby and my backpack into my arms. “Alright big man, I’m going, I’m going” I say, allowing the security guards to walk me to the front steps of the library. Huffing, I sit down on the steps, taking care to rudely gesture at the security guards as they firmly shut the library doors behind me. Snitches get stitches, and whoever had intruded on me giving myself an impromptu haircut for my first day of work was definitely going to need at least twenty-seven of them. 

I glance down at my backpack, zipping it shut carefully. It’s the nineties - no sensors, a lack of security I was unused to, being thrown out aside, and slipping the complete volume of Edith Hamilton’s Greek Mythology alongside a few simple picture books into my bag was far too easy. I’d return them, of course, because I respected the library as an institution, being a former diligent student - but checking them out officially wasn’t in the cards currently, and besides, I needed the material. It was for a good cause!

Rubbing at my newly shorn head in the lessening light of the sun, I did feel an unwitting smile crawl up my face. Sally had beautiful hair - beautiful hair that I had neglected for the past few months, that was tangled up like a weed on my scalp. Excuse me if vanity wasn’t my primary concern at the moment - anyways,  it had to go, and the perpetrator being a pair of kiddy craft scissors I’d slipped underneath my shirt at Walmart was only the natural way of things. Percy was staring at me with those big old baby eyes, and when I turned to him in my arms, he made a sort of cute-half squeal, making grabby hands at my general person, at my bare head and face I'd washed in the bathroom. Coupled with my bright yellow button up and jeans, I figured I must look pretty snazzy to the kid, who was granted a raspberry to the head for his troubles.

“First day of work, you ready little dude?” I ask, to which the infant predictably stares up at me with confusion and delight. I fed him in the bathroom stall before cutting my hair, and his diaper, I quickly check, is fresh. He’s just as ready as I am for my first day - or more aptly, night, on the job. I don’t know why Mr. Ayad made the mistake of hiring me, a clearly underage homeless woman with a baby to man the front counter of his liquor shop from 9 PM to 5 AM, but he did, and now, all seven days of the week, that’s my new profession. Maybe I’ll be able to squeeze in another job, because $4.15 an hour is something so depressingly nineties it makes my head whirl. That’s below minimum wage in 1993 for the best of us - because, hey, no surprises here, I was definitely getting paid in cash underneath the counter every week. No taxes being filed or anything.

But yes - me, liquor store attendant, tax-dodger, homeless, who was, gratefully, allowed to keep my baby in the backroom behind the counter, so long as it didn’t interfere with my job and I got everything done by the end of my shift. “You’re responsible for the kid” Mr. Ayad had said to me at the interview, even as I burped said child over my shoulder. No shit, I wanted to reply, but I smiled and thanked him for the opportunity. Frankly, I was lucky he hadn’t kicked me out the moment I came in, begging for an interview.

Me and Percy in a liquor store, for eight consecutive hours - surprisingly, the safest we’d been since leaving the hospital. I’m pretty sure we were breaking at least a dozen workplace laws, even with this being New York in the nineties, but I wasn’t much concerned about legality. Freeing and concerning in equal measurements, my new apathy towards the laws of this world. Maybe it was because I knew that somewhere above me, on top of the empire state building, a group of aliens were deciding fate as we knew it; the thought made stealing supplies for my baby and casually breaking minor laws a breeze, no guilt attached.

I wondered what Poseidon thought about me now, seeing me do these things, my new reliance on stealing - I wondered if he was tempted to confront me, watching me raise his son through illegality. Then again, I guess a god's sense of morality would be rather screwed. Maybe my woefully absent co-parent was proud of me, or something. This was all assuming he cared about me at all, of course. I wasn’t the Sally he’d met, and I hoped to never encounter him, not until the plot demanded it. One question about our initial meetings, our “whirlwind” romance, and I would be blanker then a piece of paper. Built-in waterboarding was a guarantee, in that worst case scenario.

“Alright, let’s go!” I narrated to Percy, who gave me another stare with his uncanny valley green eyes. Off I set, on my way to the liquor store, and the first day of what I hoped to be a productive new era for us both. New job, and an actual place for Percy to be by himself, crawl around or do movements of the like- I loved the kid, but it couldn’t be good for me to constantly be holding him, preventing his movement, could it?

I almost didn’t want to know the answer to that question.

The thing nobody tells you about having a baby is that you reel from the physical aftereffects for months to come. I mean, obviously, it wasn’t as pretty as a picture for me in the first place: I’d shit myself, and peed, and cried. Not exactly the rosy-cheeked, teary-eyed mother they show you on TV, cradling her baby like they’re the only thing in the world that matters. But this? This was ridiculous. Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror of the liquor store, I tried to look into my own eyes and figure out what the fuck exactly was happening with my body.

It had taken a few months for my period to return, a side effect of giving birth and also my lowkey malnutrition from constantly scrambling for food to eat. It was a miracle I was managing to breastfeed at all, really. With my new paycheck money, even though it was miniscule, my meals (if you could call them that) were more regular. However, with this happy turn of events came a dark side: my period, and how to deal with it. I was currently on the solution of stuffing a bunch of tissue down the front of my pants - pads were expensive, and I didn’t feel like ruining the two pairs of underwear I owned. So, me, on my first period since giving birth, at work, checking up on Percy in the sideroom behind my cash register before quickly slipping away to the bathroom, because it was 11:23 PM on a Tuesday and no one was making their way to the Liquor Emporium, not yet.

But yes, back to my abject horror. Gripping the white of the sink, I observed myself, turning my face this way and that and trying to puzzle out how the fuck my body had managed to produce a gallon load of blood in the few hours since I’d replaced my tissue paper makeshift pads. These pants were definitely ruined. I would need new underwear. I would need even more tissue.

Needless to say, the rest of my shift went by agonizingly slow, and with the worst cramps I’d ever had the displeasure of experiencing. 

A few weeks into working at the liquor store, and napping on the floor of the local alley with Percy when my shift ended at 5 sharp, I realized something after quite a few nasty looks I screened with confusion. I was in Walmart, picking up new clothes for Percy (he grew like a weed), respective boy strapped to my back, when I took a deep breath and realized, Oh My God, I Stink. It was true - lifting up my shirt, ignoring the worried look of an elderly woman shopping for baby socks nearby, I took an inhale and - yep, there was my job, alcohol, piss and a whole lot of cigarette smoke because I was done arguing with people that they couldn’t smoke in the store while picking up their favorite bottle of brew at 2 AM. I smelled rank, no matter how much I washed up in park fountains and bathroom sinks - that’s how pungent the store and alley were, all the result of human excess.

I smelled like shit, and even Percy, my baby that magically seemed to be immune to most elements, smelled a little like cigarette smoke too and - Oh My God. Oh My God . Releasing my shirt, I let out a keening sound of excitement. Sure, as he got older, this wouldn’t work but - I hadn’t had any problems since working at the store, no demons, because I stunk, and even the meanest of monsters couldn’t smell baby demigods beneath my constant odor of spilled liquor from wearing my work uniform 90% of my day. I had totally just Smelly Gabed myself, at least temporarily. Thank God for me remembering Percy's stupid fucking stepfather in the original book. 

I beat back my smile, blowing a raspberry onto Percy’s downy head of hair. He squeals with laughter. I flip off the old woman who's still watching me closely, hiding my smile in his little mane as she stamps away. 

Now, back to the real issue: “What’s your choice of pajamas, little man?” Percy claps his chubby hands, and points away from our current section. I glide smoothly to his suggested option, and as soon as my hand hits the brightly sequined turquoise fabric of the onesie, he yells an affirmative.

“My Little Pony, huh?” I think back to all of Poseidon’s titles and hey - I appreciate old-school MLP for the masterpiece it is, but the irony isn’t lost on me. Horselord, indeed. “As you say, little dude.” I wrap the pajamas around my arm, and, at my own indulgence, spend $10 dollars on a set of three little ponies, complete with an oversized toddler hairbrush and a dent in the box where someone stole the pony's hair accessories, the reason for its attractive price. It still makes my pockets hurt, and the rest of the shopping trip is me scrutinizing canned foods for price differences but -

It’s worth it, to watch my baby handle the rainbow ponies with surprising gentility for a four month old. He still sticks them in his mouth, and gums them up, of course, because he does it with everything but - that’s babies for you, and they’re way too big for him to shove down his throat. Anyone who gives him an odd look is met with my scathing retort - fuck off with all that shit , I say when someone tries me about letting my blue-dressed infant play with "girl toys." He likes blue. He likes ponies, too. We’re in a public park. Go elsewhere if you don’t like me and my kid. My kid - that sounds about right, and something heavy lifts from my chest.

Thankfully, we’re left alone. 

At the rate I’m earning money, even with all of the shifts I work, renting an apartment in New York is looking more and more like a pipe dream. Two more months pass with me bathing in my new liquor stench, and Percy begins eating mashed food, which is an accomplishment I make sure to reward with lots of smiles and cuddle time. He also begins to crawl and - this little demi-Olympian is fast, and it makes my heart leap in my throat watching him zoom, diaper bumping and little eyes determined. He’s getting more agile by the day, it seems, and - I start thinking about scary things, like - education and pre-school and oh my god we still don’t have a house what are we going to do - 

The solution is simple, but one that doesn’t cross my mind until I see the RV. The RV - one of those horribly ugly brown and tan eighties monstrosities, all boxy and rectangular, with a cream orange stripe down either side of the camper. It’s sitting in a lot, with no tires, and there’s a phone number and a price on a piece of cardboard propped in the window. It looks dusty - untouched. I’d only seen it because I’d walked Percy and I to a new park for the day, switched up our routine - a rare occasion, because my boss’ wife was sick with something, so the liquor shop was closed for the night. Some things were more valuable than quality brew, I guessed. 

I circle like a shark, looking at the thing from every angle. It’s clean, I concede, and the steering wheel doesn’t look too offensive. I’d like to test drive it before I buy it. No good buying a home on wheels if the wheels don’t work. I might have to buy my own tires. When I peer, I think I can see the beginnings of a loft through the dusty windows. The seats probably fold downwards, I think excitedly, and if the shape is to be believed, there must be some kind of shower or toilet inside. I shouldn’t , I think, but I look at Percy, and I’m struck with inspiration, as if touched by the muses themselves, which, all things considered, is a very real possibility.

That’s how I find myself cackling like a mad woman, at 12 in the PM in an abandoned lot, cupping my hands around my eyes and looking even further through the tint of the van’s dusty windows. It was big on the inside - blanket, futon, battery powered mini-fridge, baby, and I could all fit, I figured. The liquor store smelly Gabe gig could only last so long. I was pungent, but I wasn’t foul, abusive, and garlic-soaked, unlike Mr. Ugliano. I couldn’t mask Percy’s scent entirely as he grew older - not if that included having us sleep in literal alleyways.

I’d thought about living in my car, for college, to save money paying dorm expenses, test-ran it, back before all of my financial aid had come- but it was looking more and more like a valid option, as I scrutinized further. It wasn’t entirely foreign or upsetting to me, living in an RV; I’d been raised in a trailer park, which was similar in more ways then one might expect. Really, anything would be an upgrade from me and a baby sleeping on a blanket in an alleyway. We had been lucky, so far: it wasn’t snowing that season, the winter from December of 93 to February of 94, but it was cold in New York, and even bundling Percy in my thrift store parka wasn’t all too effective. He needed more. We couldn’t go on like this, homeless, for another year. 

I found myself pondering the practical, long-term elements of living in an RV with a demi-god son, even while I dialed the number kept in the window of the vehicle that very same day.  The mobility was a big plus - a way to get away in a hurry, and maybe even travel, because nothing threw monsters off a scent like constant movement. I felt myself getting a little excited, the more I thought about it; I’d already decided to throw canon out the window and try my best, and Percy, if his demigod luck rang true, would need to transfer schools constantly anyways. It wasn’t the best solution, but maybe we could reframe our shared misfortune - Percy could have exciting experiences, traveling always, even as his demi-god luck hunted him down, and I could have the selfish satisfaction of not being stuck in New York for the rest of my life. Sue me, I missed the great nothingness of the midwest. If I needed to play the part of an eccentric hippie mother, living out of an RV and pondering the benefits of flower power to save my son from a constant life of demi-god hunting made easy by the boundaries of New York - well, that’s what I needed to do. My mind was made up.

The payphone rings. A man on the other end of the line picks up. He sounds bored. I smile into the receiver, and tell him I’m calling to enquire about his RV, located in the parking lot behind Pluto's Adult Video Store. Strapped to my back, Percy gives what I choose to interpret as a pleased coo. 

The parenting books I devoured at the library recommended talking to babies among a variety of other things, so if I gleaned nothing else from those books, I gleaned that I ought to chatter to Percy until his little ears fell off. So, I talked; just conversationally, because the idea of doing “baby-speak” made me want to rip my eyes out of their sockets. I talked to him like any old pal, and he was coined a dozen nicknames: he was my little man, my dude, my baby, my spawn, my brat (affectionate) and many different epithets that fell flat and will not be included in this list. 

When he was awake, which was often, I coached him, at the usual park we frequented in-between my shift ending and our bed-time in the alleyways of New York. I even read him my stolen library picture books, taking careful note to show him the illustrations and watch his eyes sparkle. Coaching mostly consisted of me pointing to things and saying their names, and watching, just a little sickeningly enamored, as he mimicked me, albeit with much less accuracy. “Mime” I teased, to which he blabbered in response. He’s a boy of many faces, even this young: not only deeply invested in whatever stories he sees in the gleaming, painted faces of his toy ponies, but in the bugs at the park, the feeling of grass against his bare feet, and, strangely, me, who despite the fact that I was far from mother of the year, seemed to be the person he looked for the most. It was only because we spent all our days together, but maybe it still made my heart melt a little.

In my downtime, if he was sleeping, I read the mythos books I routinely swiped in the grass, both of us laid on a rough woolen blanket. They were boring - but informative. I learned far too much about the Greek obsession with teaching valuable life-lessons through their deities then I ever thought possible. Depressing stuff. Also - when in doubt about a monster, it’s probably some variation of a snake mutated with another animal. What can I say, I noticed that they love their snakes in the many, many stories I trudged through. And Poseidon - sure, he (technically) fathered my child and all, but I’d never met the man, and his characterization in the books I read was uncharitable, to say the least. Actually - all of the gods were kind of jerks, which I’d known before, of course, but was now painfully imprinted on my mind. Stupid aliens.

Greek mythology lessons aside, every mother thinks their child is special. It’s probably wishful thinking, me thinking that his personality was shining through in those moments we spent in the park. He’s just like a normal baby, really, shitting and crying and not understanding sleep schedules in the slightest. It’s hard to believe he’ll grow up to save the world - well, it’s hard to believe he’ll grow up at all. The thought makes something lump in my throat, so I push it away.

On a much less poetic note, he drinks water like a fish once I deem him past the “total infant” stage of his life. I mean - no baby except mine goes through sippy cups of water, yes, multiple, in the span of only a few hours. It would be concerning, and it definitely is, but it’s still sickeningly cute. Ugh. Yes, I am That Mother, who thinks her child will change the world with the force of their gummy smile. Fuck off.

Correction: I don’t think it, actually - I know it.

I blink down at my drivers license, rapidly. It’s an unremarkable March day, and I’d just - been itching, to pull out my drivers license, Sally’s license, and stare at it, and huh, there’s a reason: today is my new birthday. I’m officially 20. Exciting, maybe, but, really, like any other day.

I wish myself a happy birthday, and back to my daily life and worries I’m transported. That’s adulthood.

It takes me months of cutting back on my own food and a dozen double-shifts to save up enough money for the RV. As fortune would have it, the day I make my final payment on our new home, tires, deed, plate and all, is August 18th, which celebrates Percy’s first year of life, neatly capped off. It’s 6 in the morning and already sweltering - I just got off my shift, and I’m walking my way to the lot where the RV sits, having ridden the bus up-town, where I finally acquired the key to the thing from the previous owner. He’d wished me luck with the old beast before slamming the door in my face. Nice. I’d be worried about the quality of the rustbucket if that hadn’t been the first thing I’d tested after getting in contact with the man who owned it - our first meeting in person, I’d exercised my bitch voice, and driven it up and around the block with Percy in my lap while the owner grumbled in the passenger seat next to me. 

Alongside arguing with him about the price and convincing him to give me the old tires for the money I was paying, cold-hard cash, I figured that I had driven him up the wall and he was glad to be rid of me. I was almost proud of myself, for how much I tormented that man. Devious, I know.

I jiggle the key in the lock, and like magic, the back door of the van opens. Strapped to the front of my chest, Percy is sleeping - but I’m wide awake, eyes open, inspecting every crevice of the machine’s inside as I flicker on the paddle light next to the sliding door. I climb inside, and am able to stand fully. The LED lights are cheap, but effective - the whole of the room is white-bright, and I slide the door shut behind me, breathing in the dusty air of the vehicle. Some of the windows inside slide open, which I quickly make sure to unlatch, allowing a breeze into the hot tin-can we find ourselves in. There is a bathroom with a sliding door. It contains  a toilet, which I shudder to think about emptying, and a hose, drain and thin, raised boundary within in lieu of a shower stall. Practical. 

As suspected, the sofa does fold down into a bed. Some of the side compartments still have items inside - I find $5 while inspecting a drawer, which I quickly throw into the driver’s seat. The loft is nice, spacious, dusty, windowed on either side - storage or a room, it could work either way. And the back door of the RV, complete with a large window, swings open and closed, which I’ll have to padlock if I keep Percy back here - alongside buying some type of car-seat to strap to the sofa, because the thought of having my literal baby toddling around back here while I drive makes my heart leap out of my chest. The kitchen is little more than a tiny area nestled behind the driver’s seat, with a space for a small refrigerator, a sink that predictably has no water when I spin the nearest nozzle, and a mirror, just above the counter. Strange choices, we all make them. 

So, I unload my backpack into our new home. Diapers on the sofa, blankets draped over the passenger’s seat, the rest of our items put on our respective surfaces, canned foods shoved into the cabinet beneath the sink, and parka hung over the hose in the bathroom. I place my baby’s ponies and SeaWorld towel with far too much care in an intricate scene on the floor, alongside a few of his other toys. Percy’s birth certificate and other “I’m a legal human” documents are deposited into a drawer. My money is shoved into my glovebox, alongside my license - no use losing that anywhere.  I adjust the adjustable, fiddle with the fiddle-able, and overall, re-arrange and arrange our new home quite a few times.

By the end of the whole ordeal, I’m sweating with my interior design based fervor. I’m a visionary, I know. I stand, hands on my hips, baby on my chest, in a dusty, hot box on wheels, that undoubtedly shakes like a rattle if I go over 60 on the highway, has hideous floral wallpaper, a suspiciously stained sofa, definitely needs plumbing repairs based on the state of the pipes beneath the sink, and might just be the single stupidest thing I’ve ever spent both my money and my time on, in this strange new world where it seems to be Sally Jackson Vs. Literally The Universe. God, parking this thing is going to be a nightmare. And what about plumbing? I’m an idiot. The world’s biggest dunce. Strangely, the thought isn’t discouraging - I have to beat back my pleased grin.

Is it strange that I feel accomplished? I walk my way to the grocery market, and spend my last few dollars until my next paycheck hits on the cheapest car-seat I can afford, a bike chain padlock, and a single blue cupcake, which I pay to have a fish frosted onto. I’m a cornball, I know. I walk back - the sun is high, Percy is awake, and I slide open the door to our new home for the second time that day. We sit on the floor, Percy released from his prison against my chest. I set him down, where he begins crawling cautiously. “Pretty cool, right?” I ask, to which he babbles something in response. He’s at the point of making intelligible sounds, now - I swear, all my coaching him to say Mama must be having some effect. He’s a conversationalist in the making, I’m sure of it. He repeats sounds like a pro - a real fish to water, and I laugh at the thought, which he mimics. Little shit, I think, and he gets an impromptu snuggling session for his crimes.

I figure we’ve got some time before the owners of the lot figure out that the RV within is now occupied and order me to get my ass off their property. I carefully feed him baby-sized bits of his cupcake; more of the blue frosting ends up around his mouth then in it, which I wipe away with my thumb pad. I even sing him that dumb happy birthday song, which he claps along to with excitement despite my horrible tone-deafness.

This situation, and this RV: It’s far from perfect, but it’s ours, and that’s what matters. 

Chapter Text

Living the HGTV RV fantasy was a mixed bag. However, unlike I expected, parking was the least of my concerns - Mr. Ayad didn’t care if I left my RV in his liquor store’s lot all day and all night long, so long as I “kept my boy fed.” A real hardass, Mr. Ayad - but he looked at my kid, and his eyes softened, because I knew that his wife hadn’t been sick at all that day, those many months ago, but pregnant, and she was due sometime in the upcoming months. I was happy for her - she’d come by the store, not to buy alcohol, duh, but to visit Mr. Ayad in his office, and she’d been a tiny, brown woman, who leaned on her tip toes and kissed her husband right on the cheek. She’d even taken the care to coo over Percy in the backroom, which won her points in my book for obvious reasons. Their good fortune was my good fortune, so long as it kept my ass from constant New York parking violations.

Parking? Solved. Everything else? Far more up in the air. The thing nobody tells you about their romantic camper van lifestyle is that the devil is in the details. Nobody thinks about electricity, or dumping toilets, or filling up a water tank or gas , until you live in a house on wheels and suddenly, those four things are the difference between living in total squalor and a 15-minute “Our Vintage RV” YouTube video.

I’d never loathed being stuck in 1994 to a more heinous degree - one quick google search could’ve solved my problems, but instead, I learned the hard way through constant frustration and a lot of cursing I dearly hoped Percy wouldn’t pick up on. I nearly fried myself before figuring out what the fuck an “amp cord” was and why I needed to use mine, and the resulting drive down to the nearest NY camping site to jack power off of their generator was a tense one.

On the flip side, we were now the proud owners of a few appliances I’d gotten from the bargain bin at a thrift store, I could empty our sewage hose into bags and throw those bags in the dumpsters behind restaurants ( New York has seen worse, is what keeps my conscious from calling) and my water tank was chock-full of water I pilfered from any hose I could get my hands on. Sue me, the damn thing was heated - I was banking on it killing bacteria, or the overheating engine of our new home serving the same purpose. And if not, I’d be the one to suffer - I doubted anything water-related could harm Percy. 

Percy. My son, my baby, the light of my life, and a child who was now decidedly more toddler than baby at just past a year of age. He was articulating himself, though his mouth was still gummy, no baby teeth in sight and he wasn’t walking yet which was - concerning, I think. But I figured he would come about it in his own time, and he’d managed several cries of “Mama!” and other words that made my heart pound in my chest.

I could cut the kid a break - I was stimulating, but it takes a village to raise a kid, and I couldn’t be a village. What I could be, though, was a total hard-ass, and that’s how I found myself at Sunshine Smiles daycare, inspecting every surface of the place, eyeing the workers with a scrutiny that I could tell made them nervous, good , and finally, painstakingly, asking how and when I could make my payments for Percy to attend. I’d weighed the pros and cons of daycare, but the bottomline was that I didn’t want my son in the side-room of a liquor store for eight hours while I worked, now that the financial matter of shelter was taken care of - it was a debacle, to convince Mr. Ayad to let me work the day shift, but I did it with no small amount of guilt-tripping about my child’s circadian rhythms and my single-motherhood. I’m still awaiting my Oscar for that marvelous performance.

So - on the first day of my first-ever dayshift, I awaken, sleep schedule still completely ruined, from the blanket nest I’ve taken residence on upon the fold-out bed. Percy is laying sprawled next to me, chubby baby limbs twitching in his sleep, which I reluctantly break the serenity of by bouncing my sweet boy awake. He stares at me like he’d like to vanish me from existence which - I suppose is justified, given that I’m the one radically altering the status of our assigned Night Owl-hood, just as he finally settled into an infantile routine.

My bad.

I try to cheer him up, turning on the RV just so I can play some of the CDs I’ve begun collecting from secondhand shops. The smooth sounds of Grease fill the cabin as I sing along, urging the grumpy looking boy in front of me to raise his arms so Mama can dress him in a Care-Bears shirt and a blue pair of jean overalls, slipping on his tiny, tiny socks and shoes. “It’s the time, it’s the place, it’s the moment, it’s the way we are feeeeeling !” I purposefully draw out the last word, hoping to draw a smile out of him and there it is - even as he murmurs back a surprisingly apt impression of my last word. See? Smart kid. 

After quickly dressing myself, I haul my new and certified “mom” bag over my shoulder, alongside a patterned tote bag of Percy’s things for daycare. A few diapers, his marine life towel for nap-time, a few of his lesser loved toys (the ponies are too valuable to him for me to risk another child stealing them) and anything and everything else I could throw in, that my child might need for our first time being separated since - well, since his birth, actually. Pulling my keys out of the ignition and re-folding the bed into a sofa, I haul Percy into the makeshift harness on my chest, ruffling his hair even as his head droops sleepily. Poor guy. We slide out of the van, I lock the door behind me, shift my bags upon my shoulders, and I prepare to walk, because hey, we need the exercise, Sunshine Smiles was only a few blocks away and New York traffic at 8 in the AM on a Monday made me want to scream. 

Okay, so maybe I had some attachment issues.

I was nearly in tears, waving good-bye to my baby, and I could feel his confused eyes on me as I unloaded his things, talking idly to the sympathetic looking daycare worker whose name tag read Sherry to prevent myself from bursting into sobs. “I’ll be picking him up at 5:20” I say, like I hadn’t discussed it a million and a half times with her manager, in the anxious days leading up to this moment. Sherry nods like she understands, and I take the chance to look around the room - a few more toddlers, all about Percy’s age, some walking, some still curled up on the floor, and some of them even curiously gandering at the newest addition to their brood, my spawn, who was sat on the alphabet carpet, eyes only on me. He’ll have lots of fun, I convince myself, even as I kiss his forehead and wave good-bye to Sherry and Percy, who is now sitting in her arms, staring at me with growing suspicion. He and all of his new friends will be menacing little creatures with no sense of morality, they’ll smear their sticky hands on everything, he’ll be totally fine, no monsters will come for him because he’s young and he’s safe and the side effects of living in the parking lot of a liquor store is that you always smell a little like brew. He will be fine. My half alien baby will be totally fine, I say to myself, and step out of the threshold of the baby area, making my way down the hall.

“Mama! Ma! No! No!” Bless his soul, my baby is screaming like someone is murdering him, and I peer back into the room, heart pounding. Predictably, nothing is happening, but he’s pounding his chubby fists on Sherry’s back, to which the woman is sympathetically gesturing at me to go ahead and get on my way to work. I glance at the sink in the room, made for making clean-ups during snack time easier - it’s not budging or trembling or shooting water like crazy. Good. “I’ll be back!” I call, before I force myself to move one foot ahead of the other and leave the building, Percy’s screeches of displeasure echoing in my ears even as I make my way back to the liquor shop. 

“Am I a horrible mother?” I ask, after relaying my latest patron of the store with my tale of woe. “Like, do I deserve to have a son?” I say, even as I hand her back her receipt and $.34 in change. She snorts derisively- she’s an older woman, with greyened hair and bloodshot eyes, wearing a thick coat even though it’s a balmy mid-September. “For leaving him at a daycare? No. It had to happen eventually - you can’t be there forever.” She takes a puff on her cigarette, blows the smoke onto the glass border separating cashier and customer, and by the time I wipe the perspiration away, she’s gone. The doorbell clangs behind her. Huh. Surprisingly practical advice. She’s right. I need to get my head out of my ass - he’s my baby, but he can’t be with me all the time, every moment of the day. That’s not how it works. Also, I can’t act like a shit-head over events that are bound to occur. Double huh. 

Thanks random woman who bought a bottle of Balthazar and a pack of Newport’s. You really helped. 

It’s a regular day in October, breaching on Halloween Season, when Mrs. Ayad goes into labor, a month earlier than expected. How do I know this? I know because I’m the poor sap who catches her coming in the shop, intending to visit her husband, just as Mr. Ayad is making a supply run to his typical warehouse in his truck, and I’m the horrified son of a bitch who watches, as, on 10:03 on a normal Wednesday, a puddle of liquid begins to form beneath her legs, dripping down from the opening of her long dress. She stares at me, I stare at her, and I decide that the liquor store’s patrons can take a raincheck, which I furiously yell at a regular while using Mrs. Ayad’s keys to lock up the shop pre-maturely.

“But -”

“But nothing! Fucking leave! Fuck off!” I scream, and the man’s face goes three different shades of red before he stomps away. From her place in the local payphone, Mrs. Ayad’s nose is her only feature visible from the cover of her lavender hijab, and it is scrunched in irration. When she turns to face me, I can see that her face is red and she’s crying. Not good, not good . 

I scramble for a sharpie in the breast pocket of my uniform and I write, in the biggest letters possible across the glass of the locked door, WIFE IS IN LABOR GO TO HOSPITAL ON - 

I turned to her, panicked, “What hospital are you going to?” I scream, still entirely too freaked out to be the person not in labor, and, thankfully, she’s even more hysterical, which doesn’t seem to be humanly possible. Picture us, two women, her with at least ten years on me, both of us screaming like children and looking just as frantic. “Elmhurst!” She says back, sounding breathless, and I scribble that down. She took the bus up here, she confesses tearfully, and she can’t take the bus back while her water is breaking, but she doesn’t know what else to do because she called the supplier of the Liquor Emporium and they’re not picking up and they can’t pay for an ambulance, not with the baby coming - 

I’m already pulling out my car keys, and pulling her over to the RV as quickly as she allows me, which is swiftly. She’s standing, shifting from foot to foot, when I wrench the door open, and tell her to, “hop in.” 

Mrs. Ayad lays down on the sofa, as I kick baby toys out of the way of the floor, frantically piling the woman with blankets and a bottle of water and whatever else I can think of that a pregnant woman might need, which is how she ends up holding one of Percy’s stuffed animals with a mini-box of baby food in her hands, blinking rapidly, as I climb into the driver’s cabin, shove my keys into the ignition, throw my rustbucket into reverse, and skirt out onto the road so fast I swear I feel my RV leave the road for a few moments.

The drive from the Liquor Emporium to Elmhurst is approximately fifteen minutes, but with Mrs. Ayad’s shouted directions and me pushing the RV so fast I swear I could smell burnt rubber, we made it in ten. I parked basically on the sidewalk, and out we burst, me holding her up, her looking sickly and green, not from my maniac driving, as one might suspect, but from labor pains, as she seemed to be whispering to herself frantically. 

I stayed with Mrs. Ayad for almost two hours in her room until Mr. Ayad arrived. In the two hours there, we chattered to each other, both of our nervous states combining in a way I can only describe as beautiful. I learned an immense amount about her, in those two hours. Her name was Shilan, she was 31, an English teacher at the local highschool, she watched soap operas in her spare time, and this baby was both her and Amer’s (Mr. Ayad’s first name, crazy stuff) first child. They both hoped for a girl, she confided in me, but they were happy to have the baby at all, because they’d been married for six years and been trying to get pregnant for five such terms, with no success. They lived in an apartment together, the two of them, which had a beautiful view, though the neighbor’s dog was loud and often tormented their cat, named Tasha, after her favorite character from one of her soap operas. 

She was recounting the full second season of Unfaithful Hearts, as nurses swirled around us, right between the junction of the thirteenth and fourteenth episode, which actually required a general background knowledge of Romeo and Juliet, which she provided to my rapt attention, and which Julieta and Rasheed reflected, in that they were - Oh. And there’s Mr. Ayad, bursting into the hospital room in a flurry of loosened beard hairs and frantic brown eyes. He hurries to her side, from where she’s laying in the hospital bed, and suddenly, they’re deeply locked into each other’s eyes, and I take my chance to squeeze out the room before I feel like I’m third-wheeling too hard. 

I’m happy for them, or at the very least, happy for Mrs. Ayad. Mr. Ayad is a jerkass boss, but he loves his wife and he loves his baby and I truthfully hope everything goes right for them, no sappy shit intended. I slip out the building, and take the liberty of giving myself the rest of the day off, picking Percy up from daycare early, and traversing to our usual park for an impromptu picnic.

The liquor emporium doesn’t reopen until a week later. I know, because I sleep right outside of it, duh, and when it does open, that day, Mr. Ayad knocks on the window of my RV. I peer out through my curtains - it’s 8:20 in the morning, and Percy and I are getting ready to go to daycare. 'Getting Ready' being code that we were both still laying in bed, t-minus fourty minutes to showtime. “Yeah?” I yell through my freshly cracked window, peering down at him with sleep-filled eyes. It’s 45 degrees out. I’m not wearing a shirt, and only have a blanket wrapped around my chest. I’m not getting out of my house for whatever he has to say.

He sighs in exasperation, but rubs at his nose to steady himself. “Thank you for helping Shilan, Sally” is what he says, simply, and turns on his heel, stalking over to open the doors of his store, where my frantic note still lies, a new addition in the history of the emporium. I blink, once, twice, three times, before closing the makeshift curtain of the vehicle. I turn to Percy, who blinks up at me, sleep still heavy in his limbs. “Did you see that?” my toddler rolls back over, turning his back to me. I focus my stare on the closed curtains, still shocked.

What a man, that Amer. I didn’t even think he knew my name.

Two more weeks pass with nothing of note happening, until the first day of another November brings with it two important pieces of news, both delivered to me courtesy of Sunshine Smiles. I come to pick Percy up, 5:20 sharp, and I make my way to the baby room. I look around, over the barrier, for my spawn among the mass of different textures of hair and colors of overalls. He’s part of the “grounders” crowd as I affectionately call them - the kids who can’t walk, don’t feel like walking, or just prefer scooting to legging it across the room. Nothing wrong with it. But today, he’s not with his usual group. I frown. Anxiety settles around my shoulders as I skim the room further, inspecting every child sitting, and not seeing my baby, where the fuck is my kid, what the - 

“Ma! Mama!” I look down at the barrier. Two chubby hands are grasping it, and just tall enough, when standing, to peer over it, there’s Percy. He’s standing. When he sees my amazement, he toddles off to sit next to his pick-up bag, dropping inelegantly to the floor. My baby is walking. Oh My God. If you could’ve seen the way I practically embraced Sherry like a sister, as I watched my baby, that’s right, my kid, toddle his way over to me when I finally entered the room and declare to the world at large, “Go!” You would’ve thought I was insane, stricken with some type of fever. You really would’ve thought he had solved world hunger, the way I pressed kisses to his face on the walk back, until he shoved my face away and I sheepishly obliged, just in time for me to unlock our RV and slide us both inside, where he quickly utilized his new rad walking skills to break into a toddling run for his ponies. 

Double-checking to make sure the door’s locked behind me, I wrangle off my shoes, call for him to do the same (to which I get no response, classic), double check that the bicycle chain on the backdoor is firmly in place, and work on whipping us up some dinner - for him, mashed carrots, and for me, a spam sandwich. I glance over at him, absently, while pondering the health benefits of spam in between two pieces of whole wheat bread and oh. That’s not good. He’s smacking his chubby hands angrily on the sofa, with what looks to be an unfortunate Fluttershy stuck in his mouth, somehow. When he sees he’s caught my attention, he lets out a guttural yell, and I drop my spam-wich, scuttling over to where he stands, distressed. The Fluttershy is all gummed up with spit, but it’s somehow stuck in his mouth. I hold my hand on his shoulder, attempt to make comforting noises, and wiggle the pony out of his jaws, holding the saliva-soaked, deflated piece of plastic in my hand with no shame.

I pry open his mouth, ignoring his squirming, and feel my eyebrows touch my hairline. 

Teeth. He has some of them - not unusual, as he’s been fussier than usual. Teething, at last, which should be relieving to me, as his mother, coupled with his new affinity for walking. But - I swear, he didn’t have some of these, or any of these, really, last week. I strain to think about my baby babbling angrily a few days beforehand and nope, no teeth. But, sure, whatever his baby teeth are coming in! Miraculous. Happy day. Maybe something demi-godly, this sudden sprouting of chompers. But are baby teeth supposed to be so - sharp? I touch a single pinkie to the nearest tooth, near where his canines might come in later, and wince as I feel a pin-prick. Quickly drawing out my finger, I watch, almost mesmerized, as a fat drop of blood trickles down my hand. 

Percy clamps his mouth shut, glaring at me angrily. When he sees the deflated pony in my still, uninjured hand, his eyes go wide. I’m wiping my bloody finger off on my work uniform, twisting the fabric in such a way to put pressure on it, when he snatches the pony from my hand, holding it close to his chest, eyes teary. He looks devastated. The picture of a mourner at a funeral. I start “Hey, buddy -” 

He bursts into tears. As he screams, his new teeth, just as gleaming sharp as proven flash like miniature knives arranged precariously in his mouth. “F’uttershy!” He cries, because I’ve sold out and paid for the MLP DVD’s they sell at Walmart, for him to bring to his class and watch with his little friends during their TV time. Questionable, but it’s only thirty minutes of the day, and not everything can be 'intellectually stimulating' for the price I pay at that damn daycare. Besides, I did much worse as a child and I'm fine. Mostly. I bring my injured hand out, reaching to hug him, but I make the mistake of wincing in pain as my finger continues to bleed - upon seeing this, his cries grow louder. 

Toddlerhood. It’s rough for even the best of us. 

A few more things become evident in the months leading up to Percy’s second birthday, the winter and spring seasons occupied by these new kernels of knowledge. The first, and most concerning of which, is that Percy only gains more and more primary teeth which are sharp as daggers. By the time his full set is instated, our new bed-time routine is accompanied with us singing the “Toothpaste Song” together across from the kitchen counter’s mirror, where I carefully maneuver my child’s fat little toothbrush into his hands and watch anxiously as he garbles along to the sound of my off-key voice, praying to whoever is listening that he doesn’t cut his own hands open on his razor-blade teeth. 

Despite my worries, Percy seems to have the least trouble with his new chompers between the both of us. Sure, he bites his tongue a few times, not used to having so much in his mouth, but even as I worriedly urge him to open his mouth, he blinks placidly up at me before doing so, displaying a tongue that is unharmed and a mouth with not a trace of blood, despite his teeth being literal weapons of destruction. “Tell me if you ever cut yourself” I urge him, holding his baby hands in mine, to which he blinks confusedly but nods obediently.

We both quickly learn that the usual mashed baby food and little snacks don’t cut it anymore - he looks woefully disappointed when I pull out his typical spring garden mix of mashed veggies, and blatantly drops his little spoon to his plate with a sigh like a man who pays taxes. So, I adapt, and I adapt unsuccessfully, cycling through treat after treat and fielding questions about why Percy refused snack-time at daycare with matched confusion until I watch, caught between concerned and relieved, his eyes glue to a can of tuna I keep for my paltry sandwiches that must’ve rolled out of the cabinet in our latest venture to the local campsite for generator electricity.

His little eyes are concerningly dilated at the hyper-realistic fish that swims across the packaging of the container. The Son of The Sea God demands tuna for his post-daycare snacks - not the strangest thing I could’ve expected, I suppose, paired with his shark-like teeth. Sure. Okay.

I pull the can open, preparing to at least cut the tiny fish in half before he lunges, ravenous, and like a piranha, snatches the dead fish from my hands, tilts his head back, and swallows it whole. For a moment, we blink at each other, him innocently, and me reconsidering everything I’d ever considered canon about this universe. “What the fuck?” I say out loud, to which he, oh good lord, mimics me with an accuracy that makes me quickly backpedal, and establish the idea of “adult words” in the Jackson RV. He doesn’t look fully convinced, but I just hope he doesn’t repeat them to his daycare friends.

So - major problem solved, relief overwhelming, I shake my head and shrug my shoulders and say, He likes what he likes! when daycare workers pull me aside and ask me why exactly Percy’s lunchtime baggie contained a packed tupperware of raw tuna, straight from the can, and a sippy-cup full of water. They raise their eyebrows, but - well, after that first day of his new lunch, I never hear complaints again, and most of his caretakers look like they pity me, handing me back an empty tupperware that I swear has teeth marks scraping the bottom. That’s my little hellion, scaring unsuspecting mortals into submission. 

My secondary concern is far more mundane. It’s a few days before Christmas when I realize that it’s time for me to catch up on lost healthcare time, and get my son checked up, vaccinated, and looked over to generally make sure that he’s not going to sprout a pair of fins or keel over. He hasn’t been to the doctor since he was born - and jeez, if that isn’t depressing.

The doctor’s appointment goes swimmingly (hah!), though sitting for all of his shots looks to strain the toddler’s patience and his lungs for the entirety of the visit. The doctor looks fascinated by Percy’s amazing vampire teeth, which I dodge questions about like an Olympic athlete, and I try not to feel jealous of the kind nurse, who wipes my son’s arm and hands him a lollipop after his round of shots. Excuse me for still feeling a little attached to my life-long childhood dream. You win some and you lose some, and I refused to rule which was which as I hightailed the RV out of the pediatric clinic’s parking lot, skirting into New York traffic and watching worriedly as white freckles of snow touched my windshield as I drove. Snow in New York - and our first Christmas with a roof above our heads, just in time.

He’s still well below the age of consciously enjoying the holiday season, having a year and four months life experience under his belt, but he’s oddly taken with the tiny parka I buy him, and he seems to deeply appreciate his replacement Fluttershy, which is full-sized, comes with a hairbrush and a tiny, cheap cardboard booklet, if his delighted squeals and the hug I receive are to be believed. I’m just happy he likes his gifts, and even happier that the space heater I buy for the RV to fight off the cold outside our vehicle doesn’t blow up. On the downside, it totally guzzles power - I’m glad to be able to put it into storage when March, and the celebration of my twenty-first birthday, alongside the weather becoming balmy once more, rolls around.

“I’m legally old enough to work here now!” I jest to Mr. Ayad when I catch him during my lunch break, which he doesn’t seem to find funny in the slightest. Whatever. Loser. As a celebration for my twenty-first birthday, I steal a page from the cool-kids and actually brush out my hair for once, nodding at my reflection in the mirror. Still short and practical, but nicer, now that it’s not tangled on my head. I even indulge in the surge of boldness that comes with being twenty-one, and chunk out a portion of my paycheck to have my septum pierced. 

Percy innocently twists the ring and reduces me to tears the day after I have it done, but he cries along with me, at seeing his Mama in pain, so I guess that makes it better. I do get called a bull by a drunk customer who is angry I won’t sell to them (you’re fifteen dollars short, sir), but it makes me laugh, which is evidently not what he expected when he threw the insult. I like piercings, I find. I had never thought about them, in the before , too busy with my dream, studying, classes, but - maybe I liked it, feeling like the Sally I looked at in the mirror more closely resembled the person who resided in my head, instead of vice versa. All that, for just a pinch of pain and the tiniest sliver of metal.

Besides, this could totally be me gearing up for my cool late nineties - early two thousand mom era. The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

It’s April and Shilan is in the shop, smiling, waving, and - that’s a baby, head resting on her shoulder, dressed in a cute onesie. That’s the Ayad’s baby. That’s the baby whose mother I drove to the hospital, all the way back in spooky times, so they could be birthed. I almost break the glass of the counter in half in my fervor to wave at the child, who gives me the most disinterested look possible. Cute kid, sort of reminds me of her father, right sensibilities. “She’s so cute!” I gushed, absolutely enamored with this little girl who wouldn’t give me the time of day - once again, smart kid.

Shilan laughed, but she looked deeply pleased. She was holding the baby tightly, and had a purse in the crook of her arm. A lesson planner for 11th Grade AP English was peeking from the top of the snake-skin. She did look like a very studious English teacher, reading glasses perched on her nose - the kind who had hated me as a highschooler, because I always gave them what I thought they wanted to hear, nothing deep, because I was there for the grade and nothing else. A stepping stone towards my dream. I can’t reiterate enough - I was down horrendously for my goals. I still am. Just - focused in a different direction.

Shilan grins at me, “Her name is Dima. Would you like to hold her?”

I almost break my damn neck, the way I nod.

Percy’s second birthday rushes up too fast to believe, and I, being the freeloader I am, ask for the day off to spend with my son. Mr. Ayad obliges, because I think Shilan, who has gotten into the habit of inviting me and Percy to dinner, would ring his neck if he didn’t. I love that woman.

Percy is in the very beginning stages of potty training, which is progressing awkwardly, but progressing - but today, despite his pouting, I insist that he wears a water-proof pull up. Not a diaper, I insist, when he crosses his arms and scowls, but like - like big boy underwear. He perks up at that which, hey, say what you want, but I’m slowly perfecting the art of lying to my own kid. Yay me.

So - Mother and Son, second birthday celebration, me staring at the Montauk beach before us and wondering if I’ve made the wisest decisions, or if this entire trip is a horrible idea, despite how Percy’s face had lit up when I told him we were visiting a beach. I’m tempted to march us both back to where the RV is parked and take a long, long nap.

Percy, hand clutched in mine, is ecstatic. I’m a terrible mother, huh - this is the first time he’s ever seen the ocean, and look how happy he is, attempting to haul me into the sand and yelling, “Wata! Wata!” Like his little lungs are about to collapse. He’s smiling so hard his cheeks are red. Cutie. Still, my son’s adorable nature isn’t enough to stop my apprehension at just - being here, so close to the sea, to the technical father of my child. Ugh. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I try to hold us off from the water as long as I can.

I set up our umbrella painstakingly slowly, unfold our blanket like it’s a precious work of art, take care to make sure we have all of our items in the cooler - like I could’ve forgotten - and even slather both of us in a thick coat of sunscreen, which isn’t actually that unusual for our outdoor adventures; “The sun is dangerous to be exposed to for too long” I say educationally to my son, who, traitor, sticks his tongue out at me. Kids, man. They don’t understand the importance of skincare etiquette. I start feeling guilty when Percy starts squirming, glancing anxiously at the water. It’s his birthday, and he wants the beach. I need to - suck it up, or at the very least, fully bitch out, if the feeling is too strong.

Shedding my towel dress, I lift him in my arms, him clad in a pair of flowery swim trunks and me in board shorts and a tank top. The idea of wearing a bikini, at least currently, with how bony my body was from inconsistent eating made me want to wriggle out of my own skin. We enter the water, which is cold as fuck, and Percy’s breath halts as his feet touch the ocean for the first time in his life. He looks - ecstatic. I yelp - he falls out of my arms, and I feel like I’ve been pushed by the water, as my baby falls to the ocean below. I almost start screaming, but not before realizing oh - my baby comes preinstalled with swim settings. I watch him do a doggy paddling little loop around me, face serious but eyes delighted. 

We stay in the water for a few hours, at Percy’s insistence, never venturing out farther than the red and white candy striped rope marking the beach from the open ocean, as much as Percy’s eyes plead, because I will not be ruled completely by my two-year-old. The entire time, I feel like a fish in a tank; the only time I'll ever share that sea-related sentiment in regards to myself - something was watching me, of that I was completely and totally certain, and though its gaze might've been comforting to the original Sally, all it made me want to do was turn tail and run.

I’m uncomfortable in the ocean, rigidly so, as a midwesterner at heart, but it’s worth it, to watch him have so much fun on his birthday. It’s six’o’clock when I decide that swimming time is over, because my toes and fingertips are definitely pruned to hell and back and I’m shivering like a soaked cat. Percy whines, but I reel him in easily enough, and I’m glad to reach our towel, which has sat untouched this entire time. 

He’s rosy-cheeked, and seems to be glowing with as much toddler hood health as I’ve ever seen. Perks of being the son of Poseidon, given an uninhibited day at the beach. He seems heartier, too, the way he rips into his birthday cupcake, the excitement of eating junk food triumphing over his love for canned tuna. He helps me the best he can as I pack our things, which mostly includes chattering in toddler-ish about how much fun he had on his birthday today, he’s gonna tell everyone in daycare how cool the beach is, can we come again - 

I pull my towel dress over my head again and take his hand. I check my bag for my keys, which, like always, are there. All of the rest of our beach day supplies hang off my arms. I glance back at the ocean. It’s kind of beautiful, as much as I hate to admit it. Cold as shit, too watery, not enough land, and not my first or even tenth choice of environment but - kind of pretty. Weird. I guess I sort of - got what OG Sally saw in this place, even if I didn’t agree in the slightest. “Ready for the RV, Sharkboy?” He gives me a confused look at the nickname, because it’s 1995 and I’m a decade early, but nods his head forlornly.

Away we walk. I pretend not to notice Percy twisting his little body around and yelling a vigorous, “Bye-Bye! Bye-Bye!” to whatever or whoever may be behind us, standing in the surf. 

Chapter Text

The sad thing about being gifted a child you were never prepared for after a previous life of being maybe just a teensy bit fixated on your goals, thus making you a chronic studyholic, is that you don’t have much time to discover what you actually - you know, like to do. Or, more depressingly, who you are. So, at dinner at Shilan’s house, with both my beloved friend and my jerkass boss staring down at me after asking me a very simple question, What do you do in your spare time? Even Dima is staring at me, adjacent to her parents in her high chair, big eyes unblinking. My mind is completely wiped of any semblance of personality. On my lap, Percy is happily nibbling away at the meal the Ayad’s have prepared for tonight’s impromptu dinner party - some type of grilled carp. I'll have to lift the recipe from them, because Percy can’t seem to get enough of it - he’s on his second plate, that second plate being mine. 

What do you do in your spare time? Should be the simplest question in the world for me to answer.

I enjoy biology drifts to mind, but no, I don’t actually - I’d despised all of my science classes throughout highschool and my two years of college and saw them as a necessary evil to reach my goals of nursing. Math? Forget it. I’d always despised that. Reading - maybe, once upon a time, when I’d been a pimply tweenager, but after my vision had tunneled to only illuminate my current, degree-less, state and my future, ideal state as a healthcare worker, all of my books, including my beloved Percy Jackson and the Olympians novels, fell to the wayside. Nowadays, I could hardly muscle my way through “required reading” - the mythos books I forced myself to skim over whenever I felt like life was getting just a bit too pleasant for my half-alien baby and I. And everything else - writing, biking, painting - all things I’d enjoyed as a child that I hadn’t touched in at least a decade.

Think, dammit, think! What do I do in my spare time? What do I enjoy? What do I - what do I do, outside of Percy? Do I do anything? Oh my god. Do I do anything? Like - I don’t work Sundays anymore, perks of being a bit more financially stable and not having to grab for all the shifts I can muster, but what do I do then? The answer is simple: I sit in the RV and watch Percy, or if he’s fussy, I walk to the park and...watch my son. Oh my god. I’ve become consumed by motherhood - which wouldn’t be so damn embarrassing, if Shilan and my literal manager weren’t still looking at me, growing more concerned by the second. I am 21 with no cognizant interests or hobbies outside of my son, I think numbly, turning my eyes to his thick mop of black hair.

Perhaps sensing my burgeoning crisis, Shilan hurries past the unanswered question lingering awkwardly in the air with new chatter about the latest and greatest drama occurring at the high-school she works at. Even Mr. Ayad, or Amer, as he awkwardly insists I call him whenever his wife is around, seems eager to move past my social faux-pas.

But Dima - Dima’s staring at me with her eldritch eyes, and she tilts her little baby head, and babbles out something that seems to translate to, Who are you, she who has been deposited into this world? Do you truly exist outside of your spawn with the sea god, my eldest brethren, like kin to my own heart? Have you a passion - or art thou a shell of a woman, consumed by what you do instead of you are? Please - figure out your heart soon enough, or thou art doomed for failure. She then mashes food against the side of her face, missing her mouth by a generous few inches.

Okay, so maybe Dima didn’t say all that. That’s just the general, like, impression I got, from the tone of her babble. She’s a year old now, this October baby - so, she could’ve totally said that. In fewer words, maybe. As Shilan wipes her daughter’s face with a wet cloth, I think, dimly - What DO I do in my spare time? 

In the week leading up to Halloween, and my continued identity crisis, Percy solemnly confesses to me that for the costume party at Sunshine Smiles he would like to be a vampire. “Cuz’ my teef!” He explains, brilliantly enough, which, okay, yeah, fair point. Alongside pondering my own face in the mirror, searching for answers in my eyes, I drive us to the local Walmart, where we step into the costume aisle, and are sorely disappointed. Now, don’t get me wrong - we find some white costume face paint easily enough, alongside a bottle of hair gel, so I can give him the Count Dracula ‘do, I explain to his fascinated face, but the costume itself, the most integral part of the kiddie Halloween experience, is where Walmart falls flat. 

Percy touches the first material of the first pre-packed vampire costume, and his face screws up unpleasantly. The same is true for every other costume in the aisle, which he declares solemnly, are all, “too itchy.” He’s wiping his little hands on his favorite shirt, containing a graphic print of Bedtime Bear , like something very nasty is stuck on his hands, and when I touch the very same costumes, I understand his hesitance.

He’s just like me, when I was a kid - I’d hated some fabrics to an extreme extent, but my mom, hardass, had forced me into them regardless. I remember being reduced to tears in Church, glasses fogged with my tears, while some horrible plasticine-silk mixture of weave disguised as a perfectly nice looking Sunday dress rubbed against my shoulders and legs. I was the only one of her eight children with the issue, she insisted, so I was overreacting. My mom - what a way with words, that woman. The memory is unpleasant, so I push it away. Tearing my hand from the plastic fabric of the latest failure in a string of disappointing vampire costumes, I re-take Percy’s little palm in mine. 

“We gettin’ a’custume?” Percy asks, eyes gleaming, and I hum decisively, waving away the costume aisle as we walk out of it like it’s old news. “Yes, absolutely. Just - not those, little man” he accepts this placidly, still rubbing his hand across the front of his shirt. I’m no creative, I don’t think, but I know how to sew - a necessity, growing up as the eldest daughter of two people lacking in the funds department; I’d patched my own pants and my old-black jansport by hand until they were both more stitch than fabric. I figured I could whip out a little toddler-sized vampire costume using palatable fabric, and worst-case scenario, he probably wouldn’t remember this later on in his life if I totally fucked up. Depressing, but true. 

The other parents at the daycare’s Halloween party adore Percy’s outfit.

He gets at least five requests to show off his cape and his ruffled shirt and he obliges, happy to be the center of attention, really hamming it up for all of the adoring toddlers and adults at the get together. And me - my god, I’ve never flushed so much, every mother in the room talking to me excitedly, complimenting my son’s outfit, complimenting me for making it, telling me what a cute kid he is, and standing, very, very close, so that I, battling lesbianism itself, excuse me and Percy early for the evening, even though he’s having far too much fun jumping around, pretending to flap his cape and fly, showing off his sharp teeth to his adoring followers. My baby’s a cult-leader, I think sheepishly, watching a dozen of his peers turn sad-eyed as he announces his imminent departure. 

The costume isn’t anything special, I don’t think. A ruffled white shirt I’d made out of a tablecloth was on sale at the Salvation Army. I’d found a set of matching, gleaming golden pins that I treated like buttons, and I only achieved the ruffle effect, I told entranced mothers, by scrunching the fabric as I sewed. Black pants that were cut directly from a black-out curtain that had the misfortune of being stained with what looked to be mustard at the edges. They were held together with a fastener I converted into a waist-clasp. The pants themselves were the biggest hassle - but I’d taken a pair of Percy’s own, and I’d measured by eye. A bright red cape was the simplest part of the ensemble, but I’d wanted to add a little flair, so I cut out thin strips from either side of the fabric, slimming the cape down, resewed them near the top of the fabric, and bam, a bright red bow on my baby’s neck, like a beautiful present, or something equally as elaborately wrapped. Nothing special, I sheepishly insisted, dodging questions even as Percy and I walked out the door. My smile was unmanageable upon my face, despite my insistences that I had made nothing noteworthy.

He’s still kicking and flapping his arms as we load into the RV for the night, putting on a surprisingly impressive mock accent for a toddler, half of his face paint smeared off from his vigorous play with the other children, a thin trail of red bug juice, helpfully provided at the function, running down his chin. “I love ma’ c’stume!” He declares from his place inside of his car-seat, hyped up on however much candy corn he could snatch from the provided candy bowls. Me, squinting at a red light that has been going on for way too long in the driver’s cabin, yell back something unintelligible so he knows I’m listening. A moment later, the light turns green, and I, vindicated, ask him, “So you had fun at the party? With your costume?”

The toddler nods from what little I can see in my rearview mirror, and makes a broad noise of pleasure. “C’n you make me more c’stumes?” He yells as we finally pull into the backlot of the emporium. I can’t hold back an excited, “Hell yeah” which he echoes, fuck me, but - I enjoyed it, sewing this costume. This is my thing now - sewing. This is my answer when asked what I do in my spare time. Sewing: it’s a two parter hobby, not only is it practical, but it’s also surprisingly fun, to create something with your own hands and watch it take form. 

Everything I do, I do it big. All or nothing. This sewing hobby would be mine.

Surprisingly, taking up a hobby to fill my spare time makes my life easier instead of harder. Even more surprisingly, it also enrichens the general vibes of the RV, and inspires me to indulge my inner interior designer.

Life goes on, our routine is the same as ever, but life feels like more things are jam-packed in the space of a single day. I sew everything from grand costumes to regular shirts for Percy in my spare time, who becomes my little model, and is renowned at daycare for the “daring” outfits he sports. I even buy a disposable camera, not only to capture some of his important moments (him standing next to the toilet, smiling ear to ear after having MOSTLY successfully mastered the art of potty-training) but to document our fashion journeys together, which I quietly store in the drawers of the RV.

Yes, I am That Mom , who matches outfits on my days off with my toddler son because it’s fun and it lights up his face, to look “just like Mama.” I get into the full groove of my new hobby - I buy fashion magazines at the check-out rack when we go shopping, I borrow books from the library, I thrift old pattern books and tablecloths, and overall, I revel in the empowerment I feel, to work at something that is both practical and beautiful - to have something of my own, that I do in my downtime. I wonder what my life might’ve been like in the before , if I’d discovered just how much I enjoyed sewing and “garment-making” and how I was good at it, not because I was driven mechanically, like a machine, but because my drive came from my desire to have fun. Fun - what a fucking unbelievable phrase I marvel, more and more often. I couldn’t wait for the internet to come about - 1995 was passing far too slowly.

I’m not the best, but with every piece I improve, and if the praise is to be believed, I have more technical hits than misses. Though I still don’t understand Shilan’s apprehension in reaction to Percy and I’s matching denim fringe jean jackets that I’d sewed flower patches to the elbows of - they were cute, I insisted at her disgusted look, in a silly, campy way. I fully lean into my life, and I realize, the more I think, that this is our home, this RV. I’ve always known it, but now, struck with the inspiration bug, I make some renovations. 

Most Sundays find us, radio playing ABBA at full blast, as Percy practices his modern dancing and I attempt to improve our little home. I deep-clean, and the smell of bleach and far too much dust makes both our noses twitch frantically. I finally make us proper curtains for our windows out of a whole roll of psychedelic-style marbled fabric I’d found for cheap at the local craft store.

I wipe down every appliance and counter and hard surface in our house using a bucket of baking soda and vinegar, though I’m careful to keep our windows wide open and our sliding door propped to a crack as I do. I finally hung up Percy’s drawings from daycare in the living room of the RV that is simultaneously our bedroom, and he looks very pleased, if his smug looks are to be believed. I buy a few plastic containers and a sheet - and boom, bam, there’s a proper storage room in the loft, where every out-of-season appliance and all of our clothing is stored, prevented from tipping over onto the floor during my maniac driving sessions by the barrier of the sheet, tied from one end of the loft to the other. Anything we’re not using? Up in the loft it goes. I carefully slide the loft’s ladder out of sight behind our brand new mini-fridge, where it’s still easily accessible. And oh, happy day, we can have cold things now- the fridge’s first addition is a tub of ice-cream, and it’s almost well-worth just how much my pockets ached for the tiny thing.

I keep my new sewing supplies near the swinging out back door. I fulfill the prophecy and specifically store them inside of a cookie tin, which Percy, as we all do, opens it in expectation of cookies and comes away disappointed. Poor kid. My “scrap bag” as I’m choosing to call it hangs from one of our new wall fixtures, a piece of wood I’d nailed into place with fervor, and it contains everything I’d ever need to sew just about anything, most of the fabric within second-hand or, in some cases, stolen, because you can’t change me, and no one is paying that much for a single square of linen. Come on now. The fabrics inside spill out on the regular, but I keep stuffing them back into it and hoping for the best. 

By the end of our renovation sessions, our house is cleaner, brighter, more well-organized and just as cramped as before, but easier on the eyes. We’ve even got decor now- Percy’s various drawings, my stack of CDs I display in a half-busted down rack, his toy box he’s painted with craft paint, some dangly flower wall things I’d found at the thrift store to tack to the ceiling, some random magazine pages I plastered to the walls to cover the ugly yellowed wallpaper, and a whole boatload of christmas ornaments that Percy made with his daycare that year that hang from the rearview window in the driver’s cabin, now separated from the rest of the vehicle with a curtain of the aforementioned psychedelic fabric. 

“It looks pretty nice in here, huh kid?” I ask by the end of our half a year long renovation kick, just a little after my twenty-second birthday, and Percy nods firmly, crossing his arms like he’s some big-deal real estate agent, inspecting our house on wheels from top to bottom. Dork.

Everything in our life was going well. Suspiciously well. In hindsight, that’s how I should’ve known that we were nearing the end of our comfortable residency and routine in New York - because, in general, things in life turn the sweetest just before they end. That’s not a proverb - just a general observation. Free advice for you kids in the audience.

For a comfortable few months, almost a year by demarking the calendar based on Percy’s upcoming third birthday, we were at the most peace we’d ever been, and it seemed like, maybe, just maybe, canon had exaggerated the tenacity and frequency of the monsters who were after demigods - just like they’d failed to mention my son’s shark teeth and affinity for seafood. It had seemed like we could stay in New York forever with minimal issues. I was arrogant, thinking that the liquor store could shield us forever, forgetting about our first terrifying few months, and that damn demon dog who’d chased us up a fire-escape. I’d known that it couldn’t shield us forever, some faint liquor store stench, but I’d held on to our stationary life until the very last moment. Wishful thinking told me that we could stay in one place, treating our RV as more of a house than a vehicle. 

That’s the kind of thinking that found me screaming myself hoarse that Mother’s Day of 1996.

I’d been let out of work a little early, so I intended to surprise Percy at his daycare - we could have a special treat, by going out to eat together, which we rarely did, and I was excited to see what toddler crafts he’d made me for Mother’s Day. I had been feeling adventurous, so I’d really pumped the young mom thing to ten - a zebra shirt with a pink heart I’d stitched to the front, high-waisted jeans, a red cardigan riddled with holes, and gym shoes I’d salvaged for $1.75. I’d even combed my hair out, which now brushed my shoulders, and wondered if I should cut it again. I’d driven our RV to the daycare in a fantastic mood, hitting every lyric of the CD I was listening to, smiling as I watched our flower charms bounce in the rear-view mirror. I’d pulled up on the backlot of the daycare, hopped out of my car, and entered, grin stupid, signing out Percy on the check-out sheet while good old Sherry waved me a quiet greeting.

“They’re having nap-time right now” she spoke softly, and I nodded in understanding, tip-toeing into the room behind her. In the corner, just below the window, there was my baby; I knelt down, to shake him awake, tell him that we were leaving early to do something fun, when I noticed it. He was sprawled out on his SeaWorld towel, as usual, the bright blues and greens clashing with the all-red ensemble he insisted on wearing today, with hearts sewed around the neck of his cotton sweater and a cape emblazoned with stars, because, you know, toddler things. But, what I noticed, disrupting this peaceful scene, was a long, long cord of black, wrapped around his chubby knuckles, laying limply against his stomach.

For a moment, my vision blurred and I almost thought, oh it’s a rope, a scarf, before, nope, the world snapped back into focus just as quickly, and there, in front of me, strangled to death by my son’s meaty toddler fists was undoubtedly a very large snake, like an overgrown leech with it’s sickeningly slimy skin and width. Too abnormal to be anything but a monster.

I screamed, and I kept screaming until the lights flickered on, Percy and his classmates awoke and furious daycare workers came bearing down on me, until I wordlessly pointed to the snake laying in my son’s grasp, and they were rendered speechless.

All good things must come to an end. 

Chapter Text

We’re somewhere in West Virginia before I realize that I might not have made the best choices. When this realization hits me, it’s about 2 in the morning, I’m debating between a bag of cheese puffs and an energy drink in a Circle-K, with at least six candy bars slipped down the front of my pants, and, outside, my RV is being filled with $40 worth of gas. Glamorous, I know, this life of mine. I finally settle on the energy drink, because, let’s face it, I need it, and check out, smiling in the face of the bored-looking cashier. 

I’m in the driver’s cabin of the RV, wheeling us back out onto the country road, before I pull the candy bars out of my pants, tossing them into the passenger’s seat. Partially a gift and partially an apology to Percy, for effectively spiriting him away from the life and routine he’s known for the past two and half years of his existence - all in reaction to the too-close encounter with that stupid fucking snake demon. I’d love to say that I handled it calmly - but no, I’d grabbed my baby, fled out the backdoor of the daycare, and here we were, eight hours later, him asleep in the fold-out bed and me driving like a woman possessed, the soft hum of ABBA the only thing calming my racing mind. I’m an idiot, I think, fleeing with no forewarning like this - but I’d been panicking, and I’d gone all-in on the only defense I had against these things: running. 

I wonder if Shilan will miss me. I wonder if Amer will miss me - and I wonder if I’ll miss them, or like my parents and my siblings, I’ll just shove it down, and not think about it, until my moments with them, good or bad, are just gray memories of another life, and the only thing that is real and existent to me is me, my son, and whatever our current physical state is. I know myself well enough to know it’s entirely possible. I try not to laugh - me, Sally Jackson, ultimate pragmatist. It’s not as fun as it sounds.

I turned up the radio a little, trying to calm my racing heart with the smooth tunes of Gimme, Gimme, Gimme! It was evident that our days of the liquor store masking our scent were over, so if I was going to be on the run for my child’s life, I might as well do it in style. Even if that style took us through the whole of the East Coast on a whim and a prayer.

Picture this: small town east coast America, in an empty parking lot across from a church. It’s 1996, a sunny May day, a week past Mother’s Day, and you’re watching, aghast, as a ruffled looking woman shamelessly yells out advertisements, sets up a cardboard sign made with the help of an obvious child, and sells hand-made clothing out the back of her RV to the crowd leaving the local church. That ruffled looking woman being me, and you, dear audience, being the hypothetical looker-on. What can I say? I know how to capitalize on opportunity, and if nothing else, some of the elderly people leaving the 11’o’clock service definitely look at me, my shrieking toddler wearing a my little pony shirt, and the RV we’re living out of, and take pity on us. 

One such elderly woman, dressed in a rather elaborate pink ensemble, is carefully fingering a frilled sundress I’d made out of a flowered table-cloth I’d bought from a local thrift store, complete with puffed sleeves that had been an absolute pain in the ass to hand sew and a sash, made of left-over material. It’s made just large enough for a child - maybe a small teenager. “How much for this, dear?” She asks, holding it as easily as anything, and I look her up and down - I’m a snake, I must admit, and this woman seems wealthy, if the little rhinestone purse she’s holding is any indication. The typical church grandmother, I summarize succinctly, buying a gift for her grandchild, this dress. I price accordingly.

“$20” I say finally, and she scoffs, but coughs up a neat twenty, carefully depositing it into the hands of my toddler son at my behest, who shoves it into the front of his overalls. My own little cash-register, with the front pockets of his overalls already stuffed with a few small bills. We get a few more sales that day, but by the time 2 PM rolls around, I realize pretty smoothly that business for the day, at least in this area, is dead. We load back into the RV, where I gently pull the bills from my son’s grasp and urge him to count along with me, though he’s got a decidedly more simple take on our monetary status, being a toddler.

“Five!” He declares jovially, and I congratulate him, carefully viewing the $80 we’ve made. Three twenties and two tens, 5 bills total - that’s the result of a couple of dresses I’d thrown together in the past frantic week, in-between panicking about me quite literally abandoning our life in New York and slipping into grecian tragedy levels of existential pondering. But $80? That’s more made in a single day than two shifts at the liquor shop - and sheesh, that’s depressing, the nineties coming to bite me in the ass again. We’d quite literally lived off less - even if this $80 was a spree of Sunday luck, granted to us only once a week. A pretty okay deal, instability aside.

I smile. Maybe this whole “abandoning my pre-established life without a word in fear of my son literally dying if we stayed in one place for too long” wouldn’t be too bad. Then again, that could be the utter lack of sleep that I’ve gotten in the past week since fleeing New York coming to bite me in the ass, making me optimistic and all-together more unrealistically hopeful. Hopefully not the latter thought.

“I wan’ Dima! G’mme Dima! G’mme the baby!” Percy cries, his shrieks having made my ears ring for the better half of an hour - while he had treated our new life on the road as a fun treat at first, almost like his beach trip, a rare pleasure, with all the candy he was given, but a month into our permanent future endeavors and I could sense that he was both confused and pissed over not seeing the baby, Dima, and coddling her appropriately. She didn’t seem to mind it though - Percy babying her, despite the fact that they were relatively close in age. He liked going over to Shilan’s house, trying to “hold” Dima, trying to feed her, and all-around mother-henning her with as much skill as a toddler could. They’d been friends, pseudo-cousins in a way - and now, he hadn’t seen her in a month, and was understandably upset, alongside what I imagined to be the general stress of no longer seeing any of his adoring daycare followers. I’d thought he would cry himself out, forget about it, and get tired, but nope, my little demi-olympian was somehow working himself up into even more of a fervor, and I finally decided to intervene, after only giving him space to vent.

“Percy, come here, come on buddy, come here” I gestured, and he crossed his arms, stamping his feet furiously. As he came towards me, I was relieved - until he began pounding on my arms furiously, and ouch, was it just me or did this kind of hurt? He was almost three - there was no way that this should hurt this much. “Hey, we don’t hit. Stop that” He got in a few more good hits before leveling him with an appropriately mom-ish look got him to stop, though his face was still red from tears and exertion. 

“I wan’ Dima” he said sadly into my shoulder, and my heart broke.  I checked the sky outside of the RV - bright blue mid-morning in the countryside of West Virginia, where I’d aimlessly driven us in circles, panicked, for the better half of a month. I’m a great planner and resource manager, I know. It was a seven hour drive back to New York - I glanced at Percy. He was still crying, a little, and his little hands were furiously twisting into each other. A wave of guilt that doubled as energetic fervor washed over me, and I sighed, deep and heavy.

“Alright” I said finally, and he looked up at me, eyes confused, before I followed up with, “Let’s go see Dima.”

Shilan cries when she sees me. We knock on her door after a month away, me thinking that the other woman had probably already completely forgotten about me, a random piece of white trash who worked at her husband’s liquor store and my snotty but adorable kid, and she opens up the door, wraps her arms around us, and cries. “Don’t ever do that again” she says to me, lavishing attention on me in a way that makes my throat ache with something like fondness - a cup of tea rests in my hands, and I stare at the steam rising up from it while somewhere deeper in the apartment, I hear Dima’s squeals of protest as Percy undoubtedly mother-hens her hard to make up for lost time, under the watchful eye of Amer. More closely, in the living room, a soap opera is dramatically grinding out the newest story line of the season.

She turns back around from her place at the stove, coming to rest at the kitchen table next to me with her own cup of tea. Her hijab is pooled around her shoulders - she’d tugged it off in her madness to wrap her entire being around me, and I notice that she’s wearing a pretty flower clasp in her bun. Her dark eyes are intense, and when she looks up at me after taking a demure sip, setting her cup down, I know I’m about to get the third degree. “Why did you leave? Was it -” she glances around us, like there are watchers everywhere - smart lady - and asks in a hush, “was it something to do with Percy? Percy’s father?”

I feel my eyebrows involuntarily leap, my heart pounding rapid-fire. “How did you know that?” I demand, and she looks temporarily vindicated, before her face falls back into its previous, grim setting. “You’re weird about him, Sally” she says, and I scoff in mock offense, but listen intently as she continues, positing her neat theory before me, “You never talk about his father - and when I asked, before, you looked at me like I was a traitor. But he must’ve hurt you, right, for you to act in this way? Sally - you can tell me anything. Are you running from Percy’s father? Did he - did he do something to you? To Percy? I will help you. Please tell me” she finishes solemnly, as if she didn’t just completely shatter my world. 

Am I that weird about Poseidon? I wonder, and immediately, yes, leaps to the fore-front of my mind, a slideshow of moments and images and dodged conversations rising to mind. I guess, from the outsider's perspective, it probably would look as though I was running from someone - and the father of my child was the best guess out of any, given her knowledge. Of course I got a bit squeamish talking about the man - he was an alien to me in every way, not even the same species, and furthermore, I’d not had the pleasure of actually meeting him, letting alone feeling romantically inclined to him in any manner. He was more of a concept than a person - fitting, for a greek god, but still, I supposed that the vague, almost disparaging way I talked about him, which was seldom, must’ve left an impression. When Shilan had originally asked about Percy’s father, I’d drawn a blank - blue-screened hard until waving my hand and telling her that the, “old bastard wasn’t worth much” and leaving it at that. I thought of myself as a comedian. But had I - had I really given her the impression that he had hurt me? Had hurt Percy? That he’d chased us out of town? But again - what else was she supposed to think, me, young, single, hot thang, vanishing with my son in the middle of the day without a trace? Oh lord. 

Shame burbles through me. In a twisted, fucked up, loophole way, she’s right. Poseidon has indirectly hurt me - hurt us. Who would damn a kid to a life of being literally cosmically illegal? Love knows no bounds - but why couldn’t godly plan b have made an appearance when Sally and the Sea God had their tryst, so no unfortunate heroes would be born of the union? Maybe they don’t have condoms on Olympus. Maybe I need to realize that I can’t blame Poseidon for everything - Sally had a hand in this too, because she was a strong lady, who decided she wanted to keep the baby - but damn, if I didn’t resent him more than anything, for getting to take center-stage in our everyday lives, for dooming us to a life of running from place to place or bringing abusive assholes into our family just so we wouldn’t be ripped apart by literal monsters. He had, in a way, made our lives incomprehensibly difficult - I wished I was in an AU where Sally had taken him up on his offer of becoming the next sea-queen, political intrigue aside. Fuck. 

Taking my silence as a confirmation, Shilan lets out a tearful gasp that makes my heart squeeze. She wraps her arms around me again, and I selfishly blink back tears that threaten to spill into her lavender oil scented hair. I’m the worst ever, for indirectly lying to her - but what can I say that won’t land me in a mental hospital? Running from an abusive baby daddy is much more plausible than running from literal demons. I pull away reluctantly after a few minutes, flushing red when I see her dabbing at her eyes, and uncomfortably turn to stare at my untouched cup of tea. I say, voice wavering, “We can’t stay long. In New York. We have to - have to keep moving. I’m sorry.”

I feel her gaze on the side of my face. I wonder how much of my adult acne she’s seeing - I wonder if she can see where the line between me and who I appear to be is. I wonder if she senses I’m a dirty liar, undeserving of her friendship, and that me and my freaky kid should’ve never gotten close to human life in the first place, both of us pseudo-extraterrestrials. She doesn’t look away, even as she moves closer, and she reaches her hand into my lap, pulling my roughened hand into her own soft palm. Her nails are manicured, and they scrape across my palm as she squeezes my hand in her own.

“Stay until his birthday. August?” She asks me, and I nod in confirmation of my son’s upcoming celebration. In the other room, the screaming of the children reaches a fever pitch - the fruition of their play coming to a peak, I figure, and Shilan’s hand squeezes my own again. “That’s a long time” I say, thinking of just how many days are in a month and a half - and how the heat of the summer is sure to make even the weakest demi-god stench pungent. No way to load us into the RV and drive a few miles in crowded New York, just to shake off the scents of the world. “That’s a long time” I repeat dumbly in the face of her intense stare, as she sips from her tea-cup. 

She sets down her empty cup. What she says punches the air out of me, “He should turn three surrounded by people who love him.” It’s a low-blow - she has to know that. How happy Percy is when he’s around people, specifically, these people - when he’s around the Ayad’s, who I privately think, in other circumstances, are the exact type of family I might’ve wanted to give him access to, to give him up for - a hard-ass father with a heart of gold, a beautiful, kind mother, like Shilan, and an unnerving little sister in Dima. I don’t want to burden her with the thought, so I keep my mouth shut. They do love him. More than me - maybe not, but better than me, in that they’re safe. Nice people. Comfortable. I feel the feminine urge to throw myself into my RV and drive forever, to take the monsters with me, so Percy can live the nuclear family life in this apartment with Tasha The Cat and the grumpy neighbors. I’m far from ideal. I would make a great sacrifice.

Maybe sensing my downward spiral, Shilan draws my attention again, harshly this time, her manicured hands digging into either side of my face, leaving me squished like a blob-fish and just as stupid looking, I reckon. Her eyes search mine - when she finds what she’s looking for, she stops. “I didn’t mean that in a depreciating way. I know you love him. I want you both to stay here - by people who love both of you.” I open my puckered mouth to protest, and she cuts me off, “Yes, even Amer. Honestly, he doesn’t hate you. You are 22. If my husband hated a child, we could not be married.” My face flushes red. Not a kid, for the record, as someone who could feasibly be graduating college right now, though I guess to her, seasoned 33, she might feel that way - but whatever else she said was sweet. Sickeningly sweet, for me, a plain jane who had spent my life embroiled in the clean fields of logic and the distance of parents more concerned with my hapless younger siblings as opposed to their capable eldest daughter.

Gently pushing her away, watching as she sheepishly grins as I rub at my reddened, stretched cheeks, I peer up at her through my wispy brown hair, falling from my lopsided ponytail. “You’re such a cornball” I say, watching as her eyebrows scrunch because I’m twenty years too early with that particular bit of popular culture. “Okay, sure. We’ll stay until his birthday. But I need -” my eyes scamper across the room, bouncing off the warm features of the place, “-I need a lot of perfume. And herbs. Just - smelly stuff, you know?” I want to test a weak hypothesis, one I’d not given much thought to while on the road, about demi-god scent masking and budget-juggling - but while I’m here, in one place, under the will of my dearest Shilan, I figure I ought to exercise my privilege. Her eyebrows quirk, but she nods. 

“And when you go, you’ll call” she says decisively, no question asked, and I nod, feeling like a scolded younger sister, new experiences all around, as she collects our tea-cups and begins washing them at the sink. 

Percy’s third birthday ends in a sweep of heat and cheer and peppermint-perfume. After a full day of cake-eating and blowing out candles and Percy being passed between the three adults of the household, smothered with kisses and affections and“Happy birthday”’s, I finally insisted that we load ourselves into our RV and that I begin driving for the night at around 8 PM, wanting to be out of the general area by the dawn of the new day.

Peppermint perfume is what I associate with that day - because I’d doused both of us in a full bottle at the beginning of the day, as had been my habit for the past month and a half stay in New York, in a manner that both assuaged my anxiety about our “scents” and made us smell kind of good, because it turns out bathing in strongly scented soap and rubbing down your hair and skin with scented oils is a sure-fire way to make sure you never smell bad, even if it makes your nose wrinkle furiously - but, optimistically, I figured we were both pretty much nose blind, by this point in time.

I’d loaded up our freshest batch of perfumes and oils into the RV, hopeful that my experimentations might serve as a weak mask as we traveled, or at least prove the slightest bit effective, alongside a sleepy Percy, who I firmly told to wave bye-bye to Dima. “We’ll be back next year” I said to his concerned little birthday-boy face, fondly pushing his cone hat back from his forehead, “but you can write until then. Shilan said we’ll get them delivered to the central mail station in Virginia - come by and pick them up. We can call them too.” He looks at me like an absolute mad-man, explaining mail systems and long-distance calls to him, but he looks vaguely reassured. I can already imagine the screaming conversations he’ll insist on having baby Dima over the pay phone, keeping those bonds strong - what a joy, because in the words of Mr. Cullen himself, if I’m going to hell, I may as well do it thoroughly.

Twilight. How topically relevant, in the lord’s year of 1996. Shilan kisses my cheek and hugs me before I can fully climb into the driver’s cabin, and Amer, to my astonishment, even wraps his arms around me, laughing in the face of my bold amusement. Dima - and this makes my heart hurt, because she’s indifferent to my crusty face on the best of days - places a gentle kiss to my cheek, imitating her mother, and gives me the cutest little sleepy wave goodbye I’ve ever seen. I wave them goodbye as I drive away, out my rolled down window, cool summer night air flooding the cabin, and I keep waving until I know that the other drivers in the city think that my turn signal is broken, the way my arm frantically waves out the window. 

I’m not a sap. I’m totally not - I’m Sally Jackson, ultimate pragmatist, and I can’t wait for the first hint of loneliness to hit me, so I can call the Ayad landline and speak with people who I maybe sort of, yeah definitely, have come to be deeply invested in. Humans. How sentimental and stupid. 

So, back on the road we went, with a sweeter departure than our initial mad dash out of the state, and me with a cooler head, and a rough plan formulating in my mind. Jobs? I couldn’t keep them to save my life, dashing out and in of states on the American highway system - small business, ala of the clothing kind, was the way to go, I decided, at least until Percy was old enough that I’d have to send him to school, and I’d have to stay in one place for at least a month until the latest incident, to avoid having CPS called on me. So, small business, me selling hand-made clothing, and hopefully making enough of a profit that I could keep my kid fed and my vehicle gas-full. A large order, but one I was about 65% sure I could manage by the skin of my teeth, given my “test run” in Virginia working out in such a mediocre fashion. Yay me.

This is how I find myself on a cool Sunday in Vermont, having promptly decided to go the opposite direction of my previous plan - I’d loop back around in New York, collect our mail, and push downwards into some southern states, I figured, and save myself the trouble of having to backtrack through more land later. But, yes, Vermont - me and my son in a public park, blatantly ignoring the stares of other people, both of us laying in the grass, working on painting a piece of cardboard that I definitely hadn’t ripped out of a dumpster, mostly unharmed, because of its sheer size. Good for advertising. On the border of NY and VT, I’d somehow managed to slip almost seven cheap little containers of craft paint and a pack of paint brushes on my person, smiling in the suspicious face of the clerk as I bought a single pack of wooden pencils, and kicking my RV into gear when I got the strange, omnipresent feeling that I had definitely been figured out. Something about the shop’s owner flipping you off and running after your speeding car will do that to you. 

Percy, for his part, was being a perfect angel in contrast to my bad behavior, tongue peeking out the side of his mouth, clumsy toddler hands surprisingly deft as he worked to fill in the A of The Agora, the name of our new and improved, operated out of home-base clothing business, because I was nothing if not painfully aware of Ancient Greece. “That looks pretty good” I mentioned conversationally, admiring his splotchy blue-green central A , and he looked pleased at the comment, thanking me in a way that made my eyes widen appreciatively - polite toddler, I thought, just a little smug - I totally did that. Parenting win. 

We painted in comfortable silence for the better half of the next hour, only breaking our comfortable painting positions to, in my case, make sure we were both hydrated, because it was Hot with a capital H, or, in Percy’s case, to break his single-minded determination in lieu of a break. We were both trying periods of time for certain activities, because I’d made the discovery that the longer we dragged a task out, the more we both lost focus, and the less and less was done. Unproductive - and annoying. So - short intense bursts of work between mother and son, to bring The Agora ’s beautiful sign to life, and stanzas of rest in between, where I could simply watch Percy idly chomp at the plastic body of his Fluttershy or glimpse over at the RV, because paranoia. 

The Agora sign was finally complete, and Percy watched, clapping his chubby hands and bouncing from foot to foot, while his beloved mother screeched like a mad woman and wrestled to duct tape the massive piece of cardboard to the side of our vehicle. Finally, I observed with him, our RV resting, illegally, I may add, in the grass of the park, the new sign horribly clashing with the cream and orange “theme” the vehicle had going. It looked - rough, but sincere. Cute. Campy, maybe. 

“It’s s’nice!” Percy lisped from beside me, doing his best art inspector impression, and I laughed, scooping him into my arms. The sun was hanging in the middle of the sky - good old Apollo, maybe, or Helios, possibly, because I couldn’t quite remember what the correct terminology was at the moment, because, oh, my, lord, it was hot. “Back in the van we go” I murmur to him, hauling us back into the cool shade of the vehicle, and hoping to spend the day driving, looking for a new spot to sell. 

It is early September, our first official day in business, and I am the luckiest motherfucker alive.

A flea market. Perfect. I almost can’t believe it- The Agora sets up shop near the field the flea market is in, and I shamelessly play every card in the book, bouncing my good-looking toddler and smiling in that sympathetic young-mother way and encouraging people to just take a look at the variety of clothing I’ve frantically created, draped over the impromptu stands (mostly out of season appliances and boxes) I’ve dragged from my RV. I actually make more than five sales, which is a sight to see - and we, as a mother-son pairing, get at least a few cooing compliments from older people, which I field awkwardly enough. 

“What’s this made out of?” An older man asks at one point of the day, and sensing my opportunity, I tell him, smiling, “A tablecloth.” He laughs - he looks charmed, holding the cat-patterned button-up shirt, perfect for him, and he hands me his wrinkled bills with a smile. Score. I milk the flea market until it closes that day, and Percy’s enthusiasm for business has long run dry, scampering off to play in the “pen” set up by stand-owners at the gathering. He’s, inexplicably, managed to conquer the kids within, and he’s regaling them with a grand tale about his once in a lifetime trip to the sea when I approach, gesturing that it’s time to go. 

He wishes his followers good-bye in his characteristic toddler cult leader way, and takes my hand, toddling alongside me to where the RV stands, our shop closed for the day, everything packed up and ready for the road. “Did you m’ke munney?” He asks plainly, and I laugh, answering that yes, we made money today, more than five, I add at his playful look, and our first successful day as propertiers of our very own business deserves ice cream. 

His cheer is the sound that breaks the symphony of crickets chirping in the falling night. Cutie.

I call Shilan on the pay-phone outside of the ice cream parlor we found ourselves in, at almost nine at night, feeling sheepish all the while, and I’m glad I did. She sounds happy to see me, though she laments that Dima is asleep - the kids will talk later, we both agree wisely, and our conversation kicks off from there, a sleepy Percy clutched to my leg, though he says he’s “not tired.” 

She asks how I’m doing, I reply with questions of my own, and we chatter until poor Percy is nearly asleep against my leg, and I sheepishly whisper to my friend that we have to go - sleep is calling our name, and we’re never anything but cordial. She laughs, high and clear, through the crackling phone line. She bids me to call again - she bids me to have Percy write them a letter, so they can see how much progress he’s making with writing. We say good-bye. 

I hang up, and I stare at the swinging, static phone-line in the bright yellow artificial light, somewhere in Vermont, a million miles from home, and I feel indescribable. 

There were a few close-calls that first year, I must admit. Times when my paranoia spiked, when I swore that we were being watched - when I’d come back from a productive sale day and swear up and down that the RV was a little more scratched than usual, or the anecdote Percy had casually confided in me somewhere down in Tennessee, about a one-eyed man watching him at the playground. But for the most part - nothing direct. Nothing physical.

Me, dousing us in a small fortune’s worth of oils and soaps and perfumes ranging from home-grown to store-bought, can’t hope for much more. I figure I must be doing at least a semi-good job - Percy’s had no physical altercations with monsters, because my baby has adopted peppermint as his personal scent, and he wears it like a curtain around himself, proudly telling other children that it’s his Signature once he learns what that means. They eat it up with wide eyes, despite the way I have to muffle my laughter. 

Peppermint - staves off monsters and those sensitive to smell alike. What a thing, this life of ours, where my most pressing concern when considering hygiene is just How Much we can smell like just one strong perfume at once without having to leap back into the pitfalls of BO. I’m a scientist, really. This brain was going to get me a damn Bachelor’s I think sardonically one day, fumbling my way through making a home-made lemon soap so strong it makes my eyes sting - and now, it’s going to get me nothing but the hopeful safety and comfort of my son as we live a semi-functional camper van life where I have to trash our shit in dumpsters and steal water from random elderly people’s hoses.

Worth it.

The Agora spends almost a full year traipsing along the coast, making sales, occasionally dipping as far down as Florida, before it finds itself parking in the lot behind the Ayad apartment for a day trip, unceremoniously spitting a frazzled 23 year old and a very excited little boy - because today is his fourth birthday, what a feat, he’s more child than toddler - out into New York City, the closest to what they might consider family than they’ve been in what feels like a lifetime. How sentimental and stupid.

Sure, I regularly exchange mail with Shilan and Amer and even Dima, who mostly just sends me incomprehensible child drawings, but it’s different to meet them, again, in person, after so long. I manage the flight up the stairs well enough, hands full of a store-bought cake and a few meager gifts, for both my son and the Ayad family  - I don’t even have to carry Percy now, I think tearfully, because he walks more than I carry him, and he flies when he runs, which he always does, to everything, so he flies up the stairs of the apartment, his sandals I’d gotten from the thrift store squeaking beneath him.

I’ve begun to encourage him dressing himself, which he’s taken to like a fish in water, never needing my assistance, though I’ve always had him pick his clothing, eager to see what he might come up with - today, he wears a blue tank-top embroidered with fish (hand-made, for all you potential buyers in the audience), a frilled yellow tutu, a pair of socks beneath his sandals, and a cone-hat nestled in his wild black hair that declares him the Birthday Boy. He’d wanted to mix and match butterfly clips, but wisely made the choice that they would serve as one accessory too much - “a lot of things happening” he told me importantly, like some kind of kiddie fashion designer. Dork.

Sadly, I’ve been demoted from Mama to Mom, in the face of all the new, childhood independence he’s gained - but I don’t think I mind, because he still lets me dote on him, indulgently enough. Percy’s not old enough for me to be uncool yet - but he’s gaining that child consciousness, even though he’s constantly around me - to begin to have tangible interests and hobbies outside of - me, which seems so strange. He’s shooting up like a weed. This time next year, I’ll have to be thinking about registering him for Kindergarten. A first day of school had once seemed like an impossible horizon - now, it’s hopefully a certainty. I try not to get too gushy about it, as I huff and puff my way through tugging our items up the staircase. When we finally reach the top, Percy waves his faded, bitten Fluttershy in the air, riding the imaginary plains of the field that the pony is trotting through.

“Are you ready, my spawn?” He pumps a fist in the air, doing a move that makes me smile - some sort of lame half-spin twist, the epitome of kid behavior. Show off. “You don’t seem ready enough” I observe passively, and he throws his head back in a groan, still smiling, an impressive feat of acting that makes my eyebrows raise. I knock demurely against the door, shifting from foot to foot - despite all of our correspondence, I think anxiously, maybe I’ve totally gotten the wrong idea; and what are we doing, at these people’s apartment? Are we really family to them - am I overestimating our importance? Maybe. Probably. Totally. What if they’re not home, like Shilan promised over the phone?

I’m a fool. A total idiot, I think, spiraling rapidly, before the door slams open in front of us, and I’m greeted in the face of a powerful blast of AC, Percy’s excited shriek, and surprise, Shilan’s beaming face. She’s wearing a pretty, flower hijab, with yellow blooms sprouting all over it. At her leg, there’s Dima, who I have to blink to recognize - she’s grown so much in a year, now a primly dressed little toddler with two neat pigtails of hair.

I dodge the sentimentality by insisting to take a picture of our two children with my disposable, which Shilan happily obliges, the kids smiling as the flash rings out, and Shilan blinking, pushing me away playfully, as I catch of snap-shot of her looking on appreciatively from her place, side-by-side with Amer, whose new hairstyle is “pretty bitching” I tell him, which earns me a dirty look from the english teacher present. Oops.

“Who’s ready to get this party started?” I call to the two children in the room, doing a move so purposefully mom-like (raise the roof!) that I’m instantly met with twin disgusted looks, making me cackle. The little things. I unbox the cake carefully, nodding in appreciation of the newly peaked interest of everyone below the age of 23 around me, and wave my hands as if to say, Yeah, it is pretty cool that I PAID real human dollars to get my son’s favorite quote from a My Little Pony episode inscribed on a cake. 

Amer scrambles for the presents beneath the kitchen counter, cracking his head against the top of the structure and cursing like a man possessed. Shilan brings out candles, declaring that we’ll open gifts and party and catch-up after the cake. Dima plops herself plainly in my lap, staring up at me boredly and beginning to monologue about what she’s learning in her daycare and why she likes my hair but not my piercing. Percy, non-so-subtly, sneaks his fingers into the frosting ruffles around the bottom of the cake, giving himself away with the way he smears his blue-crusted fingers down the front of his tulle skirt. And me? 

I just sit, dumb and happy and speechless, surrounded by people that I, I’ll admit it, love.

Chapter Text

“Nope. Not doing it. Try again, bucko” I say plainly to my unimpressed looking kid, whose arms are crossed in front of me, the two of us in a stand still inside of the RV. He stomps his feet and exhales out his nostrils - like I’m the unreasonable one here. He even rolls his eyes and huffs, which is an impressive attitude for someone who hasn’t even entered Kindergarten yet. I respect it - but I don’t appreciate it in our current, cowboy-like standoff. Not cool, kid. 

“It’s fu’shun. ” he stresses, lifting his arms and allowing me to get an even better look at his current ensemble - which is less of an ensemble and more my young son standing in front of me, draped in a dozen layered scarves, some chip clips loosely tangled in his hair, not good, and no shirt or pants. He looks like some bizarre seventies rockstar, ready to take to the stage with hairspray and far too much electro synth. If it were still September, I might abide by him, albeit force him into a pair of shorts - September had been surprisingly balmy, but now we found ourselves a few days before Halloween. It is October, and it is 30 degrees out in whatever god forsaken corner of fucking Kentucky we’ve landed ourself in, and my child is refusing to wear a coat, let alone a shirt or pants, to go outside and play at the public park. Absolutely not. Everybody has a hill they must die on - and this is my hill, not letting my naked child get hypothermia and end up as a halloween decoration. 

I stare in his intense little ocean blue eyes. He stares right back. His lips don’t even quiver. He’s dead serious. I feel my resolve melting - but then I glance outside the frost-bitten window, and nope, nevermind, hypothermia hazards, CPS, my own consciousness, bang onto my thick skull and knock the sense back into me. I cut straight to the heart of the issue - direct questions, I remind myself, mixing up some childhood development books I’d read with my own hardassery - I’ve got to be direct.

I kneel. “What’s the real issue, Sharkboy?” I ask, and his lip stiffens, before it droops, and there’s the boy, less wild rockstar and more four-year-old articulating himself. “The clothing is not good today.” He says, with a professor-like waggle of his finger, like he’s schooling me. I beat down a laugh. I responded, seriously, “How so?” I’m genuinely curious - he’s a whiz at dressing himself, and most days, he even puts together outfits that are semi-respectable, but more importantly, weather appropriate. Today is an odd turn of his temper. 

He explains, in that stilted way all kids do. It’s the the tags and the buttons, he admits, of new clothing that he was excited about trying to put on by himself; a snazzy new outfit, some type of long-gone out of style church ensemble I’d co-opted and embroidered ponies all over - something a little different, for both of us, though he’d been beginning to dress himself for a while. He’d been so excited - the whole outfit vaguely resembled a cowboy get-up, as he’d somehow, someway, finally made the link between horses and their riders and decisively declared that he wanted to be a man of the Wild West - his newest, and if I suspected correctly, largest interest to date, successfully combining a few others under a neat, cool umbrella. His greatest pleasure in life was begging me to read him kiddie books about the time period, and I almost wished I could set him in front of a wikipedia page - he’d have a hell of a time, that was for sure. Alas, the nineties struck again. 

I’d even managed to rustle up a cowboy hat - too big for his head, but he’d smiled so widely, shark-toothed and happy when he’d seen it. What had changed, to make him disregard his Wild West fantasies? He doesn’t say the unspoken, but I cast my eyes to the discarded pile of wrinkled clothing he’d been so excited to wear out and about, and I feel my brows furrow. I waddle over to the pile, and he obediently follows me, scarves floating around him. 

I pick up the button up shirt, and the accompanying padded, neat little jacket. It’s a sad piece of fabric, the ponies’ faces distorted sadly due to scrunching. “The tags, huh?” I say, and he nods sadly, almost ashamed. I hum. Something niggles in my stomach. Reaching across his body, I carefully draw out my fabric scissors, and much to his amazement, if his little gasp is any indication, bring up the offending jacket, and snip out the neck tag as neatly and quickly as possible. I repeat the process with the cowboy pants and the undershirt, and when I’m done, he takes the fabric from me and he nods, and that’s that.

In the end, he still needs help with the buttons, and I end up safety-pinning his pants together after quickly taking out the front zipper via seam ripper - and he sheds his snazzy, surprisingly warm jacket immediately after coming back inside from playing with all of his adoring fans and fellow four year olds. But he keeps his cowboy hat on, and as he regales me with a tale of playing a life-like game of Cops and Robbers with the other assorted park children, I think that maybe, just maybe, the little things have the biggest impact. 

I find myself thinking about them, my old family, my childhood, the world before this world, only because Percy, smart little guy he is, comes back from almost two hours of Jack Frost nipping his nose and playing in the fluffy mid-December snow, and he asks, plainly, “D’you have a Mom, Mom?” He’s shaking himself off as he asks, little fingers fumbling around the buttons of his puffer jacket, and I absently tell him to take off his boots - he’s soaked, I say, and he repeats the question again, like I hadn’t heard him the first time. For the better half of an hour, I’ve watched him frolic in park snow from my position at the window, carefully supervising both my son and the space heater running full blast, propped against the wall of the RV. I would’ve gone out myself - but I wanted to have the heat ready when he came back in, and I’d begun running him a shower, so I assuaged my anxiety, being away from him, by watching him and his bright blue coat carefully. It’s amazing how many hours children can get out of building and rolling and throwing snow - I got tired just watching him.

“Yeah, I had a mom.” I say, because I don’t see much point in dressing up the truth. Had is the best tense to use, even though it stings - by all records, Sally Jackson’s mother had died a long, long time ago, and my own mom was lost to me, a dimension away. I think about her then - my mom. A real hardass, that lady, prone to yelling and cursing and putting her hands on her hips and teasing her bleached hair up high before she and my Pop had one too many kids, and the date nights of my early childhood evaporated away into them constantly worrying about the kids, though they’d never toned down the PDA. She’d married my Pop in their senior year of highschool, coming down from the euphoric high of winning her small town’s beauty pageant - not her first, and certainly not her last, but an occasion still, and her excuse to get married. She was a glamor queen, and I was sure that she loved me to death, but she’d not been the most understanding, embroiled in the worlds of fashion and beauty and keeping all of her children presentable. I’d been her first child, and maybe, the only one of them she didn’t quite understand - my intensity, my desire to be a nurse, my odd quirks. From a young age, I’d swung in the opposite direction of her, propelled by the force of her personality- and god, if internalized misogyny hadn’t kicked my ass for a couple of years during middle school. Ugh. 

He looks nonplussed at my vague answer, tugging off his boots, and asks, as coaxingly as a four year old can, “What ‘bout a Dad?” 

That’s enough to make my eyebrows raise. Shifting my body towards him and tugging the curtain of the window down, I trot over to where he’s sat, carefully locking the RV door behind him. “I had one of those too, baby” I say, and unbidden, Pop himself floats to mind. He’d been my hero as a kid - I’d wanted to be just like him, my Dad, a plumber, a lumbering giant of a man with a thin fuzz of hair atop his head and a short, clipped way of speaking. He was the one who dragged us to church every Sunday, though it was my mom that kept us in line. He’d shed tears at my graduation from highschool as Valedictorian, which had temporarily, even then, snapped me out of my nurse-focused haze, because I’d never, ever seen my stoic father cry. He’d been the only dad I’d ever had - but whenever he was around, he was focused on my younger siblings, and he worked like a dog to keep a roof above our heads, so he wasn’t around often. Was Jim Jackson anything like him? I strain my brain and nope, nada, Sally’s parents are nothing more than letters on a page for all intents and purposes. And she certainly hadn’t had a single sibling - I’d had more than enough to spare for the both of us, little brats.

Percy frowns. He’s finally stripped himself down to his long underwear and undershirt, kicking his clothing into our laundry basket - good boy. He flops himself down on the bed, curls his arms into his stomach, and turns his back to me. Alarm bells start clanging around in my head, and I lightly perch on the corner of the bed, taking care not to touch his shoulder despite my better instincts as he curls away from me, his jovial outside mood having melted away to something significantly more solemn after my quiet answers to his questions. “Are you okay? What’s on your mind?” I ask, purposefully masking the worry I feel. Did something happen? I try to think about any potential monsters or weird happenings in the past few hours - and I draw a blank, nothing but my son and a rotating cast of other tiny children, throwing snowballs and constructing armies of snowmen. 

He doesn’t speak for a long time, and I almost get up and beckon him to take his shower when he says, again, in a quiet voice, “I was talkin’ to Jamie an Ricky…” I make an educated guess that these were the two children I’d seen him frolic with the most in the past two hours, maybe siblings, both clad in bright green coats,  “...an they said they were spendin’ Christmas with their grandpa and grandma, so I wanted t’ask if you have some we could spend Christmas with too - ‘cuz I know we got a family, Dima and Auntie Shi and Uncle Amer, but - gran’parents? Could we see them? C’d I meet ‘em?” He rolls back over by the end of his spiel.

There’s a lot to unpack in his surprisingly articulate expression of his feelings for a four year old. He stares at me, awaiting my response, shark teeth absently chewing his bottom lip in a way that activates the worst of my mom instincts but as per usual, not even a scratch. I take a deep breath out my nose - a lot of weird feelings are happening, with this out of left field question, and I want to kill quite a few birds with one stone, boomerang style. Even if it kind of violently murders something in my heart, to tell Percy that outside of the Ayad family, who are as good as blood but only three people and several hundred miles away, we are as alone as can be. No grandparents included. It could be worse, I muse pessimistically - he could ask about his alien dad, and then I’d have to lie for realsies. 

So, I spill. I scoot Percy into my lap and rest my chin atop his downy head of black hair and I don’t even worry that we’re wasting precious shower water, and I spill my - our? - family history to the carefully listening child, whose hands are tapping his criss-crossed legs furiously as he listens. I do some truth bending, which makes my stomach ache with guilt, but I want our family history to at least match the names on Sally’s records - even if I’m basically completely re-writing her canon, which adds a whole new level of uncomfortable emotions to my mental conflict.

Here’s what I come up with about those dead grandparents, repeated to both my child son and you, the audience, by blending bits of truth and fiction together: I, Sally Ann Jackson, spent the first five years of my life under the care of my parents Jim and Estelle. My Pop, Jim, was quiet but nice, embroiled in his work, and my Mom, Estelle, was a former beauty queen whose fondest memories I have of her include being allowed to watch her gussy up for date nights, watching a beautiful, happy pageant queen blossom out of my pretty, but demanding mother. They died when I was five in a plane accident - and I’d been sent away to live with my Uncle, who was distant towards me, and who I’d taken care of until he’d died, somewhere, vaguely, around my 18th birthday. And then I had Percy a year later, and all of the missing details, all of the holes in my story - ancient history, nothing to be worried about. 

I have managed to scrub away all seven of my younger siblings, our trailer home, all the days of my early childhood spent stomping in mud and clothed in hand-me-downs from my many cousins, distilled into a neat little vial of lore that’s somewhat canon compliant. It was surprisingly easy.

He’s quiet. It’s not the most exciting story to learn about your grandparents, I’m sure. Not the most flattering, and certainly not the answer he wanted - a tangible place, a nice little house, I imagine, with nice white-haired old people waving from a window, ready to lavish him in attention.

Even something a little closer to reality would have sufficed - and doesn’t that make my heart hurt? - my son, Percy, combined with the world of before; my little boy at our trailer, being silently fussed over by my Pop and very loudly fretted over by my Mom, maybe a little older, a little more wrinkled, but the same. Seeing my siblings again - and my youngest brother would be only eight, if my math was correct, so still young enough that he could tote Percy around and introduce him to all the neighbor kids. I wondered if any of my sisters decided to finally bite the bullet and go to college - I wondered if any of my siblings were totally different people, now, from the brats I’d always known them as. I wondered if any of them had moved out, or if our ugly yellow trailer was still as jam packed as ever. A home - a family large enough to make your head spin. He would never be in want of anything - because I was man enough to admit that even though my family had been poor as all fuck, we’d been pretty damn fortunate and happy, given the circumstance. 

He’d never even have to see the ocean again - and in this fantasy world, I decided, monsters wouldn’t even be able to touch my baby, swaddled in the cradle of a midwestern trailer park surrounded by nothing but trees and mud and run-down trucks as far as the eye could see. I’ve never been nostalgic for my old home - but I feel it now, crushing down on me, four years of apathy, and it’s enough to make my eyes water. They are, for all intents and purposes, dead. Sue me, fuck me, heaven above, I’m crying, and Percy, sweetheart, turns around, hugging me with his scrawny arms. We’re wasting perfectly good shower water right now - but he’s basically being bathed, I think sardonically, as I cry into his hair.

“Is’ okay” my son consoles me, and his words surprisingly, only make me sob harder. 

After my admittedly embarrassing breakdown over my son asking some basic questions about our family tree, I make an active effort to try and contact the Ayad’s more, especially as our Christmas-on-Wheels mobile rolls us right into the sparkling new year of 1997. Percy, on his end, seems delighted to have even more oddly in-depth conversations with Dima. I’m grateful for Shilan and Amer, who I try to - open up ? - to more. That is, I don’t totally have a heart attack when Shilan idly writes, asking me what my mom’s name was, and I manage to tell a story about my Pop to Amer that makes him chuckle with mirth from the other side of the phone line. Just like Poseidon, they’re no longer forbidden topics - with a little stretching of the truth, they’re silly little anecdotes in Sally Jackson’s life, though I still can’t stomach any one of the three topics for too long. Sensitivity, a curse most wicked.

But I decide with a narrow minded determinedness on my 24th birthday, that if I really want to marry my past and my present, I’ve got to do something extreme, even if it’s stupid.

That’s what finds me and Percy crossing the border into Nebraska - my country road, if you will, my West Virginia, lacking in Mountain Mama but hopefully with a substantial amount of emotional reconciliation for myself. For the past few days, Percy and I have spent our March lingering in Iowa, making our clothing sales at gas stations and on the sides of roads. I hadn’t the nerve to enter my home state, not until the crack of dawn on my 24th birthday, when I was invigorated with an energy that was the closest to Fuck It, Whatever Happens, Happens I’d truly ever felt so early in the morning. 

Percy awakens as I’m battling back conflicting feelings at the flat, green plains around us barreling past. I ought to watch my speed - but even as the scenery blurs past me, incomprehensible to any mortal eyes, I know exactly where I’m going. I know this path like the back of my hand; that's what I tell Percy when he peers into the driver’s cabin, rubbing chubby fists against his sleep-crusted eyes. I indulge him, caught up in my anxiety, as he plops himself into the passenger seat, eagerly sticking his face out the open window, watching with a silent manner that only overcomes children in the morning, as the greater Midwest barrels past. At one point, he even runs back to the back, before coming to the front, again, with his war-torn Fluttershy - and he gently bobs her up and down the scenery outside of the window, the fastest cowboy ever alive, I figure.

It’s not safe for him to sit up here, I say finally, after maybe ten more minutes of us tearing up the simmering black pavement of the highway, and he nods his assent, though he tumbles back into the body of the RV with a gait that tells me he’s going to sit up on the fold-out bed and watch the scenery from there. 

We stop at a truck station after about an hour, and I load the RV with fuel, taking usage of their electricity port. I’m trying to encourage a sense of independence in my almost-kindergartener, however much it makes my heart want to stop anytime he’s out of my sight, so I give Percy a ten dollar bill and tell him to pick out some snacks - we’re having a picnic later today, I say to his little face, which brightens astronomically. I want my change back , I call after him, though I don’t think he hears me - he’s already vanished into the building, beating pavement against his mis-matched sneakers, still clad in pajamas. 

He comes out with two bags loaded with paltry snacks - ah, the nineties, how wonderful - and sits in the open door of the RV, swinging his feet idly and watching me kick the fuel pump whenever it stutters. “Why’re we having a picnic, Mom?” He inquires as I shake loose the last few drops of gas from the fuel house, sliding it back into place. “It’s my birthday” I reply, beginning to make sure everything is road-ready, and he gives a big, dramatic gasp, one that makes me hide my smile behind my hand. 

“How old are you?” He demands excitedly, and at my simple answer of 24, he looks aghast. “You’re so old!” He whines, and I roll my eyes, but my smile is still intact. 24 may seem old, I tell him, but one day you’re going to be ancient too - and that’s enough to get a protest, his very own Peter-Pan moment as he insists, at 7 AM on some random ass day in 1997, at the most run down truck stop ever, that he refuses to be old like me. Like he’s going to will the universe to listen to him - as if. You’ve got a big storm coming, kid. “Alright Peter, back into the van you go” I urge him, rearranging the snack bags - lots of candy, a bag of beef jerky, at least two miniatures of sardines, classic - and gesturing for my spawn to take his appropriate place within. 

He scoots back onto the van floor, begrudgingly giving me back my change at my insistent look, and says, finally, dead serious, after pulling on his cowboy hat and poking his head through the driver’s cabin curtain as I pull out onto the freeway, “M’name’s not Peter.” I snort, and he makes a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat, before disappearing, presumably to pretend to be the last cowboy in the Midwest and the only one whose noble steeds were such intimidating colors as pastel blue, yellow, and pink. 

It’s a beach-worthy moment all over again, the new wave of eeriness that hits me, but even worse, because I know that something is - was? - here, back in my world. This random patch of grass, with a few trees, on the outskirts of a town with a completely different name and completely different scenery - this is the place I grew up, I’m certain, and yet, in this universe, this world, there’s not a single trailer, let alone a park of them. No run-down trucks, or the mud pits, or even just - signs of familiar human life. The town is different, and all the people are different, though the location is the same. I’d even asked around, dropping my mother’s name - a local beauty queen, I’d not-so-nonchalantly asked the local gas station attendant, and fielded nothing but confusion in return. 

Dead to rights, I have to admit, in this world, as I probably should have expected, the home I’d always known was nothing but fiction. A random, empty field in Nebraska - this is all I have left. Fitting. It wasn’t that I’d expected my parents to exist - I think it would’ve been worse if I had managed to stumble across my teenaged mother in this fictional world, too many unanswered, multi-dimensional questions, but I’d thought, optimistically, that Percy and I might take lunch at the trailer park’s little rusty playground. Evidently, there was no trailer park, let alone a rusty playground, to dine within. 

I’m a mixture of emotions - and this is certainly not the idealistic closure, coming to God moment I imagined, but we’ve already wasted enough gas, so I tell Percy to bring me the blanket, so we can get this show on the road. I stick my keys in the ignition, and keep the radio blasting my battered copy of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits. I arrange our picnic blanket after Percy dutifully brings it to me, and swat away his hands, urging him to wait until I make our sandwiches to begin eating; a plain ham with mayonnaise for me, and with Percy, as per usual, mashed sardine on a thick, expensive, nut-filled bread we’d had once because it was on super-sale and he’d fallen in love with it. “The texture, there’s so much” he’d explained to my baffled face, and, hey, it still looked disgusting, but to each their own. Besides, I never bought much of it, the price making me want to scream - it was a little more special, this way, a tasty picnic treat.

He’s polished off his sandwich quickly, and is swallowing sardines whole, much to my amusement - because it has to be amusing, or else it would be sort of concerning, my half-aquatic son’s love of devouring small, dead fish on the regular, never once blinking in their face of their glazed over stares. After he gets done with the little fish, he pulls himself up, candy bar clutched in one sticky hand, adjusting his lopsided cowboy hat, and declares that he’s going to go play. I wave him away, though, as per usual, he has to stay within my eye-sight, as I slowly chew my way through my own unappetizing sandwich, and take another look at my surroundings, like a trailer park might magically appear around us.

But nope. Nothing. Just me, my son, galloping around valiantly with at least two little ponies in his hands, and our ugly RV, blasting tunes at a volume that I’m sure, if anyone was around, would get us lambasted with dirty looks. This is how I remember my 24th birthday - not necessarily the dramatic, tear-inducing homecoming I’d shamelessly envisioned, but something a little more true to form.

Chapter Text

Another year, another birthday. I’m laid back this time, considerably more relaxed, against my place in the corner of the Ayad’s sofa. In my lap, Tasha is curled up, a ball of gray fur and throaty breathing against my bare leg. It’s wickedly hot outside, and the AC is broken, today of all days, so every window in the house is wide open, and every fan is working full-throttle to keep us, the little group inside the apartment, from totally burning alive. I’m about as stripped down as I can be without getting completely naked - that is, in a bikini top and denim shorts, and at my side, Shilan is wearing a long, white dress, complete with a matching headscarf, pulled around her shoulders, fanning herself with what looks to be a poorly written and very late assignment from one of her students. If the D- written in red ink is any indication, it doesn’t seem like it’s the saving grace they might’ve needed.

In the kitchen, I hear the delighted squeals of Dima and Percy. Amer is teaching them how to make shaved ice cones, complete with syrup, so even though their faces are still smeared with birthday cake, they’re making very valiant efforts to express just how hungry and excited they are to eat what is very essentially flavored water. Classic. I turn to Shilan. “How goes the grading?” I ask, even though I know that it’s not going at all, if her stacked up papers of unread essays are any sign - she glares at me, though it’s not very effective, still furiously swiping at her face with her make-shift fan. She even rolls it up and hits me on the shoulder, like a disobedient animal, which, hey, fair enough. I was sweating all over her nice couch. 

“It isn’t going.” She says sourly, and turns back to the pile, frowning, like the whole thing has managed to disappoint her just by existing. “Sally, it’s 95 degrees out, the AC can’t be fixed until tomorrow morning, and I’m stuck grading extremely late assignments from a group of teenagers who definitely have not read the assigned reading, if these essays are any indication. Ugh.” She flops onto the couch, giving up entirely, dramatically splaying her hands over her eyes - “I’m dying. Absolutely dying.” I laugh at her dramatics, and Tasha finally rises from my lap, hopping to the floor and vanishing deeper into the apartment without a trace. I love that goddamn cat. “How bad could it be?” I say, just to ask, and she glares at me so fiercely that I raise my hands in surrender. Scary woman. 

“ This bad” she groans out again, and I coo in sympathy, moving over to rub my fingers against her temples. She makes a noise like she’s dying, and I shoot a frantic look at Amer’s back - we might need a bit of the shaved ice he’s preparing. She really is stressed - Shilan never complains, I swear - I’d heard her work through a million unpleasant scenarios as a high school teacher, and yet, inevitably, everyone had their breaking point - and this was hers, trying to power through a group of terribly written essays on a mid-August day in New York where it was so hot I swore that I could probably fry an egg on the goddamn sidewalk. 

As I do when I’m nervous, I babble. Shilan, partially incapacitated, listens, only speaking to reprimand me when I stop my temple-rubbing. I tell her about all the things you can’t quite squeeze into weekly phone calls - the state of the RV, all the clothing I’d made, how I’d pricked my finger so bad that I swore I had permanently split it open, our latest states visited, our wackiest convenience store trips, and, as usual, just about everything about Percy -

Like some type of royalty, she raises a hand to silence me, just as I’m breaching the middle of my rant about Percy’s newest misadventures - because what else could you call catching your freshly five-year-old attempting to plant weeds he found in the park in the toilet bowl? She rises, with an air of purpose, and fixes her eyes on my face. I scoot back as far as possible, and she leans forward even more. There is no escape. She grips my upper arms, and asks, dead serious, “What are your education goals for Percy?” Like the fucking English teacher she is, she’s looking at me like I’m a misbehaving parent at a conference. 

Pardon my reaction, I burst out laughing. She looks startled, but her face fades to something like good humor as I keep laughing. When my giggling crosses firmly into the hysterics territory, her face turns from good humor to abject worry. Uh Oh. “Sally…” she begins worriedly, and I wipe the frantic tears from my eyes, absently flicking the strap of my top. “I mean - there are goals, that, you know, we have and -” I pause at her unamused look, and sigh, dropping my false humor. I throw my hands into the air. “He grew up too fast!” I complain, even though I wouldn’t have it any other way. Doesn’t make this any easier. “I mean - kindergarten? This soon? He seems so - so little! What am I even going to do , Shilan? We live out of a car for a reason, how am I supposed to find a school and stay there and not have it totally fuc -” 

“Children.” She interrupts fiercely, and I risk a glance at the kitchen - Amer has craned his head around, and is also looking at me with a stare like death, though Percy and Dima are still preoccupied, attempting to smash the remaining ice chunks into microscopic pieces. I lower my voice, cowed, and say, “Percy lives with me. That little boy has heard every adult word in the book - and Dima is Dima” I murmur, like Shilan isn’t the mother of the little girl who has a fourth-grade reading level and spends her every waking moment critically inspecting the dolls of her dollhouse, writing them guides on how to behave, eat, and dress, like they move when she’s not around. She’s going to love Toy Story. I think Dima herself would throw a word like disgraceful at me if I ever cursed around her, not repeat it. 

Shilan drops her glare, but the sentiment is still present. “Is settling down really not an option?” She asks, and I hear the unspoken question behind her words - Is Percy’s Dad Still Really That Much of A Threat? It still makes me feel like shit to lie to her, but oh well. I nod empathetically, and she sighs, like we haven’t had this conversation in a million different formats a million different times - she never pries, but still, I know she’s curious, and I think, morosely, that it’s a curiosity that she’ll just have to learn to live with, because I definitely don’t have the answers she wants.

Despite my experimentation with scents and soaps and every other s-word relating to smell possible, I was still acutely aware of the fact that lemon-pepper honey bars of my hippie white mother soaps weren’t enough to totally fend off monsters - and now that Percy was at the age where I legally had to send him to school or risk CPS riding my ass, I felt more and more like a noose was tightening around my neck. Maybe it had been fine when he was little, being away from me and under the care of Sunshine Smiles  - but ever since the snake incident, I knew for a fact that he was getting markedly older, and remarkably more pungent to all the demons of the world. No amount of soap and perfume and shampoo so strong it made your eyes water could fend off monsters specifically sent to hunt out such a powerful demi-god, vague scent masking aside. 

I’m the dramatic one now, fighting hard not to let out an audible groan as Percy and Dima re-enter the room, both happily licking away at their cones of flavored ice. We’re so fucked. 

In the month leading up to Percy’s very first day of school, I grill my child like a piece of meat. Not literally. Ew. I spend every waking moment being That Mom, the annoying one, who is constantly pestering my child with kid-friendly ways to remind him that no matter what happens, stranger danger is very real, and if he should see anything scary or frightening or the slightest bit concerning, he should run as fast as possible the opposite direction, scream, bang on doors, call me, and continue running and screaming. In that order. 

On the first day of kindergarten, in a large elementary school in Philadelphia named after some or other dead person, t-minus five minutes to him vanishing away to his classroom, I’m holding his hand, standing outside his class, and inspecting the whole place with critical eyes. It was large - lots of kids, some milling around with other concerned parents, others unpacking into cubbies, and others still having their own crying fits. Lots of people for him to talk to. The teacher seemed nice enough - a smiling red-headed woman who had introduced herself as Ms. Port, and who couldn’t have been older than me, fresh-faced from a degree in Elementary Education and ready to take on the world, via vessels of sticky kindergarteners learning how to tell time and recite the alphabet. At my side, Percy is bouncing on his toes, observing all his new peers - I’m the nervous one between us, and the humor isn’t exactly hitting, not at that moment. 

I kneel down to face him. I adjust his little backpack straps, smooth back his bangs, and look him over before I speak. He’s wearing shorts, a care-bears shirt, and two butterfly clips that keep his overlong hair pinned behind his ears - I really should cut it, but I can’t be bothered, and brushing it out is a duty that he seems to take pride in, at least at this age. His backpack is Aquaman-themed, and all the supplies inside it made my pockets hurt - because what young kid needed that much lined paper? It was fine, however, because I figured some of it could be used for next year’s schooling adventures - and god, if the thought of there being a next year didn’t scare me.

“What do you do if a stranger tries to talk to you?” I ask, and he replies, dutifully, “Don’t talk back.”

“What do you do if a stranger touches you?” I ask again, and he replies, pumping his fist in the air far too enthusiastically, “Scream and hit them and run away.” I assure him that the hitting part is not the priority, and he looks a little disappointed. Cold-hearted.

We run through the whole shebang; my perfect response to his every problem is to run away, because I’ll be damned if he finds himself in a pickle due to the silly little quality of “heroism.” Heroism my ass. Heroism got the best of them killed, and It’d be a cold day in Hell if my baby lost his life to something as simple and stupid as a misplaced sense of pride. His life came first - always.

I even say, at one point, and the irony isn’t lost on me, “Don’t be a hero, Percy. Run away, if something bad happens. Run away and run fast, do you hear me?” He looks troubled, maybe hiding an eye roll beneath his closed eyes, a little bored of hearing my demands,  but he nods, and I accept his response as much as I can. I’ll continue drilling him later - about all the important, potentially life-saving stuff that could mark the difference between his continued survival and early demise. I try not to think too much about an impending prophecy. 

For now, I hug my son, kiss the top of his head, and tell him that I hope he has a great first day of school. He tells me he loves me. I say it back, and try to hold back my tears as Ms. Port begins gathering the children on the alphabet rug, and adults begin filtering out of the room. I am the last to leave.

I stare at the drawing Percy has made, and my smile almost splits my face in two. We’re sat, crisscrossed, across from each other in the RV, after I’ve picked him up from school. I usually spend my days driving around town, making sales, and being ever-conscious of my son’s school location. We’ve had no incidents so far, though a few parents definitely think I’m doing something illegal, a skinny, frantic-looking white woman going 20 over the limit in my busted RV in order to pick my son up from his kindergarten. And, okay, maybe I’d flipped off a few parents who had stared really hard at me, but life wasn’t life without a little conflict. I like to have a little time with my son after school, even if I have to park my RV in the teacher's lot and let him ramble to me about who threw up and who hit who, and what the class gerbil did.

It’s not like I haven’t gotten drawings from him before, but this one is - just a little different. Atop the paper, in friendly Comic Sans Size 32, are the words THIS IS MY FAMILY! And below, a space for drawing. Percy has exercised his artistic skill, so I like to think that the figures below are fairly readable, despite the general kindergarten-esque quality of the image. 

To begin, all the stick figures are holding hands. Very peace and love of my son, I reflect, slowly pinning the image to the RV wall. There’s me - I’m the peach figure with stick-like brown hair and a pink heart labeled “Mom” and holding my hand, there’s Percy, a smaller peach figure with stick black hair and a shirt that reads “Me.” What an artist. 

Connected to his hand is Dima, a tiny brown figure with two black pigtails and a classic, pink triangle of a dress, succinctly labeled as her name. Holding her hand is Shilan, with a purple hat that I deduce is meant to be her headscarf, and a purple triangle for a dress, just for variety. My eyes may water at her label as Aunty Shi. Attached to Shilan, with, I laugh, thick eyebrows and a black stick beard, is Amer, so aptly named as Uncle Amer with the r backward. Despite a few obvious errors, it’s an impressive portrayal of us all. I’ll have to call them later. Maybe I'll send them a picture in my next letter.

I thank my son for his art piece, and he beams. Cutie.

Kindergarten brings with it new calls for independence, and as much as it pained me, the truth was: Percy was getting too old to share a bed with me. At the ripe old age of five, my boy was a growing bundle of sharp limbs and knobby elbows who hogged half the blanket and snored so much it made me wonder if we needed to visit a doctor and have him looked at. Despite these damning factors, what really made me realize Percy needed his own space was that he asked. My five-year-old son, who was growing into his own and making a slew of choices, asked me, plain as day, when he could have his own bed. 

He was breaking my heart here, but he did have a point - he needed some semblance of privacy in our cramped home on wheels, and I, devoted mother extraordinaire, was going to give it to him.  Somehow. Parenting books across the world applauded my efforts. The answer was almost alarmingly simple, and it involved a weekend devoted to me and Percy driving around Philadelphia, emptying out the trash of our RV loft into unsuspecting people’s dumpsters and strapping the rest to whatever solid surface I could find in our home. 

After cleaning out and disinfecting the little area to the best of our ability, I zip-tied the ladder to the loft in place, paranoia chewing my ass alive at the thought of my only child managing to tilt the thing over and be left without a way to get down from his Rapunzel-esque abode, and even dedicated a solid few minutes to the importance of Ladder Safety, all of which Percy absorbed with an admirable attention span, given my lengthy list of cautions. I arranged his sheets and his comforter and pillows and finally sat back, on my knees, head tilted in the low space, and looked: a respectable little kid’s bedroom, if majorly cramped for my adult tastes.

There were windows up here - windows on the left and right sides of the loft. When I was driving, Percy would be able to turn this way or that in his new bedroom and see the highway from a new angle. It would be exciting for him - and the thought was enough to almost assuage my worries, even as I pushed myself, ass-backward, out of the newly prepared loft bedroom. 

Below me, Percy was vibrating with excitement. His cowboy hat is loosely held to his neck by the makeshift guard string I’d made out of fraying shoelaces. His bookbag, strapped to his back, was filled to the brim with “his stuff” - an odd assortment of school notebooks, the occasional ripped to hell and back drawing stuffed inside without a folder, a few toys so chewed up and faded that they’re nigh unrecognizable, and whatever else he could get his grubby little hands on. As I finally reach the ground, I observe “You do know that you don’t have to take everything up to your room right now, bud?” He sticks his tongue out at me in protest, and I smile, waving my hands grandiosely. His room is prepared, after a weekend lost to hard labor - yeah, we did that. He rushes to the ladder, before, at my slight look, proceeds at a much more reasonable pace, taking each step with a slow solemnity that I know is purely for my sake. What a goober. When he reaches the top, he vanishes out of my view for a second, before he comes back, rosy-cheeked with excitement, clapping his hands against the edge, “It’s nice up here!” he says, grinning at me, and I laugh nervously.

“Want to go for a ride?” I call back up, matching his volume, and his nose scrunches, before he glances at the windows on either side of his new bedroom and looks back at me, nodding eagerly. I make my way to the cabin, rev up the engine at his squeals of joy, and, struck again by sudden anxiety, call back to him to under no circumstances attempt to jump or bang on windows or do anything remotely stupid or dangerous. No head injuries here, no sir. I get no response from him, classic, save for a wordless yell of joy or maybe fear. Hopefully joy. I hit the gas as gently as I can, easing out of the abandoned parking lot, driving gaily down the streets, and hear my son’s loud sounds of wonder from above me. 

I think Percy likes his new bedroom, to say the least. 

I awaken to something squirming against my side. Percy is up in his new loft bedroom, very excited to spend the night in his own space, and I’m below, suddenly re-evaluating the sanctity of the RV’s locks. I’m struck by overwhelming fear, at the thought of a monster having invaded our home-on-wheels, and for a moment, I lay in my fold-out sofa bed, feeling every minute detail of the springs beneath my back and the slippery fabric of my clothing, frightfully familiar against the squirming, bed-shaking, sharply-elbowed creature that seems to be nudging little fists into my side and calling out for Mom.

Oh. It’s just Percy. I relax immediately, wrapping my arms around him and blearily glancing at the alarm clock precariously perched on the kitchenette counter - in big red numbers it reads 1:23, and I hold back my groan. 

“What’s up, baby?” I ask, and he opens his eyes - his eyelashes flutter against my collarbone, and he murmurs something about the loft upstairs being not right for sleeping, which I’m 99% sure just means that he’s the typical five-year-old and he wants to sleep in bed with Mom because of some nightmare or other scary occurrence. I guess he can’t cold turkey his way out of having slept in the same bed as his mother for the vast majority of his infancy and toddlerhood. He then jabs an elbow into my side in his efforts to wrap himself like a burrito in my patched comforter. I sigh around my next words, feeling my eyes fall close, “Alright then. We’ll get it right for sleeping. Tomorrow.” He doesn’t respond, already snoring against my chest, and I drift to sleep soon afterward, following him. 

In the morning, I awaken with a chill to the shrill call of my alarm. My son has successfully stolen all the blankets, and somehow managed to, with Herculean strength, push me to the edge of the bed. I’m freezing, I have a knot in my back from hanging off the edge of a mattress all night, and I’m, somehow, glad that he chose to come find me over being cool and aloof in his new bedroom. Even if that involved successfully ensuring that my spine would be absolutely c-shaped by the advent of my 30th birthday and my ribs would be constantly bruised from his vicious dream-fighting.

Parenthood is a hell of a drug.

Ms. Port waves me down just as I slide the RV door closed behind Percy. I’m in the middle of the pickup line, and I lean against my vehicle, dutifully waving the next parent behind me to swerve ahead and pass me. There’s a slight chill in the February air that makes me cross my arms against my chest. I wait for her to approach in that position, slightly hunched in my patched-up cardigan. She’s a good teacher, or at least I think she is, if Percy’s secondhand accounts are anything to go by. She looks the part, at least - her flame-red hair is piled atop her head, and she wears an outfit so nineties business casual it hurts as she stalks towards me, impressively balanced on her heeled shoes. 

“Hi, Miss. Jackson, right?” She confirms needlessly, and I nod my assent. She turns her head this way and that, before lowering her voice and asking me if Percy’s father is also around, as what she has to tell me ascertains to both parents. She uses that word, too - “ascertains”, how fancy, and I shake my head, no, there is no Mr. Jackson, whatever she has to say, it’s only for me.

She takes a deep breath, and starts, “Well, today at recess, Percy and some of the other children were near the fence in the schoolyard. There was a - a big man, in a trenchcoat and a hat, and he was standing there, looking at Percy and the other children. He was speaking to them. I think he was trying to - to get to them to leave the yard, and go with him. Nothing happened after that, I called for another teacher, and the man vanished, but I just wanted to make you and the other parents affected by the situation aware. In the future, the children will be watched more closely, I’m so, so sorry -” I tune out her apologies, and wave her away, hopping into the cabin of my RV and driving off without a word. My hand is steady on the automatic lock button. I swear I’m digging imprints into my steering wheel with my grip. Can’t hold the line too long - that’s what I tell myself as I wheel away, going at least a few miles over the limit.

I get all the way to a random fast-food lot before I finally throw our house into park, and turn around, to meet the inquiring eyes of my spawn. He’s slipped between the curtain separating the driver’s cabin and the rest of the RV, and is blinking up at me with his big eyes, clutching his backpack in his hands. His hair is a bird’s ness, complete with sticks and bits of gravel, probably from the schoolyard. Hopefully. He’s ready for our daily “talking about school time.” I try to soothe my nerves. I start, “So, what happened at school today?” 

He takes his cue, scrambling to the passenger’s seat next to me and beginning to speak. His hands pat his lap as he rocks, telling me about all the mundane little details of his day - the class gerbil bit his friend Maya’s fingers, he got to show off his drawing first in the sharing circle, he learned about how birds migrate, and Miss. Port pulled him and his friends inside at recess, after they were all playing hopscotch together -

I interrupt with a noise like I’m being punched in the throat. He looks up at me in alarm as I smooth down the front of my shirt, eyes scrambling for his own as I begin to talk. I’m trying to channel my best stern mom impression without coming out as too harsh, but I can’t help the way I sound - I’m running on four hours of sleep and the pure, awakened panic that my child and his friends were standing even remotely close to a man who sounds like the picture-book definition of stranger-danger. “At recess, Miss. Port told me there was a man standing by the fence with you guys. Was he doing or saying anything? Why were you talking to him?”

Percy turns his face away from me. I see that his ears are red. He doesn’t speak for a few moments, until I prod him again with my previous question. “He was - like - Mom. He seemed nice - ” he looks at me, seeing my rapid disapproval take over my face, and, at that, focuses his gaze on the logo of my thread-bare shirt. “Mom. The man, I saw his face and he had one eye. Right…” he points at his nose, “Right here. One eye. And a big horn! I told Miss. Port but she didn’t believe me. But - he did! Why did he have one eye and a horn?” He looks at up at me like a kicked little puppy, and I can’t help the horror that overtakes my body. 

One eye. A demon got close enough that my spawn was able to see their facial features - a cyclops was within arm’s reach of my child, separated only by the crowd of other children and the metal links of the fence. Too close. Way too close. Why did he have one eye? Percy’s question bounces around in my skull, and I scramble, in the driver’s cabin, for an explanation - something to answer his worried little question, something to keep him relatively in the dark, maybe even something to assuage my own worries that under different circumstances today could’ve been the last day I’d seen my child alive and well without the boundaries of that beautiful wire fence. 

I start the RV again. My mouth moves on it’s own - I’m talking about stranger danger, again, avoiding his question, because even though I’d drilled him on stranger etiquette at the beginning of the school year, he doesn’t seem to quite understand me. I even turn to him, at one point, and catch him glaring at his lap. I know he wants his questions answered. I don’t know what to say that won’t put him into more danger than he’s already in - I remember the books talking about ignorance being the greatest shield for a demigod. A demigod - that word is too big for my weird little kiddo, who doesn’t deserve anything the world is attempting to curveball his way. He’s only five. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, telling him, run away, scream, hide, don’t talk to strangers even if they seem nice Percy, people aren’t what they always appear to be, do you understand, sweetie? I’m not mad at you, but please don’t do that again, okay? If someone you don’t know talks to you just - just don’t talk back. Move away. 

At last, he nods. He’s silent. I tell him to buckle up, click it or ticket - he can ride up front today, I say, even though I never allow that, because it’s objectively very unsafe. I seem to be breaking all of my own rules today, and pissing myself off. It's blatant bribery to get the droopy, sad look off his tiny face, this offer of mine. He doesn’t look cheered up at the prospect, but he pulls the buckle over himself, and sits there, quiet, looking out the window, still clutching his backpack. Twenty minutes pass, me driving mindlessly, before he turns to me, and asks, with a tiny voice, if I’d like to see his drawing. 

I nod enthusiastically. There’s only so much I can do to both avoid catastrophe and keep him safe as well as happy but - I can try to make up for it, I think, as I appraise his drawing with one eye and skirt through traffic with the other, honking as I go. Am I making the right decisions? I couldn’t tell you. I don't think I would want to know. 

Chapter Text

Despite all I’ve told you so far, I do, actually have a sense of practicality around stealing - that’s to say, I generally don’t do it whenever my son is with me in the store. Good parenting? I’d like to think so.

I’ve gotten way too good at slipping items into my pants and under my shirt over the years, and at this point, it’s criminally easy for me to perfectly peel and re-adjust tags to my liking, just so I can get my very own Sally Ann Jackson five-finger discount. Criminal being the key word here, because I’m almost 99% sure that I’ve stolen enough shit to get me locked away for at least a few months in any state in the grand old US of A. But with Percy getting older, I try to cut down on my thievery, essential items only if we’re broke - no matter how second nature it is to see something we need and just take it , especially because the lack of security in the grand year of 1999 still baffled my 21st century, hyper-technological senses. I can’t keep stealing things left and right - I’ve got a son to think of, because if I go to jail, Percy can’t come with me, and, furthermore, I don’t really want him picking up on my bad habits - not very main character-esque of my little dude to have kleptomaniac tendencies, right?

But this? This might just be worth going to jail for. I stare up at the display, making sure to school my expression to one of boredom. We’re at a Walmart Supercenter somewhere near New York, and while my cart is piled with little presents and balloons, as well as gifts for the Ayad’s and little Dima, this might just to be my crowning achievement, the belle of the ball at Percy’s birthday - I glance down at my bone-dry wallet, hardly enough for the generic brand birthday decor items and canned food, and direct my eyes back up to the display. And, oh, what a display it is. Gigantic. That’s what I can think of - gigantic and outrageous and expensive. And bathed in glorious, sparkling pink light, the crown jewel of the toy aisle. Percy, out the corner of my eye, is crouched on the floor, head-tilted upside down, attempting to read the inscription up the side of a box with a scrunched nose. Ew. The floor is blackened with dirt - but he’s not wearing the birthday outfit I made for his sixth birthday yet, so it’s fine. Sort of. 

Redirecting my attention to the sparkling displayed box at hand, I think logistics. It’s huge. I could swap the tags - but there’s no self-checkout machines at this particular location, so I don’t think I could get away paying $1.99 for something so massive without getting a manager called over. Options, options…as I think, my gaze drifts down to my skirt - I’m wearing a sort of hand-made sundress, because it’s hot as all fuck out, the skirt as loose as anything, and - and this just might work.

I hold my fingers, measuring the item inside the box. Then, I hold those same fingers in my lap, and almost laugh with delight - I’ll have to walk like I’ve got a bad leg, squeezing my legs together, but with a little finesse and a whole lot of scrunching, I can do it. 

I shred the package up after spiriting us away into the bathroom, secure myself into a stall, stuff the pieces into the nearby pad bag, which I promptly throw away, and wash my hands, across from my son, who is doing the same, despite not having used the bathroom. “Copycat” I say, to his offended astonishment, and taking his slightly damp hand, take my first few cautious steps out the bathroom. It’s definitely - interesting, to walk like this, but I make it with all the grit of a woman with 5+ years of disregarding laws, check out peacefully with the cashier, and walk us back to the RV. I’m on the highway again, Percy settled in his loft, before I lift up the skirt of my dress and pull out the massive pink replica pony, with its soft lavender hair, brushable tail, and big, sparkling, painted-on eyes. It’s even got movable, jointed limbs and a button in the back that I push as I set it in the passenger seat, pulling its accompanying accessories out of my bra - I’ll have to wash them, of course, because I’m a thief but I’m not disgusting.

The pony sings a song about friendship and honesty when you push the button, how sweet. Percy’s going to love it. I crank up the volume on my ABBA CD, and cruise the rest of the way to the Ayad Residence. 

This is going to get me some side-eye, but I’ll say it: it took me about six years, an awkward conversation with Amer, and literal meta-knowledge from beyond the boundaries of my current universe to realize that, hey, I should probably get my son officially diagnosed with ADHD and Dyslexia before he starts the first grade. I’d known that he had it for a while, simply based on the latter reason with my meta-knowledge - and even if I hadn’t, Ms. Port and the daycare workers had always tip-toed around the subject, saying that Percy was a bright, sociable boy with a few “quirks” that they never specified or expanded upon, besides assuring me that he would probably grow out of them - and by documenting them in his report cards, which I now held as “evidence” towards the necessity of this evaluation. I knew that label of temporary to be untrue - which is why, a week before Percy starts first grade, a day after his birthday, I find myself still in New York, on the good faith of the Ayad’s, staying at their apartment, and having Percy get tested in addition to his school-mandated checkup by their family-approved doctor’s office of choice.

On the other side of my quietly bouncing son, there’s Amer, idly stroking his beard, his body cramped into the cheap white plastic chair of the waiting room. Shilan insisted on staying with Dima, at the house, as the poor little girl had caught a nasty flu and was now isolated to her room with only the company of her Mama and kitty, and Amer had stepped up to accompany me and Percy to the doctors - not that we needed to be accompanied, but it was nice to spend a rare few moments with either half of the couple while I was in New York, so I obliged his request. Besides, I sort of owed it to him - I definitely would not have thought to get Percy properly evaluated before the first grade if he hadn’t gently dropped the suggestion over phone call a few months before, after the advent of Percy’s kindergarten graduation. What a man.

I leaned back in my chair, leveling the man in question with a grin. “How’s Dima holding up for kindergarten?” I ask, just to make conversation, and he straightens in his chair. “She’s very intelligent - you know that, Sally. She’s - very, very excited, she made Shilan buy her new folders, very glittery and pink. She’s going to have a good time” he concludes solemnly, and I tamp down on letting my smile grow. He gestures when he talks, so I see the pink, beaded bracelet jangling on his wrist - Shilan’s got an identical one, both courtesy of Dima, whose newest hobby in preparation for kindergarten seemed to be stringing together beaded bracelets and offering them, with her big serious ol’ eyes, to her parents; I knew for a fact that Shilan already had a half-dozen stored in her purse, buried beneath lesson plans and book excerpts. 

“Can Dima be in the same class as me?” Percy asks, swiveling his head between the two of us, brand-new electronic pony clutched in his hands, and Amer sends me a questioning look, which I meet steadily as I smooth down my son’s unruly head of hair, recently cut and thus, unmanageable. “She’s younger than you, and you’re going to school in Louisiana this year, so no, she can’t. Better luck next time” I ruffle his hair in retaliation to his pout, effectively undoing my previous work, and I’m dodging his attempting to bite my fingers with his razor-teeth, little monster, when a nurse, clad in a pretty sick teddy-bear patterned scrub ensemble opens up the door. “Percy Jackson?” She asks the room at large, and my spawn shoots to his feet, nearly turning the nurse around with how fast he runs to the side. “Present!” He cheers, which makes me roll my eyes, and the nurse sends me a fond look as I stagger forward, both of us trailing after my son as he leads the way to the doctor’s room - like he knows where that’s at, if his panicked look back at me is any indication. 

“He’s a handful, huh?” She asks, and I laugh in response. She has no idea.

After a few hours and more than a few tense back and forths between the nurse, the doctor, and myself, it’s decided, with startling swiftness, that Percy, surprise, surprise, probably has ADHD, as well as Dyslexia. The evaluator says, idly, that they’ll have to have a few more check-ups with my shady healthcare provider down in Louisiana to really confirm their suspicions, but he’s already writing me up a prototype IEP as he says it, so I take that he’s laying it on just a little lightly. For his part, Percy takes the whole situation with a startling amount of grace - he’s not happy to be sat and asked questions for so long, which he answers back with his own, much less healthcare and much more general observations ( What’s your favorite cereal? Do you have a favorite movie? Did you know the wild west was actually from 1865 to - ) , but he’s grateful when the whole experience is over and we are finally allowed back into the waiting room, where Amer is still sat, a book laid across his lap, his head knelt over the pages. 

“Amer!” Percy calls and waves, like the bearded man isn’t five feet away, and Amer acts in turn, waving back, still hunched in his chair as Percy approaches. Percy poses his hands on his hips, “I’ve got ADHD” he declares, as conversationally as anything, and out the corner of my eye, I catch someone startle, openly staring at us. I turn my head their way, and cock it like a bird. I hope they see my pupils narrow. Don’t fucking try me, I want my expression to say, and it seems to work, because they quickly start inspecting their fingers. Good. I turn my attention back to the scene at hand.

Amer closes up his book with a hum, and stands. In the little office, his kufi nearly scrapes the ceiling. I feel bad - there’s a slight crick in his back from him being squished into the tiny space. I wonder why he came with us - I appreciate it, but he didn’t have to. “I’ve got it too, Percy” he replies, also conversationally, although a much lower volume, and oh, well, that answers my question. Percy beams. He takes Amer’s hand in his own, and pulls him, out of the waiting room, practically running.

“Stop running, Sharkboy!” I yell after him, and Amer shoots me a look of pure snark before intervening - “Do you want bears?” He asks my son, stopping him in his tracks, much to my relief as I finally catch up to them in the parking lot. “Bears?” my spawn inquires, looking skeptically up at him, and, as if by magic, Amer brandishes a package of gummy bears from the deep pockets of his wide pants. Percy cheers. I lock eyes with him. 

He knows that Percy gets sugar rushes over any and all candies - sugar rushes that last abnormally long and never seem to have a proper come-down, maybe courtesy of his general demi-godness. I’m an annoying parent - I don’t like Percy eating many sweets and junk food, despite our fast and furious lifestyle. Amer’s doing this to spite me, I can feel it - but maybe not, because he loves to give treats to the kids, and seems to carry around a never-ending knowledge of sweets that delight both his daughter and my offspring. I couldn’t rag him too hard - he had been the one to whip out Percy’s birthday cake that year, which was pretty cool, much to both of our children’s delight.

Still. Amer annoyed me on principle. The man pops a bear into his mouth, opening the rest of the bag as my son grabs a handful, shoving them into his mouth and effectively wood-chipping them down due to the sharpness of his teeth. I sidle up to the older man and purse my mouth. “I hate you” I intone beneath my breath, and he smiles, “What’d you say, Sally?” He asks, louder, so that Percy’s attention snaps to us. 

I grin, shit-eating, and pop a gummy bear into my mouth. “I hate you” I repeat louder, and Percy giggles. Amer smiles in my face again, uncharacteristically gleeful, before, with no hesitation, turning back to my son. “Would you like to help me make baklava for Dima later today?” He asks my son, and Percy, predictably, cheers, before taking his hand again, excitedly swinging their combined limbs as he leads onwards to the RV, leaving me, the driver of said vehicle, in the dust. More sweets, more pain. Amer even has the audacity to level me with a look way too reminiscent of Dima’s glances - a perfect are you alright there, plebeian?

I can’t wait to tell Shilan about this - try to get her on my side, before she and Amer can do their sickeningly in love, married-with-kids, eyes only for you, ‘modestly staring at each other romantically’ PDA and she’ll be convinced that her husband is nothing but a big softie with a rough, silent exterior. Amer is her perfect Mr. Darcy, she swoons, whenever she talks of her signed copy of all six episodes of the BBC Pride and Prejudice she adores. A nerd in a put-together English teacher’s body - aren’t they all though?

I watch him give my son another gummy bear. Evil- the man is evil. Pure evil. Mark my words. 

New school for Percy, new problems for me. First grade isn’t easy for anyone, and it definitely was kicking my ass, even if it seemed like I, as a nearly 25-year-old woman, shouldn’t have been fielding much trouble on that front. It was just - I’m aware, that in my epic account of parenting, I’ve mentioned just how anxious I get. I’d like to think that I’m justified - being a single parent is hard work, living in an RV is challenging, and attempting to raise and educate your child as you hop from place to place, school to school, is nearly fucking impossible, and I’d only been making the attempt for the past year or so. 

Despite all of those justifiable factors, I’m willing to admit that I’ve grown pretty antsy, with a half-decade of motherhood under my belt and a few monster attacks making me worse for wear. Worrying was my past-time, second only to sewing, and it was possible to do both at once, so often, when Percy was away at his Louisiana school, The Agora camped in the nearby parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly’s, me inside, fretfully working on my latest commission - because, surprise, church goers in Louisiana were willing to commission my white trash ass for the best looking Sunday Service outfits possible - and just spiraling, everything bad inside of me building despite my best efforts to follow along to my Frankie Valli CD. 

At last, one morning, I couldn’t do it anymore, and after tying off a stitch, abandoned the RV in favor of the local payphone, where I made a call. It was just early enough in the morning that I could catch Shilan on the Ayad homeline before she went to work - and that’s exactly what I did, though her harried tone melted away when she heard the truly impressive nervous ramble I managed to vomit in the space of the phone call’s first thirty seconds.

“Sally, calm down” she intoned, ever the good teacher, and I tried, consciously, to do just that, aware of just how loud my sweaty breaths must be into the receiver. She asked me what I was just so worried about at 8 in the morning, and I spilled, nearly sobbing with just how tight my chest was.

“I can’t - Shilan, I want to tell you about Percy’s dad, but I can’t. But - Percy, he’s not safe at school and I have to send him and I just don’t know what to do, I know it’s bad but I hate being seperated from him - lord, I sound fucking, uh, fucking dumb, don’t I? I just - not being able to keep an eye on him is fucking killing me, I didn’t tell you, but a couple of months ago there was a mo - a man, by the playground fence, and Percy was talking to him and I just - he’s not -” I feel stupid, my face pressed into my jacket as I clutch the phone with red-hot fingers, actually crying this time, even living out my indie movie fantasy and sliding to the dirty-ass, infected floor of the phone booth, keeping my stinging eyes trained on my house slippers.

Shilan shifts. I think I can hear the crinkle of her sofa as she sits, and I imagine her, primly perched atop it - I can’t decide what color her ensemble is today, but I decide that she’s got her faux-snakeskin handbag, heavy as a brick with notes and lesson plans and those fancy felt tip pens, and that the house is empty, because Amer usually takes Dima to school in the mornings, just so that Shilan can get her extra sleep, seeing as how her first class is, if I recall correctly, in second period. She gets morning prep time, lucky dog. Maybe, even, I’d caught her just as she was clapping up a novella to stuff in her purse for later, so her reading glasses were balanced on her nose, useless. The thought fails to make me feel better. I’d hate to interrupt her routine - my best friend’s routine, I think, now sheepish, still failing to muffle tears on my sleeve.

She’s silent for a few moments, but at last, she speaks, gently. “Sally, I want you to take some deep breaths, okay? Just a few. And then, we’ll talk. Alright?” I’m aware that she’s putting on that gentle, caring voice she does sometimes, because she’s a gentle, caring lady, and it somehow makes me more embarrassed, but I follow her instructions, and because she’s a genius, those deep breaths, feeling my chest loosen, helps, just a bit. I choke out that I’m ready to talk.

She’s not a complainer, that Shilan - and she’s got a keen memory to match. She talks about the conversation we had last year that I’d nearly managed to forget - when she’d asked about my education goals for Percy, and I’d panicked, just chosen public school because well, I went to a public school, most people go to public school, and I’d just thought, despite everything, that I could make a sedentary school building work for us. Shilan says it’s impossible, or at the least, unsustainable with the life my son and I currently live - I try to protest, but am quickly shot down. I decide to concede, in fear of her raising the ever-present and hard-hitting question about my constant need for speed.

“You tried it, right? You tried a school. Kindergarten was your trial, and it didn’t work out. You’re concerned about Percy’s safety - that’s fine. There are other options for education” she says, all-knowing, and I can’t help but curl around the phone and ask, soft as a feather landing, what the other options are. What I can do to keep my baby around me - not for my own sake, I’m realizing, but because the bone-deep terror of something occuring while he’s at school has eaten me away to the point that I, the proud Sally Ann Jackson, am sitting on the floor of a public space, probably picking up all new strains of bacteria. How the mighty fall.

Shilan Ayad, beautiful lady, light of my life, my best friend, the person who, if I die, deserves possession of my RV, my son, and the $150 dollars that constituted my life savings - she blows my mind with one word. One well-spoken word that sends me reeling, no, careening, into a new world of possibilities, of second-hand textbooks lifted from church mothers, brushing up on my own neglected inner teacher, and preparing to dedicate a corner of our RV to the task of educating my son. 

She says, clear as a bell, “Homeschooling.” 

After my mind being blown to smithereens by her simple declaration, we begin hashing out details - her, professional, me, awed. She’s got an astute amount of knowledge about it - as she’d been toying with the idea of homeschooling Dima before realizing that work wouldn’t allow for it to be effective, and that the private school down the road was trustworthy for that purpose.  

I decide that Percy should finish out first grade at his Louisiana School, just to avoid questions - but I start planning, plotting, all those other sinister p-words, our switch to an RV-based education, and Shilan listens intently, as I drag my finger through the blackened floor of the booth and write. Textbooks, workbooks, lesson plans, basic tests I’ll have Percy take each year to gauge progress and prove he’s being educated to whatever state we land ourselves in. I’ll admit, I get a little excited, rambling, relief evident, about how we could visit historical sites, hands-on learning opportunities, my inner nursing student squealed in joy, and how, just like a life on the road, an education on wheels could be freeing, could be for the Jackson’s, in it’s own way. 

Nothing solid, not right now, but I can tell that Percy’s second grade will definitely be spent in our RV, me fumbling through lesson plans, come hell or highwater. By the end of our education chat, my finger is black with booth dirt, and my rough squiggles are white streaks across the floor. Shilan laughs at me, when I tell her that, but she sounds relieved. “We’ll plan more, but I’m…” she must glance up at a clock, because I can hear her jump, “...about to be late.” 

I laugh when the line goes dead with a hurried goodbye, and I sit, grinning, at my dirty fingers, before pushing myself up and out of the booth, to rush back to my RV and record my ideas in pen-to-paper scrawl form. 

If you told me that Percy’s elected spring break trip idea was for us to go fishing in the Louisiana Bayou, I probably wouldn’t have been too surprised. The son of the sea god enjoying water-based activities, even ones that he hadn’t partaken in before? Color me shocked. Not. That didn’t make it any less unpleasant for me, sitting in our tiny rented motorboat, fighting down an attack of the anxious kind as I carefully navigated us through swampland, my spawn drifting his hands in the water despite my scoldings, draped halfway out the boat, slathered in sunscreen and wearing the musty old cowboy hat he refused to let me wash . The man we’d rented our deathtrap on the water from had blatantly laughed at my worried mentions of crocodiles, and joked that I must not be from around the area - and he was right, but it still didn’t assuage my worries about any animals or otherwise with sharp teeth managing to drag my son to the bottom of the marsh. 

It was, admittedly, beautiful out here in the water, everything overcast with a dark green tint from the weeping trees, the gentle chittering of bugs providing a soothing background layer of noise, and even the few yellow flecks of sunlight that managed to pierce through the foliage encompassing everything around us adding ambiance, alongside the branches gently bobbing in the water. However, the day was annoyingly hot despite our shade cover, I was disgustingly sweaty, and it was muggy as all hell.

We’d set sail from a shady little port down one thin neck of the gigantic swampland, and now, I was drifting us further and further onwards, thankful for the complimentary plastic map I’d been given alongside my rental of the sputtering motorboat and the wooden signs lazily nailed to passing, half-sunken trees, all of them barely legible. If not for Percy, I could’ve gladly lived my entire life without coming anywhere near this place, near any large bodies of water, really - but here we are, I think, only a little sour, taking in my son’s wondering sounds.

We’d passed a few other boaters, most already with their lines and bait out, gaily waving us by as we floated onwards. Finally, at last, we reach a shallow-seeming crook of the river, which I seize as an opportunity to put down our ‘anchor’ (really, to half-beach us in the dirty sand of the bank) and tell my son to ready his line. “It’s fishing time” I declare to the swamp at large, and Percy snaps to attention, readying, baiting, and casting his line with far too much expertise for a six-year-old boy, leveling me with a curious look as I struggle to do the same, line tangled around my fingers. 

“I’ll fish later” I decide finally, pushing my line beneath me, and he takes this in stride, turning back to his careful fishing and beginning to chatter. He’s chattering as he waits for “the big catch”, those are his exact words, dork, and I watch as he idly picks a tiny, dead fish from the bait box, popping it into his mouth and chewing carefully around his dull, newer, adult teeth that had begun to take up residence in place of his early bone-picks. While it was a relief to me that I would no longer have to fend off curious passersby about the properties of my son’s exposed mouth bones, we’d already had several incidents of Percy almost choking - I guess he wasn’t used to having to chew so much to digest things, which made sense, given his previous inclination to pop edible items into his mouth and let them shred. 

He’s recanting the entire life and history of Annie Oakley to me - “The Annie with the gun!” - and is somewhere between her marriage at fifteen, Jesus, and retroactively explaining just how exactly she got into this marriage when slight giggling catches my ear. Percy is talking a mile a minute - and any other time, I’d be glad to listen as we sit here, waiting for the big catch, but the giggling is intensifying, and with it, my anxiety. I cast my eyes around us, inspecting every corner of the swamp, before I notice, with a start, a flash of movement out the corner of my eye. Actually, as I look now, there seem to be more flashes of movement, deeper in the water, which my son doesn’t seem to recognize. 

Is this a mist thing? I think, and the answer is instant, as my vision finally clears and I see, plain as day, that the water isn’t murky - it’s still dark, but it’s clear, and beneath it, I feel a flush rise to my cheeks. There, below, are beautiful women, waving up at me with wiggling fingers, openly laughing at my attempts to ignore them. They’re all - very, very naked, I avert my eyes to the trees, but it doesn’t stop the beauty of their features from being made apparent to me - their skin ranges in colors from deep green to blue to brown, and their hair almost appears to be made of swamp grass, so thick and straight and dark. Beneath the surface of the swamp, they swim, idle, or nap, idle, or in my case, notice that I can see them and begin to show out, winking and laughing at me. 

They’re nymphs - naiads is the correct term, I suppose, naiads of the swamp, and when they shift their attention from me to my son, still concentrated single-mindedly on his fishing, that’s when their giggling shifts to gossiping, though I hardly understand most of it. They’re literally speaking underwater - I sneak a panicked look at my son, but, thank God, he doesn’t seem to be noticing the veritable fiasco only a few feet away and below us. I catch a few words in English - little lord, sea spawn, so cute, tee-hee, secret, secret, secret they chant, and that’s just about the point where I’ve decided, okay, fuck that, snap out of my blushing state, and pointedly begin gathering shore rocks, ignoring Percy pausing in his spiel. 

“Well, Annie actually writes a biography and in it she - are you okay, Mom?” He asks, watching me, and I smile, ruffling his hair again. “Peachy, Percy” I declare, and locking eyes with one of the naiads, begin skipping stones - though it’s less skipping stones and more me throwing rocks straight into the water and watching with satisfaction as the nymphs send me sour looks, sticking out their tongues and swimming away, still butt-ass naked, from the rocks disrupting their hang-out spots. “Can I do that too?” He asks, and I smile, gifting him his own handful - which to my delight, he throws even more violently, ruffling the nymphs further.

One of them does something suspiciously just to the left of flipping me off. I can’t tamp down my hysterical laughter, even when Percy drops a gigantic rock too close to our beached boat and I get a full face of dirty swamp water. 

It’s my 25th birthday, and like any 25-year-old woman with a six-year-old son, I spend that sunny, March saturday in an icebox of a convenience store in the middle of Nowhere, Louisiana, loading up on early morning snacks as my son slumbered away, excited to the point of exhaustion over my prospective birthday picnic. I’m dressed in the loosest sense possible - sweatpants, sports bra, house slippers, hair pulled away from my face in a ragged ponytail, eyes still crusted over with sleep. I’m idly twisting my septum, scrutinizing two packages - corn nuts or barbeque corn nuts, for my special day - when I notice, out of the corner of my eye, movement. I turn, and come face to face with the blinding smile of what looks to be a college boy.

I cast my eyes up to the ceiling, then behind me, but nope, there’s no miracle happening, no frat party abound, so I struggle to understand why exactly this young man is smiling so widely. I don’t shift in the face of his stare - I’ve got a few candy bars stuffed down the front of my pants, just as a treat, so not showing weakness is key, especially if he’s an employee and I’ll have to book it in the next five minutes. 

“Hello!” He chirps, sweet as pie, and I murmur it back, turning resolutely to my corn nuts or barbeque corn nuts conundrum. I keep careful note of his appearance - he was attractive, I guess, objectively, with farm-boy blonde hair that fell in thick waves around his freckled, brown-eyed face and a heavy southern twang. He was tall, too, wearing a flannel, a worn-through t-shirt with some type of horned thing on it, blue jeans so blue they were black, and a flashy, bling-blingy belt, two snakes intertwined around each other at the center of the buckle. He seemed to - to shimmer, like a stripper doused in body glitter.

Cute, if that’s what you like - almost too cute. Strange.

“Never seen you around here before, you a traveler? New in town?” His eyes gleam. I nod, and absently tell him about the fact that I have both a gun and a very large dog with me in my RV, but yes, I do travel - cross-country roading isn’t as fun as it seems, I warn him, and he laughs. While he’s not looking, I slip a couple tiny baubles into my bra - for Percy. He looks charmed, the more I make small talk, the more I idly stuff items down my pants, eager to escape our conversation. He’s totally checking me out - I lean away. 

I hurry to the front counter. Always buy as you steal, kids. He follows, like some kind of puppy dog. “What’s your name? I’m Cody Fleet. I go to the U up the road.” I murmur about something crossed between Sarah and Sally and Slyvester and surprise, surprise, Mr. Fleet seems even more taken with me. 

I don’t really need this man following me, at all, in the slightest, and as a single woman without a gun or a dog, it doesn’t seem wise to entertain him for much longer. It’s a dirty trick, I’ll admit it, almost too easy to pull; I slip a bit of candy into Cody Fleet’s pockets, and once we’re at checkout, make a big show of pouring out all the items in my hands, knocking him in the process, and causing the candy to drop to the floor with a conspicuous thud. The attendants’ eyes widen, and Cody Fleet looks up, something indecipherable flickering across his features as I slam cash onto the counter, gather my items, and high-tail it out of the store, to the safety of my vehicle, leaving poor Cody Fleet from the U up the road to be apprehended for theft by the attendant.

When I’m driving away, pulling items out of my pants, I peek back into the rearview mirror, and with incredulity, view that very same man, in the middle of the road, farm-boy blond, hands waving, face…smiling? His cheeks are red. He looks impressed. He even makes the universal sign for Call me! 

When I check my pants pocket, I see that Cody Fleet managed to slip something on me, too - a phone number, scrawled, complete with a heart encircling the whole thing. I tear it up, and scatter the pieces out the window. What a weirdo. I turn up the radio.

An exciting start to my 25th birthday, for sure.

Chapter Text

The phone number I shredded, somehow, finds its way back into my pocket by the end of the day. I stare at it, blinking rapidly, tilt my head from left to right, and even gently push away Percy from where he’s fallen asleep, gas-station cake still smeared around his mouth from our day of celebration. I know for a fact I tore this up and threw it out - which begs the question of why, exactly, it is somehow in my pocket. My blood runs cold - and before I know what I’m doing, I’m stomping out of our RV, at 11 at night, making my way to the nearest payphone like a woman possessed.

I dial up the number, smashing the buttons recklessly, and hold the phone to my ear, tight-lipped, face white, waiting for the answer. Unsuspecting, glitter-doused Cody Fleet answers - he doesn’t sound tired in the slightest, but once he hears my terse “Hello?” I can feel his smile through the phone, the alertness in his voice despite it being near-midnight, and can picture him twirling a phone cord around his fingers. The image makes me viscerally uncomfortable.

“Hey! I didn’t catch your name in the store - you said Sarah, right? I just saw you and I couldn’t -”

I decide to burst his bubble early on. “I’m calling to tell you to keep your weird fucking demon magic away from me. I tore up your number -” I ignore his pained hiss, “- and it somehow found its way back into my pocket. Don’t let it happen again” then, just for my own pleasure, I take out the aforementioned card, hold it up to the receiver, and begin drawing a long, deep rip in the middle of the paper, before he yelps, and I pause momentarily.

“You noticed that?” Cody Fleet shrieks, and I make a low sound in the back of my throat - how wouldn’t I have? His fingers drum against the phone, and he says, in a poor attempt to sound seductive, “You’re even greater than I -”

I begin tearing the paper again, this time ensuring that he can hear it. He yells, and I stop again, just so that I can hear his pleas. They’re entertaining. “Look, look, okay! The card won’t come back if you tear it a second time, so just stop! Sarah -” 

“Sally” I corrected him, keeping my eyes dutifully fixated on my RV.

“Sally, I just thought you looked really cool, and that you might need some company - what with your only companions being your gun and your dog, of course” he’s taken on a teasing tone, like he thinks I’m joking, or playing hard to get - I hate it. I hate it so much. 

My fingers grip the phone harder. “I’m a lesbian, jackass. You have nothing for me, whatever you may be.”

His end of the line goes silent. My shoulders tense - I wait for this strange man to start throwing out the insults, or like, cursing me, because so far he’s shown that he, whatever mythical being he is, doesn’t respond well to rejection. Instead, he sighs. He sounds disappointed, maybe a little amused, but not really all that angry or homophobic. Huh. “I really do know how to pick ‘em, huh? I knew I should’ve played for a different team today…” he snaps, as if to stop his own despairing, and I can hear the sound of his fingers drumming against something solid. “Well! Regardless, Sarah -”

He must hear my hitched, angry breath, because he quickly corrects to Sally before continuing, “-what you pulled off in that store was pretty slick. Impressive. Like - practiced. And I liked the look of that RV you were driving - gun and dog or not. I’m somewhat of a thief myself, you know?” 

I roll my eyes up to the grimy ceiling, and confirm that I do not, in fact, know. He takes my terse response as a signal to continue, and that’s just about the point where I start seriously considering whether or not I should hang up. He hurries through his next few words, as if sensing my hesitation. 

“I can appreciate the technique! The craft! The artistry! You know, not everyone gets it, but you - trust me, first hand source here, you really get it, and more so, you’ve got it, you know?” I confirm, for a second time, that I don’t really know, and he gives a surprisingly high pitched giggle into the phone line, like an infatuated teenager. This time, I can’t stop the groan that leaves me as he continues, talking faster still - thank god for my powers of perception as the mother of a hyperactive six-year-old. 

“Anyways! Since you’ve got it, and I know it, I’ve got to nurture it - you know, encourage it! That wandering, thieving spirit. If you’d have me, I’d love to keep in touch with you - maybe workshop some new ideas, just chat about, oh, I don’t know…” I get the sense of him spreading out his perfectly trimmed nails, whooshing air around, “life.”

I can’t help but press a hand against my temple, sighing into the receiver. I have the strangest feeling that it’s less of “if you’d have me” and more of a “when you call me” meaning, this demon, whoever he is, is at least fully confident in his abilities to what…strike up a friendship with me? Mentor me? Whatever I assumed wandering roadside greek spirits did for fun and profit, since I was absolutely sure that Cody Fleet, whatever his glittery face hid, wasn’t anything important. Mischievous, sure, horny, absolutely, desperate for company, seemingly so, but important or dangerous? I bet against it, given that he was wandering around gas stations hitting on unsuspecting single mothers. I tried to vaguely think of what he might be - some type of greek ghost or male nymph or trickster spirit, I decided, because he reminded me of the long-haired swamp naiads with their thick dark swathes of hair and the inhuman symmetry of their faces. 

He couldn’t be anyone major - a capital G-O-D wouldn’t be so obvious, right? Like a sinner arriving at Sunday Service with a bottle of rum plugged in their mouth and spilling down the front of their shirt; too ridiculous. It couldn’t be that shamefully easy, to pick the odd one out. Not in the case of mythical alien beings who could, for all intents and purposes, play with the lives of little mortals as easily as Percy might with his plastic ponies. 

“Sure, Cody Fleet. Let’s keep in touch.” I say, pushing the words out through my teeth, heartbeat slowing, and almost let my grip loosen against the receiver as he lets out a shrill little noise of excitement in response.

Before you judge me too harshly for my quick acceptance of Cody Fleet, I’d like to clarify; I never said I was all that good at figuring things out, I just tend to work around them.

Percy is sat criss-cross on the wooden bench of the thrift store, shifting through his pile of decorations with critical eyes. One of his stubby hands clutches the ten dollar bill I’ve given him like it might fly away if he loosens his grip. His face is red. At his side, I’m flipping through discarded pattern books, looking for anything of note. I’d managed to wrangle us out the house that Saturday in April, and was attempting to make the most of it by treating us to some good old fashioned thrifting. It had been a while since we’d gone shopping for much of anything, so I figured that windy day was a good bridge to make up for lost time. I needed more fabric and Percy had talked of wanting to pick out more decorations for his room. 

There was a third unspoken motive between us - and the cause of our terse silence, as we sat together on that bench. That third motive being my need to accumulate homeschooling supplies, and that terse silence being what had ensued since Percy had tearfully burst out that he wanted to stay at school, with his friends, and not have to move again. 

“I don’t wanna be RV schooled!” He’d said as I’d broken the news to him while we drove, hopeful to catch him in a good mood - and my boy had been in a good mood, clad in a sweet little sweater and excited for a day out, before I’d crashed his party. I tried to sell him on the concept of RV schooling to devastating results. You still have a whole month in the first grade! I said, and his nose had crinkled. You’ll have lots of fun with Mom, I promise! He looked morbid. We’ll go to so many places! I had attempted at last, and that had been the nail in my proverbial coffin, as he’d opted to scramble out of the passenger seat and up to his loft, where I could hear the harsh yank of hand-made curtains as he ended our conversation and blocked me out. A few minutes had went by before he declared, loudly, “I hate moving ! I hate you! You always do this!”

I’d almost swerved off the road. My hands were still trembling.

He’d been on the verge of tears before we’d come into the store, and even my pushing of ten dollars into his hands wasn’t enough to get him to speak to me. He’d taken off like a shot, stuffing the money into his shorts, and had exhausted every possible nook and cranny of the store before trotting, defeatedly, to my side, where my son dumped his haul in the space between us and had sat ever since, sorting with single-minded focus. My attempts to compliment any of his thrift findings were meant with razor-sharp silence. I could get the hint. 

My son hated me - maybe not really, because he was only a kid, but his words had been crystal clear. They had still made me feel - something hot and tight in the center of my chest, like I was hungry and overfull at the same time. I wanted to cry.

Joy. I really am 1999’s Mother of the Year, I thought morosely, discarding another dud pattern book in the growing pile of duds resting in my ‘return to shelf’ basket. I couldn’t tell if any of them were actually all that bad, or if I had stared so hard at the paper models with baby-doll dresses and big curls of hair that I hated them on principle. Their pleasant faces were taunting me. The latest I glanced at was practically falling apart, smelled of piss, and the image on the back (a smiling woman pushing a big baby stroller and wearing maternity wear that had been out of fashion for a good twenty years) made me give up on the whole pile, pushing the entire stack into the dud basket. No good. Downright disastrous, I decided, and took to smoothing my fingers over my rolls of old fabric like my life depended on it. I was too anxious and angry and everything else to get up at that moment. 

Kids say mean things. I’ll be the first goddamn person to tell you that. Fuck - my younger siblings had been downright evil when they were angry at each other or our parents, screaming and crying and flopping to the floor, pounding their fists. I’d even heard those three words strung together before from them, directed at me, directed at our Mom, directed at whoever was in the way of getting what they wanted. But just because I knew kids said mean things and I’d heard them, didn’t mean that I was ready for Percy to declare it himself. 

I tried to think about my psych class in college - I’d had to take one, freshman year, and we’d talked about all kinds of child development things. A whole unit of shit I, 18 years old with a superiority complex and a goddamned babysitting badge, figured I already knew. Kids getting upset? Being brats? In my family, the only thing you got when you cried was a kiss from Mom and her prodding to go outside and blow off steam. That was my instinct - to let Percy go hit a stick against a tree somewhere and tire himself out. He’d get over it. Kids always did. Or if he didn’t, maybe I’d go the way of my own Mom, and argue right back, until one of us conceded or one of us stomped away and came shuffling back when food was ready or when Pop was home, ready to make like nothing had happened.

But was that fair of me? I’d been trying to be understanding, to keep an open line of communication between Sharkboy and I, cognizant of how much I’d hated my Mom’s dismissal of my feelings as a child. But sometimes, really, it felt easier to fall back on homegrown logic, to throw out the “new age parenting conventions” my hard-hearted grandparents had always scoffed at, and, in my Pop’s own words, let things straighten themselves out.

“You must not have siblings” I’d said to a confused classmate one day as we’d sat in lecture, and watched as their face soured, angling their body away from me. I was a born conversationalist and a Mother Theresa in the making, I know.

However, in that moment, on that wooden bench in the thrift shop, I tried to think past my natural built in dismissal, my anger, my hurt, my instinct to ignore everything, and think objectively. I am 25. My son is 6, almost seven. I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s still so little. Growing up fast - but little enough that his dull adult teeth still have a pearly shine, are still mottled with the occasional odd baby fang. Really, he’s still a baby. Fresh to life. Kids say things they don’t mean, sure, but maybe he’d really been frustrated, about our lifestyle, about how I was trying to keep us alive. I couldn’t blame him. I was frustrated too. But maybe that frustration had manifested in the way little kids manifest everything - to the illogical extreme. Maybe we should address it. Maybe we could share concerns - yes, share concerns, like we were two businessmen in a meeting. Right there in that thrift shop we could do it. We’d done it before, at least a little, even if the conversation and my subsequent breakdown about my parents was one of the top ten most embarrassing moments in my life.

I still think my parents' teachings have some weight. I’ve shown you all - I subscribe, at least partially, to that Nebraskan, hands off school of thought in terms of parenting. Maybe even on a broader scale, I apply those views to life. You tell me.  I’ll never be able to fully rid myself of that mindset - I know myself well enough to know that. Things don’t have to be complicated - things don’t have to be too mushy-gushy. And I was still upset, but I wanted to try and talk it out - to explain why we had to move, at least half-lie about it, and to field my son’s concerns. I wanted him to share his feelings. I didn’t want to shoo him out the door of our RV and let him bash some poor toy into the base of a tree until he was too tired to argue. As simple as that. 

I didn’t want us to be like me and my Mom - her kissing my cheeks and shooing me off, loving me but not feeling the need to really talk to me, to hear what I might be feeling or what I might be thinking, so long as I was healthy, clothed, and mostly happy. I didn’t want him to be like me , to push down his emotions and not think about issues until they were brought to the forefront, ready to boil.

Uncomplicated love like that isn’t all bad - but sometimes, especially with really little kids, it doesn’t help them understand - and understanding the world is what most of childhood is about, isn’t it? Right. 

“Do you want to tell me why you’re angry?” I say, and am impressed when my voice doesn’t pitch or anything. I sound like a real PBS ad, all gentle and understanding. His cheeks deepen in flush, and he clacks a horseshoe alarm clock against the bench with a thud. He speaks in one big breath of air.

“I like first grade and I like my friends and I don’t wanna be RV schooled. I want to stay here. I like it here. Why don’t you? Why do we keep moving?” He finishes, inhaling deeply afterwards, and picking back up the horseshoe alarm clock again, angrily brushing dust from its yellowed face. 

I take a deep breath. His questions are warranted - and not uncommonly asked, I think, mind flashing to Shilan’s similar inquirements. For a moment, I think about peddling the same story to him, but quickly dismiss it. Common threads, right? Maybe a little truth bending wouldn’t be so bad - it’s not like I can tell him the whole truth, after all. Ignorance is bliss and what not, especially when you’re the elementary school son of a literal fucking alien. 

“I like that you like your friends and your school, sharkboy. I don’t want to take that from you. If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t.  But…” I blow air out through my nostrils, “...it’s not safe for us to - stay in one place for too long. Do you remember that talk we had about - about Grandma and Grandpa?” I sneak a glance at him. He’s now brushing dust away from the screen of the horseshoe clock with the elbow of his sweet little sweater, but he nods, curt. I wince. I still try to continue. 

“Well, it’s kind of like - like that. Well, it’s not, but -  just…it’s different, Percy. Sometimes things just aren’t safe. Sometimes, we’re just different.” I finish lamely, and he shoots me a glare that could cut through steel. “ Why? Why is it just different?” he lisps back, as angry as any six year could ever get, and I try to gather my thoughts. To clarify where exactly I’m going with this.

“Your dad. It’s different because of your dad, pal. He’s just…” I gesture to the air around us, up and down, fingers shaking, “...just everywhere. It’s not his fault, but - well, put lightly, we’re not safe, and that’s not because of him, but it kind of is. A lot of uh, - people are not, um, his best friends. And they’d try to hurt us for that. And I know -” I pause in the face of my son’s wide-eyed stare, his sweater bunched up around his elbow. Gently, I pull the sleeve back down. I’m grateful that he lets me, and that he scoots a little closer.

“- little man, your dad loves you. I know that. And even though he can’t be here - he loves you so, so much. But we’re not safe, just staying in one place. As a byproduct of him, we’re not safe. Do you get it, Percy? I can’t tell you the whole thing. But it’s a bunch of, pardon my language, bullshit, and I don’t want you to hear it anyway. I’m sorry dude. If I could stay here, I would.” I finish, and sneak a glance at him. He’s still frowning, and his face is still flushed red. It’s understandable - no young kid likes this much change. No kid wants to move away from all their friends and their teachers and the bayou they fished in for Spring Break.

But like I said - sometimes, things are just different. And maybe that’s not okay, but it’s just the truth.

He sniffles. He scoots closer. His voice lowers. “I still don’t wanna be RV schooled. It’ll suck. I want to do 2nd grade, Mom. Mrs. Carmicheal said her husband teaches it! And that second graders get to not use the ‘ttendance chart. Or sing the ‘eyes on me’ song.” Percy’s nose scrunches, and I watch him dig his fists into his little jeans. His feet swing. He continues, and his voice is low. He’s angled away from me, but he’s almost pressed to my side when he starts talking again.

“Dima said that Uncle Amer made her candy and took her to a ree-cit-hal at her school. And Jessie said his dad takes him ‘ta see movies. And - and Mrs. Carmichael said her Dad was her teacher! Why isn’t Dad here? The RV has two front seats - and you won’t lemme sit in one anyway, so he could use it. He could come. He could make us safe” it’s an impassioned speech for such a little body. And it’s an impassioned speech with no good answer - at least not one that won’t put him in further danger.

I sigh. I apologize again, just for everything, and when he puts up no resistance, I rub circles on his back as he flicks the clockface. 

“This sucks” he says at last, and I can’t help but agree.

To the surprise of no one, a summer spent on the east coast in preparation for a mid-August birthday celebration in New York and a fresh lease on life in the form of homeschooling was jam-packed with shit to do. I felt bad for the whole “upcoming homeschooling” thing, so the coast residence was all for Percy. I would’ve liked to spend those three months hiding out in the middle of the midwest. Every shifty little town we stopped into that had anything passing for a beach found my son throwing himself into the surf, backpedaling like an Olympic swimmer and not a snotty six year old.

“Look!” he yells at me, waving furiously from his place standing in the surf, and I wave back, snapping a quick picture on the disposable camera I’d snagged from the local quickie mart. He does a cartwheel - who the fuck taught him that? Not me - into the shallow wave behind him, and I feel my anxiety rise, as always, before, like clockwork, he pops up again. Literally - he leaps out the water like a dolphin, does a wiggle, and is right back to swimming, only the top of his curly head visible over the blue sheen of the ocean. What a showpony. Parentage was unclear my ass.

For my part, I was content to stay dry and shady beneath the umbrella I’d half-buried on the sand. It was hot as all hell in whatever part of Rhode Island we’d found ourselves in, so the shorts and KISS THE COOK apron I’d re-fashioned into a crop-top were only proper. I was still sweating like a dog, even with a cooler buried into the sand next to me. For his part, Percy looked as healthy and hydrated as could be - he’d ran the whole way from the parking lot to the beach, and hadn’t even looked winded, though he’d happily chugged the water bottle I’d forced upon him. If it weren’t so unfair, obvious, and expensive, I’d sign the kid up for swimming classes. I’d bet everything to my name (read: my RV) that he’d make a killing at competitions. 

I keep my eyes peeled, even though the heat of the day is making me drowsy. I’d practically slathered both of us in an unholy concoction of sunscreen, the strongest herb I could find and paprika, but that still didn’t stop me from keeping an eye out - scent masking is only so effective, even in a place where Percy, by all means, should’ve been safest. That’s how I see the Man - the Man wading through the surf, eyes focused on my son.

Hell no. I don’t even try to fight my panic, scrambling up from under the umbrella, hands grasped around the butcher knife I kept tucked into my shorts. Sue me, okay - it was no magical demigod sword, and it realistically wouldn’t even be effective, but assuming this was a normal human predator, it would do just the trick. And if not - well, running was my strong suit. Maybe the knife could be a nice distraction. I find myself with my ankles pooled in water, stamping towards the man - the Man who still hasn’t noticed me. He’s stopped a good distance away from Percy, and is just staring. It sends shivers up my neck. I put myself between him and Sharkboy - we’re not doing this, not right now.

“Hello, do you have a problem?” is not the nicest way to start a conversation, assuming it was just a normal man who was a little lost, but it’s still the way I opened. The man blinks, and smiles. I don’t smile back. I take him in, size him up a little. He’s older than me - his scruffy beard is salt and pepper, but he’s got a fisherman’s charm. Sort of rough around the edges. He’s the type of man that Twitter users would probably fawn over - a dad-bod, tanned skin, and all. His eyes are startling green - almost uncomfortably so. And he’s standing in the surf, watching my son, watching me, grinning like he’s - 

Oh. I feel my face drain of blood. He sees the moment I really see him, and he laughs. His gaze is admiring. “Hello, Sally.” He says, and even his voice eeks me out - despite the fact that he appears to be right in front of me, it echos; like he’s really talking down a long, long pipe, and I’m just hearing the after-sound. 

I tear my fingers away from my knife. “Hey…” I say, and jut a hip out, awkward. What’s he - even here for? What is there to even, like, say? Am I supposed to say something? What do you say to the non-entity alien father of your son - especially if the Sally he previously met and romanced  is definitely not the Sally he’s meeting now? Weird. Totally, totally weird. Did I mention how uncomfortable I was?

He blinks, and puts his hands on his hips. The weird vibe, somehow, intensifies. He wants to say something about it, about me - I can see it in the downward tilt of his mouth. He doesn’t. His eyes bore into me - and behind me, where Percy is. He cuts straight to the point, thank goodness.

“My brother has a daughter - a girl named Thalia. My dear brother, in all his wisdom, transformed her as she was being hunted by monsters. The counsel is currently debating if the tree she resides in should be struck down - or left as monument, to what happens when our oath is broken.” I feel the hair on the back of my neck raise. 

Thalia. Oh, God. Of course the Thalia thing is happening - of course today is the day when I get to hear that a twelve year old’s very consciousness has been shoved in a tree for the next few years. How very Lovecraftian horrific of our benevolent Alien overlords. I feel a bit queasy. I don’t turn away from him, but I’m hyper-aware of Percy behind me - his splashes, his movements, his life.

I see Poseidon watching him too, and try to beat down my instinctive anger. My son’s existence being illegal just presses my buttons, and I don’t like him sharing this; this fear, this anxiety, even if that makes me selfish. Maybe he’s not fully to blame - but God, sometimes, I’d give anything to shake his and Sally’s shoulders, to know what they were thinking. To know if godly condoms weren’t available at the night of Percy’s un-immaculate conception. Excuse my dramatics, but to ask if they knew that they were, in some large part, dooming him. It’s enough to make me want to fling myself across a beach rock and wax soliloquy about the futility of love. The pain of loving someone so much that it hurts your chest just to think about it. I wonder if Poseidon feels the same - or if Percy’s just a ticked up number to him, another potential street credit claim, in the slew of mythological, famous children he had a part in creating. 

I don’t want to know the true answer. I think it’d hurt me either way. I force my dry throat to speak. “So what?” I say, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. His limbs don’t bend quite right - it’s unnerving. He’s just to the left of humanity. “That’s the question,” he says, smiling bitterly, “and there’s no good answer, Sally. I’ve doomed him. The prophecy haunts him, now. My son is strong, but I have doomed him. I must apologize to you, love - by my power, he will not soon share Thalia’s fate.” 

I see red. How self-pitying. How self-aggrandizing. How stupid. How absolutely stupid. I’m - I feel indescribable.  My legs feel weak. I’m struck by the cosmic unfairness of it all. I don’t believe in hitting - so I don’t hit Poseidon, but I do sit in the surf, and despite his confusion, I tug him down with me. He goes, albeit reluctantly. I try to keep my grip light, but I can tell my finger nails are digging into his skin - it feels like rubber, too cool to be real. I point, and his eyes follow my sightline and we watch, together, as Percy swims neat circles, just inside the candy-striped rope separating open ocean and beachfront.

I point, and thrust my finger, and do it again and again until Poseidon is looking at me, just looking, and when I can’t do that anymore, I finally spill, my voice like sandpaper, “He likes cowboys. He lost most of his baby teeth. He snores when he sleeps - and he drinks water like a fish, funny enough. His birthday is August 18th. He used to teeth all over my hair - Percy is - he’s someone. He’s your son, sure, whatever, but he’s someone. He’s just a little boy. That’s all he is. He can’t be doomed, you can’t talk about him like that - he isn’t…” I thrust my finger one last time, and I notice my whole arm is shaking, and that my vision is blurred with tears, “Look at him, dammit! Look at my son!” Poseidon looks again, and I watch him watch Percy. How little he is. How fragile. How he’s not - he’s not a theoretical or a lovechild or a pawn in a prophecy. He’s my son. He’s someone. He thinks and breathes and he lives. He doesn’t need power or strength - he needs protection. I’m so angry that I don’t care that I’m essentially yelling at someone who could kill me in a second. My demon-caution is to the wind.

Poseidon leans back on his hands, and he’s silent. At last, he speaks again. “You’re correct, Sally. I haven’t - maybe I…” he looks at me, and seems to re-route, sighing gently. “The place my niece and her traveling partners almost found themselves, before they were apprehended - Camp Half-Blood. We’ve spoken of it before - you must remember, the north shore of Long Island. The strawberry fields - and now, I suppose, a tree at the border. If Percy should ever find himself in grave danger - send him there. Conceal him. Hide the nature of his parentage.” He spreads out his hands, and wet sand crumbles into the water. Together, we watch it evaporate in the tide.

He stands. “I must go. I was correct about what I said, back then. That I hadn’t met a woman like you in a thousand years - Sally -” I level him with an unimpressed look. I don’t particularly want to hear his love confession for an all intents and purposes, dead woman, even if that’s morbid to think. He smiles, sheepish, and laughs. “Oh, Sally!” He says, all Greek play exuberance, and finally sobers. We exchange one last look. His legs kick up splashes as he walks away, comically enough, and I watch until he’s just a dot on the horizon. I’m still shaking. 

A thin little body slams into me, and I wrap my arms around Percy. “Hey Mom! Who were you talking to?” He asks, bordering on curious, and I squeeze him tighter. I try not to think about Poseidon or little girls stuck in trees or Percy in grave situations. I try not to think about the prophecy, about the future, about alien-god-beings that just couldn’t seem to leave the Jackson party of two alone.

“No one” I say, and wish it was the truth. 

Chapter Text

Shilan always manages to leave me speechless. 

Mostly, it’s a good thing. I see her, in her pretty dresses and teacher glasses and five-ton handbags, and I get that inexplicable urge to drop to a knee and sing some operetta denoting her virtues. Begging her to leave Amer and join me in holy matrimony, not only because she makes a delicious grilled fish that I just can’t seem to match, but also because she’s just that fucking sick. Kickflip and hand gesture included. 

So, you might be wondering, what’s it this time? The morning after Percy’s seventh birthday is hot. Like, jolting back to consciousness in a puddle of your own sweat, H-O-T. I wake up, peel myself off the Ayad’s sofa, crack all the joints in my back, and drag myself into their kitchen to make a cup of coffee that will undoubtedly run through me within two hours. Percy and Dima blanket-camp out in her bedroom and are probably still totally sleep crashed from the amount of cake they ate the previous day, and the wedded couple are undoubtedly still asleep, so I take my sweet time. It’s nice to be in a real, live kitchen again - and not just the lamer cousin of one a mobile camper provides.

Any other time, I might feel embarrassed for drinking the Ayad’s coffee stash - but Shilan had nearly threatened me at knifepoint when explaining my privilege as a guest and family-friend-family and besides, I really did need the energy. I felt like any moment I could blink a little too slowly and wake up face-down on the tile. 

I’m sipping on a cup of coffee that burns my throat in just the right way, fiddling with the kitchen blinds, when Shilan enters the kitchen. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, at first, and hit her with a, “Good Morning.” There’s a smile in her voice when she says it back, and she starts - catch this! - giggling when she pours herself a cup of coffee. I turn around to face her, just as she’s carefully stepping down from a stool, sugar shaker in hand. Her long hair is flattened to her scalp from sleep, her glasses are askew, and her nightclothes are just tight enough that after a few moments I can see the slight - 

I don’t drop the coffee mug, because that’s overdramatic. But I do set it on the counter, and look, really look, at Shilan. There’s a difference, you know? There’s more weight to a pudge that’s indicative of pregnancy then one that’s just there because it's there. And this little pudge? It’s got that weight. “Are you…?” I trail off, and Shilan smiles, demurely sipping her coffee. Of course, she’s loving every moment of this dramatic reveal. She spins on her heel, and sets herself down on the sofa, ankles crossed. She turns on the TV, and flips to her favorite channel - right now, they’re playing a hospital drama, and the tinny voice of a doctor cries out that a patient is stable. I’m certainly not - I scramble to follow after her, and leap over the sofa, carefully landing on the cushion. 

She swats my knee, but continues drinking. My coffee is abandoned - I don’t need it, because Shilan has basically injected electricity into my veins. “How far along are you?” I ask, and Shilan doesn’t even trip when she says, “three months.” 

I squeal. Like, actually, full on, squeal. And Shilan, because she’s ten years my senior and a very serious working woman, waits until she sets her coffee down to squeal, and then we’re squealing together, fingers locked, on her sweaty sofa. We’ve worked ourselves down to a murmuring giggle when I’m finally coherent enough to congratulate her, and stumble through a few other questions.

She answers them all dutifully, albeit with a secret little pleased smile. “I found out a week ago - we don’t know the gender yet, and we’re keeping it a mystery. We haven’t told Dima yet; we want to do a big surprise. Sally, we didn’t even think I could get pregnant again! Dima was -” she lays a hand on her stomach, “a miracle. And some of the others - well, y’know. I’ve never had any pregnancy but Dima get this far. And I’m so happy. So, so happy.” Her cheeks are wet, her secret smile wider, and I coo, wrapping my arms around her. She holds me back, and so we hold each other, and I bask in the happiness of my friend, and the knowledge that there’s gonna be another Ayad for me to love. 

Babies. Babies are the topic of conversation in those early morning hours. Shilan had asked me a few questions about my pregnancy with Percy, which I’d dodged with the grace of an olympic skater, because I wasn’t present for any of it, funny enough. Then, we’d talked our way around in circles about clothes and schools and nurseries and even those teeny-tiny baby shoes that are so silly, because babies don’t even wear them. 

“They’re important symbols! They protect babies feet, when they walk, and they’re a keepsake. Why do you reject this?” Shilan exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. Of course, she would think that - Dima’s little mary-jane infant flats are in a box on her dresser, and she treasures them like they’re two pieces of gold. I shake my head, trying to hide my smile. “You would say that, Mrs. Metaphor -” 

“You’re not using that term correctly -”

“- but, no, you can skip the baby shoes! Percy, he just had these little blue socks I put on him everyday - and when he started walking, he hated the socks, so he ripped them in half! And now I clean the RV windows with them sometimes, so it worked out, right?” Shilan shakes her head, hands back to the sofa. 

Her stomach rumbles. We both laugh. And then, she does her magic, fixing her all encompassing dark eyed stare on me, and I remember exactly where Dima got it from. “Do you ever think about it, Sally? Having another kid?” she asks, and I feel like the wind has been punched out of me.

Me? Having another kid. I shake my head negative, resisting the urge to start screaming. As much as I love Percy, I didn’t even anticipate having one kid, let alone premeditatively planning for another one. Quite frankly, I don’t have the resources, or the justification for it. Besides - I haven’t really got time for a romantic relationship, between one death defying stunt and the next. I also imagine the lesbian dating pool for homeless single mothers transmigrated into early 2000s fictional worlds isn’t exactly something to write home about - not that I’d ever dipped my toes in it, no thank you.

Shilan nods, finishing off the last of her coffee. “That’s understandable.” For a while, we sat there, the happiness still present but quieter. Our mugs are empty, but we don’t make a move to go to the kitchen - it’s nice. 

As the early morning melts to something more reasonable, Amer joins us. He looks less severe than usual when he sees Shilan there, lovebirds, and squeezes her hand from over the back of the sofa before he sweeps into the kitchen. I hear him groan, and the loud crack of the top of his head hitting a fridge shelf. Wincing, I glance at Shilan - she’s turned her head over, and is smiling, face propped against the cushion, looking at Amer like he’s hung the stars. For his part, Amer is rubbing his head as he brings out the half-eaten birthday cake and three forks. 

I fake vomit, and she grabs a faded novel wedged between the cushions, slapping me on the knee with it. Amer sits on a cushion on the floor, setting the cake at the coffee table. I’m confused as to what exactly he’s doing, lifting the foil cover from the cake, before I realize - the kids aren’t up yet. I crane my neck back, to look at the hallway - nothing. They’re asleep. I can’t help but stifle a snort - early bird gets the worm, kids. 

The remainder of the cake fits into three huge slices. Before he hands us our forks Amer declares, a slight smile behind his beard, that it’s, “For good news.” This time, Shilan is the one to reach for his hand, and I can see that behind her glasses her eyes are glossy. Sap.

Still, I have to agree. The cake is pretty damn good too. Made even sweeter when Dima is the first to find us, crying out in betrayal at Shilan’s blue-frosting covered mouth and subsequently waking up Percy. His dramatic cry of unfairness is music to my ears, even as I experience the sugar crash of a lifetime.

Homeschooling, despite my greatest fears, doesn’t immediately run into any problems. ‘Immediately’ being the key word. For the month that summer fades into fall, our little RV based homeschooling experiment seems to work out just fine.

The second grade curriculum I’d managed to get my hands on actually wasn’t that strenuous to teach, all things considered. Then again, I don’t know how many elementary teachers were enabling the use of truck stops and cheap midwestern tourist attractions to help their students learn reading, writing and ‘rithmetic. However, Percy seemed to take it in stride, even if he insisted on calling Dima almost every other night - which made sense. He’d been very, very popular in his first two grades of school - I remember his previous child cults with a deep sense of dread at all those pairs of sticky, cheeto-dusted hands and mouths crying out in despair whenever he’d leave. Horror movie stuff here. I try to sneak in visits to whatever local park I can find whenever I can. 

Still, for that first month, homeschooling seemed to pan out just fine. In exchange for getting to sit in the front passenger seat of the RV, Percy agreed to count the number of cars he could see that were blue, or add license plate numbers together, or even attempt to read me the tasteless middle-of-nowhere billboards we passed about every five seconds. If I never had to hear my son confusedly ask me what exactly a, “gentle-man’s club” was ever again I could probably die happy. 

It comes to a head in October, specifically on a bitingly cold morning. Percy is brushing his teeth in the sink, pulling on a ratty sweater with the words Bad to the Bone and a whole host of dancing skeletons across it. His mouth is foaming blue with toothpaste, and as he spits into the sink, guzzling water like a fish, he pauses. When he’s done, he comes over to me, shifting from foot to foot. 

I glance at him from where I’m currently packing my own bed up, and when I’m done folding my sheet, ask, “What can I do for you, bud?” Percy shifts from foot to foot again, and I see him pull at the sweater hem. His next words are quick, but clear: “I don’t wanna do school stuff today.” I shoot down my first instinct - does anybody want to do school, bud? - and ask, instead, “Is there a reason for that?”

Percy’s mouth twists. His fingers worry his sweater hem. “All we do is school,” he settles on finally, “...and when I went to the school in Louisiana, we had weekends. For other stuff.” He gazes up at me, eyes impossibly big. “Mom, I have school on weekends now. I was speaking to Dima, and she said that’s messed up.” 

His articulate little statement hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s true. I haven’t really been keeping track of when I teach him - as far as I’d figured, homeschooling was a 24/7 operation, right? More time to cram knowledge into that little noggin between play parks and long stretches of highway. Maybe that was the former nursing student in me. 

But thinking about it - yeah, it is kind of messed up that it seems like anytime I talk to my son lately, it’s about education. Learning something. I’m surprised he hasn’t brought this up sooner - I remember being seven, and I specifically remember jittering on Friday afternoons, watching the clock tick down to 3 PM. My favorite part of school at his age was not having to be in class. It would have driven me up the wall if my mother had been on my case seven days a week about schoolwork and sums. 

I snap back into my body with a nod. Setting down my folded sheet, I rock back on my heels, admittedly impressed with his statement and sheepish that I hadn’t taken that into account in my Totally Rockin’ Sally Jackson Homeschooling Planner . I decide to amend that document post-haste - after, of course - “That’s a good point, sharkboy…” I say, and Percy brightens. I can’t help it - I reach out to ruffle his hair, and he giggles, ducking. Cutie. “...something I hadn’t thought about.” I glance at the calendar tacked above our little kitchenette - a kitten dressed in a pumpkin costume plays with two balls of gray yarn above the days of the month, marking today as Thursday. I shrug, smiling down at him, placing my hands on my hips. He mimics me, still giggling. 

“What do you say about starting our first-ever homeschooling weekend today? We can pick back up on Monday.” Percy nods, smiling. We’re somewhere in Indiana - as we buckle up, Percy seems to take the midwestern environment in stride. Kid after my own heart. At minute twenty of our first-ever homeschooling weekend, we pull into an off-road pumpkin patch.

For five dollars, we ride with the haystacks. We pick out pumpkins - Percy names his Lumpy, on account of its lumps - and we sit in a barn with a few dozen other families, concrete floor covered by newspaper, as we gut and carve the pumpkins. His tongue peeks out his mouth. He looks as happy as he could ever be, aside from being immersed in ocean water. We don’t talk about anything educational - aside from Percy’s long standing devotion to the historical time period categorized as the wild west - once. It’s a damn good start to the weekend. 

The phone rings. Really loudly. For several minutes. 

These sentences are innocuous, until you consider that the ringing is coming from a phone booth - the phone booth phone is ringing of its own accord. I blink, settling my sewing project across my legs. One of the RV windows is propped open with a ruler, despite how cold it is outside - perks of living in a shitbox on wheels, the temperature is never quite right. In his loft, Percy’s curtain is pulled closed, but I can hear the faint static of his little battery powered cd-player. He’s currently listening to Time After Time - the song seems to really speak to him. He’s replayed it at thrice. You can look and you will find me indeed. 

The phone booth continues ringing. I wonder why, exactly, someone would bother to call a phone booth in the middle of an empty strip mall parking lot at four in the afternoon on a Sunday. Something pings in my head - the marbles that make my decisions clanking together, probably - and I stand up, glancing at the loft. Cyndi Lauper’s voice drifts down past the shutters, and I watch, for a moment, before determining that Percy isn’t going anywhere. Carefully, I creep out the doors of the RV, locking them behind me, and walk, slipper-footed, to the phonebooth.

I pick it up, grimacing at the yellow stains on the receiver. “Hello?” I say, and feel my eyes roll skyward at the responding laugh. “Hey, Sally…” Cody Fleet responds, all abashed, like he wasn’t the one to call me. 

I hold back a sigh. “Hey Cody,” I parrot back. I haven’t called him since our initial conversation - I guess nymph boy got tired of waiting. Goody. “...any reason why you’re calling me?” I ask after letting the silence drag for a while, and he huffs, making an offended little noise.

“Sally!” He exclaims, “Can’t a guy just call a friend to talk about how things are going?” He asks, and I bite back my first impulse to remind him that two conversations doesn’t qualify us by any metric to be friends. Best not to completely piss off the rhinestone belted demon capable of finding my location via phone booth. “Sure,” I say, and hear his fingers drum against the phone. He starts a ramble - he’s at work, driving somewhere, and he just thought he’d call me because, oh, well, maybe I’d forgotten to call him, and he’s just curious as to what exactly I’ve gotten up to since we’ve last spoken - 

I decide to throw him a bone. A bone that could get me in trouble with authorities, but hey, Cody and I’s odd acquaintance seemed to be built on a foundation of illegality. 

“Sorry to interrupt you,” I say, not very sorry at all, “...but you know, something did come up. You ever shoved something down your pants to take it? It’s kind of gross, but it’s pretty effective. People frisk your shirt, not your pants.” 

Cody takes his chance - I can practically imagine his glittery neck nodding. He sounds delighted to be engaged. “All the time,” he stresses, “and it never feels less nasty. But it’s kind of pedestrian, right? Like, oh, I’ll be taking this, putting it down my pants - anyone can do that. Not that it’s less valuable, just because it’s common!” He hurries to explain, sounding passionate, “...But there are so many methods. Underrated methods, even. Ever put something between your legs and walked out with it? It’s called -”

I laugh. “Crotch walking.” I finish, and Cody laughs too. “Exactly,” he proclaims, sounding smug, “...it just elevates the experience. A little more finesse. No one thinks you’re going to have thighs strong enough to lift a twelve-pack and shuffle out with it. It’s beautiful, really. Saves so much money.” He sounds wistful, and I can’t help but reminisce with him - it really is a beautiful method, once you’ve got it down. 

Our conversation bounces for a while - crotch walking back to the cleanliness of shoving items in your pants to slipping flat things into your shoes to the best ideas for getting past those pesky security guards and new-fangled self checkout machines, though Cody swore there was nothing like the thrill of checking out with an extra item. 

“It’s a freebie!” He declares, sounding serious, “You’re the cashier, at self checkout. You ought to take something home. Company bonus.” I stifle a laugh, agreeing with him. Glancing at my watch, I frown - it’s been a few minutes. I glance anxiously back at my RV - unchanged, but empty, except for my only son. I feel nervousness crawl up my neck. 

As our conversation comes to a lull, I decide to slip away. “It was alright talking to you, Cody…” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I’m not lying. I love Shilan, and I love Amer, but I’d never discussed my less than savory activities with another person (does Cody qualify as a person?) so openly. It was refreshing. A nice change of pace, even. For all his oddities and questionable origins, beneath the glitter and early McBling outfit, Cody reminded me of one of my brothers. Slathered-on accent, overwhelming enthusiasm, vague impression that he chugged beers and slammed the cans against his forehead and all. 

“...but I’ve got to get back to the RV.” Cody lets out a disappointed sigh, but repeats my sentiment in a few more words. He ends our phone call with an enthusiastic ‘bye-bye’ and a sound like he’s rolled down the window of his car - thick air buffeting the speaker before the line disconnects. 

I go back to my RV, and to my son restarting Time After Time. The song lives up to its name in that regard. 

Shilan ropes me and Percy to come back to New York to ring in the millennium with them - not that I could deny the tag team duo of Shilan’s enthusiastic voice and Percy’s pleading that he, “really, really wanted to see Dima, please, she said she got a haircut, Mom and she’s got the funny glasses for the new year -” 

Between the both of them, we were making our arrival at the Ayad’s apartment for a three day stay on December 30th. Shilan had greeted us at the front door of the apartment complex, and I was happy to see that she was, indeed, glowing - her fingers were planted firmly on her baby bump, and much to Percy’s joy, he was allowed to place his hands on her stomach and whisper something along the lines of, you’re Aunt Shi’s baby, when you come out promise you’ll think I’m cooler than Dima, let me hold you first. After he was done, I drew Shilan into a long, long hug. To have her in my arms again so soon after our last meeting was a luxury. One that I’d cherish. Especially since the next time I was slated to see her - approximately late February to mid March, the Ayad clan would have a new member. 

I’d expected it to go like any other get-together we had with the Ayads: a lot of laughter, a lot of feelings, a lot of watching soap operas together and keeping an eye on Dima and Percy, always perpetually scheming or play-acting something from behind the castle-shaped tent she had set up in her bedroom.

For the first few hours, it went accordingly: Dima pulled me into a hug (no, it did not totally make my heart flutter that Shilan’s adorable, stoic little daughter referred to me as “Aunt Sally” and insisted on showing me her book collection, not at all), I shot the breeze with Amer for a few minutes on their thin balcony as he grilled vegetarian burgers for dinner, and Shilan and I took the chance to get in some quality time together before the rest of the group converged upon us in a wonderful, talkative mass. 

It was after dinner - as I was laying on the sofa, thumbing through a television catalog and listening to my son’s laughter from another room - that I was ambushed. Attacked, if you will. By an English teacher in her second trimester placing her hands over my eyes and laughing. I feel myself smile, not bothering to move away.

“I’ve gone blind…” I deadpan, and Shilan laughs. The flowing tail of her headscarf brushes against my cheek. “You have…” she agrees, and I hear the rustle of paper, “...but I’ve restored your sight, with this gift.” She pulls her hands away from my eyes, making a ‘ta-da’ sound as she wiggles the poster in front of me. I reach up, gently pushing her jaw and ignoring her protest, as I take in what exactly Shilan is dangling in front of me. I feel my eyebrows raise.

“It’s a…masquerade party? A pre-news year party? At the local bar?” I read, wrinkling my nose. Shilan laughs. I can hear her nod. She slings her arms over my shoulder from behind the back of the sofa, humming quietly. I shake my head, “The poster design is nice, I guess, but why are you showing me this? It’s obviously not for you or Amer…” she gives me a slight smack on the back of my head for this, to which I yelp in exaggerated pain. Her super-strength has only been boosted by pregnant woman hormones.

“It’s for you. You should go.” She declares, and I feel my eyebrows creep higher up my forehead. Interesting proposition - but - “Why would I go to a local bar’s masquerade party?” I ask her, and she shakes her head again. Her voice is firm, but kind. “I think you’d have fun…” she says, all ploying sweetness, “...and anytime we’ve spoken, you mention that you don’t go where Percy can’t follow. He’s a sweet boy, but Sally, you’re twenty-five. Still very young. You should have fun experiences - this could be one. Just for a night.”

I gape up at her. Is Shilan Ayad, responsible English teacher and soon-to-be mother of two, really telling me that I should cut loose for a night? She must see my shocked face, because her smile creeps up mischievously. “It’ll be fun. Amer and I will watch Percy - not that he’ll really need watching, because their bedtime is 10 PM sharp…” she rubs a soothing hand around my shoulders, “...and the bar is a few blocks away. You can walk there and back. We’ll be up whenever you get back - if you feel unsafe at any point, you can call us, and Amer will come get you.” I’m still caught up on Shilan ‘I have a bachelor’s degree in English Literature and am one of the most put-together, composed, responsible women on the planet’ Ayad telling me that I should go out and get fucked up on lime shots at a themed event for a bar. The second part is implied, of course.

I open my mouth to say something - mostly to refuse, because even the proposition brings butterflies to my stomach, before I clap it shut at her pleading look. “I got the poster from one of my colleagues. His brother is a co-owner...” she confesses, glasses sliding down her nose, “...and I really think you’d have fun, Sally.” I have no rebuttal, looking up at her hopeful face. Her earlier statement catches up with me - ‘you should have fun experiences’ - and I wince. Maybe she’s right. Seven years since I’ve arrived in the past of a fictional universe and I’ve never once done something somewhat normal for a young adult - unless normalcy in your twenties is juggling parenthood with homelessness and a whole lot of pricked fingers.

Right then, right there, the night of December 30th, 1999, I decide - Sally Jackson is still young. And Sally Jackson wants a single, selfish night to go to a local bar, get buzzed, and dance like no one’s watching to bad nineties music. More than anxiety, I feel excitement. I let a nervous smile creep up my face, grabbing the poster from Shilan. “I’ll go.” I declare, and she nods, like she knew I’d answer that, cocky, and plants her fingers over my eyes again. 

I groan. “What is it now?” I ask, and Shilan’s voice is smiling as she replies, “Close your eyes. Don’t open them until I tell you to.” I keep my eyes closed, even as she lifts her hands away from me, and feel something being hooked around my head, digging around my hair. It’s a - spandex band? The air smells like plastic. What -

I realize too late. My eyes snap open, just as Shilan lets the cheap plastic mask snap onto my face. I yelp, throwing up my hands to smack her as she laughs. “You’re evil!” I hiss, rubbing my newly reddened cheeks, and Shilan doesn’t bother to respond, bent double as she shrieks with amusement. “Evil!” I hiss, trying to bite down my smile. My face really does hurt - the woman is capable of incredible acts of malice. 

“Did you do it, habibti?” Amer’s voice comes from around the corner, and I feel my face inflame at the amusement in his voice. Shilan makes a noise of affirmation through her laughter. I shoot up from the sofa, crumbling up the tv brochure and chucking it at him. It bounces harmlessly against his head and rolls to the floor, where Tasha promptly pounces on it, tearing into the paper with a pleased yowl. Amer looks like he’s about to break out in laughter as the cat does.

“Evil!” I hiss, moving to the bathroom - according to the poster, the event starts in an hour, and I definitely won’t be going to possibly my first and last ever bar event with grease in my hair and overly large sweatpants. 

“Use the moisturizer in the medicine cabinet, Sally.” Amer intones seriously as I pass him, “Your face is very red.” I flip him off as I close the bathroom door behind me, hearing his and his wife’s giggles. 

An hour and a half later, my trepidation is well and truly gone. After my initial bout of excitement wore out, I’d made Shilan and Amer promise up and down that if anything at all happened to Percy in the hours I was gone, they’d call. Being good sports, they swore it - not that I thought they wouldn’t, but hey, it took a load off my mind. I’d slipped so many heavy fragrances into Percy and I’s shared body wash bottles that I was sure we left a trail of overwhelming lavender wherever we went. If the monsters managed to sniff him out tonight of all nights, it’d just confirm that I had the worst luck ever. 

I’d decided against drinking - that was a little too out of my comfort zone, even for tonight - but I’m feeling tipsy just from the atmosphere of the bar. The low flashing lights, the music, the crowd; it all gives me the sense that I’m somewhere mystical, as corny as that is. The glitter strewn across the bar and tassels hanging from the ceiling certainly further that impression. 

My cheap plastic mask fits in well alongside a sea of other store-bought masquerade accessories. I look pretty good in the blue mini-dress I’d scavenged a few months ago - not that I’d thought I’d ever have a chance to wear it, but hey, I’m not complaining. Looking at myself in the mirror of the Ayad’s bathroom before I left, I’d privately thought that with most of my face covered by a feathered, cheaply rhinestone mask, I could’ve been just another reckless twenty-something in NY, fresh from university and ready to discover the perils of bar crawling and poorly ratioed mocktail mixtures. I didn’t look like myself - and I decided, just for tonight, that I would lean into that. Just for tonight, I could cut it loose. Whatever ‘it’ is. 

Now that the excitement is back, slowly welling as the bar fills with more people, I make my way to the small dance floor. It’s more like a dance cubby, really, but it works for me. As the song changes to something so nineties it hurts, I let out a whoop. I throw up my arms, and wiggle like a worm. I attempt to do the robot, and fail miserably. I even do the ‘vomiting cat’ - throwing my shoulders forward and pumping my fists as fast as I can while I hump the air. It feels good to move my body like this, especially after literal years of being hunched over a steering wheel. Years of grifting whenever possible has effectively killed my capacity for shame. 

Nearby, someone stifles a laugh. Whatever. Fuck them. I refuse to feel embarrassed, shaking my body in some semblance of dancing. Sue me: I’ve never learned how to dance, not really. It’s not like my parents were chomping at the bit to school their brats in the art of waltz or tasteful club moves. It’s also one of the few times in my life aside from my highschool graduation or Sunday services that I’ve worn heeled shoes; though I’m not sure the blinged-out stilettos that I’m rocking under a pair of crew socks really compares to the kitten heeled loafers I’d worn for those events. I wobble, but right myself, swinging into the wave. 

Despite the laughter, soon, more people are joining me. I’d like to think it’s my inspirational dancing, but honestly, the air smells so heavily of liquor that it’s only natural that a bunch of drunk bar-goers decided that it was the perfect time to bust a move. I close my eyes, rocking my body as hard as I can. Sweat trickles down my neck. I feel like I’m in some wacky 2000s movie about the transformative power of music, the way the bass is blaring through my skull. The next time I register the song changing, it’s because the crowd lets out a roar - I guess it’s a popular song. I almost don’t recognize it, before joining the lingering cheer - we’re pumping up the jam tonight. 

I shove my fists into the air, feeling other people brush against me. I put my all into dancing, sweating hard, and it feels so, so good. I’m so deep in the zone, eyes closed, that I almost don’t feel the static shock of fabric rubbing against me. Eyes shooting open, I turn around, mouth twisted, before I feel myself relax. A woman is dancing with a man near me, wearing a sequined pink dress - our legs must’ve rubbed together by accident. I prepare to go back to dancing, before the woman swings her head around, smiling at me for a moment, even as she grinds her body against her male companion.

I feel my mouth go dry. She’s beautiful. Maybe it’s the lights, or the excess of glitter, or the lesbianism, but her stare feels paralyzing. I snap out of my daze and start dancing again, shaking my body, determined to pump up the jam. At the end of the song, I’m panting, and squeeze my way out the dance cubby, collapsing on a bar stool. I order a single Shirley Temple mocktail, paying with the crumpled bills shoved beneath my socks, and watch the ignored little TV in the corner, where a replay of the Christmas parade is being aired. 

Someone slides into the stool next to me, and I take a sip of my drink, glancing at them, and almost spit up. It’s the woman from the dance floor. Her arms are crossed, and she’s speaking to the bar-tender, who hurries to slide the miniature cosmopolitan into her manicured hands. I try to keep my eyes focused on the melting ice-cubes of my own drink, hearing her take a long sip next to me. 

“Where’d you learn to dance?” She asks, and it takes me a few seconds to realize she’s speaking to me. I turn to face her, and am grateful that the curtain of her dark hair - complete with those characteristic of-the-era chunky platinum highlights - covers her masked face as she speaks, even though I get the idea she’s glancing at me. I shake my head, blowing air out my nose. “I didn’t learn - that was a first attempt” I say conspiratorially, and she giggles. 

“I couldn’t tell - not at all” she lilts, and I find myself playing along, “Looks like I’ve got years of experience, right? I could teach a class, totally.” She nods, “Totally” and takes another long sip of her drink, draining it neatly. She pinches the cherry from the bottom of the glass, slipping it into her mouth without removing the stem. I feel my eyebrows raise, and I comment, “That’s pretty impressive. Not a face or anything? I hate the stems on shit.” I realize, after it comes out of my mouth, that I have spoken to the same four people for the past seven years of my life, one of which is my son, and have no clue how to small talk like a normal person. Goody.

She turns to me, and I’m hit with just how attractive she is, even wearing a shoddy party mask. Even in half-lighting, this woman is stunning. I wonder if she’s taking pity on the new bar-goer, taking me under her party girl wings for the night. Not like I’m complaining. The cherry drops out of her mouth, and she catches it neatly. I watch, curious, as she holds out her hand, gesturing - I get the idea, and hold up my palm as her fingers grip my wrist. 

She deposits the cherry into my hand. It’s slightly damp with saliva, which should gross me out, but - well, the stem is tied. Not just in a knot, in a little bow. It’s got speckles of pink from her lipstick. What the fuck. I feel sweaty all over again, as she closes my fingers around the cherry gently. Our hands are touching. We’re holding hands. 

“Want to dance?” She asks, and I almost break my neck with how fast I nod.

We dance. For a long time. Confession time: I’d danced with someone before, but I don’t think holding wrists with a beautiful woman as I wiggled like a worm and she did something stupidly graceful compared to the daddy-daughter fourth grade dance I’d attended before. These two scenarios definitely don’t invoke the same feeling, either. When we’re done dancing, we find a corner seat in the bar, her leg crossed over mine, and look out at the busy sidewalk together. It’s at that moment that it occurs to me I should probably ask what her name is. I do. 

She smiles, and flips a stray strand of hair over her shoulders. “I’m Paula” she says, and the name does barrel-turns in my mind. “Cool. I’m Sally.” I say, and can’t stop myself from smiling back. She tilts her head. “Do you live around here?” She asks, and I hum, tapping my fingers on the glass before I decide to be honest, shaking my head. “Nah. I’m technically homeless, but on the records, I’m living a van life.” Paula makes an interested sound, leaning closer. “Just you?” She asks, and I decide, you know what, why don’t I just throw it all out to a stranger? Not like I’ll ever see this woman again.

“I’ve got a son, he’s seven. Super sweet.” Paula blinks, her smile growing. “I love kids” she enthuses, hand fluttering, “Especially babies. They’re so cute. Chubby little hands and feet,” I nod in agreement, remembering how much I’d had the urge to just squeeze baby Percy like a teddy-bear anytime I changed his outfits and he seemed to miraculously get cuter. “He’s still super cute, but he was a very cute baby. He was born with hair, and it was like, totally revolutionary. I didn’t know newborns came in a state other than bald before I had him.” I neglect to mention that I was ignorant about everything regarding newborns and even his existence before that earth-shattering awakening during labor, but the point still stands. 

Paula chuckles. “Tell me more about your son” she says, and I’m happy to oblige - it’s a bad day if I don’t gush about my son at least once, and having somebody new to do it with makes the experience all the better. I keep out identifying details - stranger danger, even if that makes me sound like a bad PSA since I doubt Paula from the bar can tie cherry stems with her tongue and deigned to dance with me as I flopped like a fish is a monster. I tell her about how smart he is, how curious he is - I tell her about his love for My Little Pony, his long-standing passion for horses, and even his music taste. She seems interested, asking little follow-up questions, giggling beneath her breath. Just as I finish regaling her with the tale of one of his latest beach adventures, her hand drifts to mine. She interlaces our fingers, pressing them together on the table. “You’re a good mother” she says decisively, and I open my mouth to interject - am I? Am I, the woman who steals and lives in an RV and doesn’t have a steady job and is secretive and anxious on her best days, a good mother? - when she strokes a nail over my knuckles. 

“What about you?” She asks, and I shake my head, amused. “What about me?” I ask, and her hair drapes over her shoulders. Her highlights are very well done, I note dumbly. “Well, what do you like to do? When you’re not dancing like a pro and being a good mother?” Her voice is teasing, but I can tell her sentiment is genuine. I lean forward, relishing in the way she keeps her eyes on me. There’s only so much conversation with a heartbreakingly gorgeous lady in an intimate place that a woman can take. 

I hum. “I like sewing - that’s how I make money, I sell clothing. Really thrifty, I know. I read sometimes, and I listen to music a lot. I’m a big fan of seventies music. But really -” I bobble my head, “- I don’t do a ton. Traveling is already a lot - I think if I had a ton of hobbies, I’d enjoy them less, you know?” She nods consideringly, her nails trailing goosebumps along my skin. I want to ask what she does - what she likes to do - but she beats me to the punch with her next question. 

“Where’s your son tonight?” She asks, and I raise my eyebrows. “Staying at a family friend’s, just for the night. She was actually the one to encourage me to…” I gesture at myself, at my surroundings, “...do something for myself. She’s great.” Even in the face of a stranger, Shilan Ayad’s reputation must hold strong. I’m wondering why exactly she asked that question when her next words hit like a punch to the gut, and I feel something extremely inappropriate happening to all of my senses.

“Would you mind if I came back to your RV?”

We have sex.

There’s no way to sugarcoat or dramatize or snarkily dance around it. We have sex, and I have been baptized, truly and deeply, into being a woman lover. Not that there was any doubt before, but Paula-from-the-bar does her part to affirm it. I know real-Sally wasn’t a virgin, on account of Percy’s existence, but I was. Was, past tense. I blink up at the ceiling. 

I lay on my bed, watching Paula shimmy back into her dress. Not her mask, though - we kept those on, and had chuckled anytime the plastic clicked together. I haven’t made a move other than pulling a thin sheet over my body to cover myself. Paula sits on the edge of the bed, now clothed, nails gently tussling her hair back into place. When she’s done with that, she laces up her heels with precision, standing from the bed. I almost think she’s going to leave, let herself out the RV front door and walk away immediately - which, rude, but fair - but she turns back to me, and kisses me again.

“Thanks for a great night, Sally - it was really nice to meet you,” she says, dripping sweetness, and I smile up at her, “You too, Paula. You’re cool. Extremely so.” Cool seems like a stupid word in the face of everything that’s happened tonight, but it’s the highest compliment I can think of giving in this moment - and she smiles back, pleased. Her cheekbones look like they're brushed in liquid silver - highlighter game extremely strong. Her eyes drift past me, and she strides towards a corner of the RV, peering at something taped to the wall. I recognize that it’s a picture Percy drew me - one of many, me and him as close as he could draw it, holding hands, with the obligatory sun in the corner and a not-so-obligatory but readable representation of our scuffed RV in the background. When she turns around, her smile is even bigger.

I can’t help it. I stand to kiss her, this wonderful stranger, and say, “Have a good night, Paula. Do you need me to walk you back?” I don’t know where back is - back to the bar? Back to her apartment? I guess I don’t need to know, because she shakes her head. “No need. Your family friend is expecting you soon, right?” I nod, because it’s true, and she walks towards the RV door. 

Before she goes out completely, she turns back. “Happy new year's eve!” She wishes me, and I realize, with a start, that it’s technically December 31st. Happy day. Before I have the chance to wish it back to her, she turns away for the last time, hand pushing up her mask at last, and the door swings shut behind her as she leaves.

I’m left standing naked in my RV except for a cheap, sweaty party mask. After the night I’ve had, I feel pretty damn good. I do a little wiggle dance, standing there, before I start getting dressed, preparing myself for the trek up the flights of stairs back to the Ayad’s apartment. My smile won't move off my dumb fucking face. 

This was fun, but it’s time for my return. A classic Hero’s Journey, as Shilan might say. 

“Happy New Years!” We cheer as the ball drops, and I pull Percy to my side, pressing exaggerated kisses to his cheek. When I’m done, he does the same for me, and we toast - that’s to say, we clink our glasses of 7up together and drink deeply. I watch Shilan and Amer clutch hands - Dima sleepily kisses both of them against the chin before asking, through yawns, “Could we please stay up? Please?” 

Shilan laughs, shaking her head. “You promised that after the ball dropped, you’d go to bed.” Dima lolls her head in defeat, shaking it even as she accepts Amer’s outstretched hand. In her other arm, Tasha is held like a ragamuffin, placidly chewing on the sleeves of the little girl's nightgown. Percy makes a triumphant noise, and I raise my eyebrows at him. “You’re not escaping it either, little man. It’s bedtime.” Percy groans, throwing his hands in the air.

“I’m older than Dima!” He insists, and I purse my lips to resist my smile. One drink of soda in a fancy glass cup and he’s ready to take on mortgage payments, it seems. “By a year” I remind him, plucking the glass out of his hand as he finishes. “It’s bedtime. I’ll come tuck you in.”

He groans, but together, we trudge to Dima’s room. When Amer pulls back the front flap of the castle tent, it’s a mess of pillows and blankets. They both seem to know where to lay, to their credit. Percy snuggles into his own mass of sheets, twisting around to face me. His eyelids are drooping. “I love you, Mom” he says, and my heart swells. This kid, man. This is my kid. This is my son. This is the baby I held on the rooftop, scared out of my mind - this boy right here. It feels like it happened yesterday and forever ago all at once. 

I fight back tears, dipping down to press another kiss to his forehead. “Sleep well, fishboy” I say, and he shakes his head, somewhere between defiant and tired.

“Goodnight, Dima” I say, and the little girl waves a hand at me, a sort of goodbye, as I shut the door behind me and Amer. Tasha, cuddled in her arms, meows placidly. 

For a while, the three of us chat, but Shilan’s energy is low. Eventually, they bid me goodnight. As they leave for their bedroom, I stretch out on the sofa, pressing my fingers to my chest and breathing deeply. I love these people so much it hurts. I’m hoping 2000 will be another year of safety, and survival. I’m hoping that Shilan’s baby is healthy. I’m hoping that Percy is the happiest boy on earth, and Dima the happiest girl, and that Amer makes crazy money at the store so he can feed Tasha exquisite hand-crafted cat treats and move to a bigger apartment for the baby. 

I close my eyes, and I sleep.

I drift in and out of consciousness for what feels like minutes before a car alarm goes off.

It’s not just any car alarm. It’s the RV alarm, so obnoxious it’s recognizable. Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time the useless thing has gone off for no reason - the RV is so damn old that the wind jiggling the driver-side handle twice is enough for the anti-theft protection to scream like a banshee. I don’t have a key fob, because the RV was born and raised in the eighties, so I have to physically unlock the doors and shut the alarm off.

I sigh, peeling open my eyes. I don’t bother to pull on a jacket before walking out the apartment, and down the stairs. Mindful of being locked out, I prop open the front door with a brick. My keys jangle as I walk to the vehicle, shivering harshly because it’s winter in New York and thus, colder than Satan’s tits. 

My bare feet crunch against the thin layer of snow on the ground - no time for shoes. I snort as I approach our beloved house on wheels, wincing at the alarm. Somewhere in the bowels of Shilan’s lovely neighborhood, someone screams for me to shut that fucking alarm off, and a chorus of other strangers agree. 

“I’m trying, ya’ll” I mutter, fumbling with my key before finally slotting it into the door. I lean aganist the cool interior of my seat, hands slapping for the dashboard before finally, finally, I manage to silence the alarm. Thank the lord. I’ve got one hand on the driver’s side door, ready to lock it, slam it shut, and go back to sleep, when I hear a sound from the inside of the RV. 

The hair on the back of my neck pricks up. Crawling into the driver’s seat, I sit on my haunches, gazing into the darkness as I reach for the knife kept in my glovebox. It gleams in the low light of the moon, serrated edge as sharp as I could manage with road rocks and spit. Mortal blades don’t work against monsters, but I’d be damned if I didn’t try. Besides, it’s New York - who’s to say a very human attacker wasn’t lying in wait beyond the flowery curtain separating the driver’s cabin from the rest of the RV? My blood feels red-hot. 

I raise my hand, hardly breathing, and recall that the lightswitch is on the left side of the curtain. In my right hand, the knife is as still as I can hold it. I unfold myself and steel my nerves. Viva las vegas, or whatever the fuck people usually yell before a brush with death.

As quickly as I can manage, I rip the curtain aside with such force that it flutters to the ground, my hand bashing the light fixture in the same movement. Light floods the space, and my eyes flicker so fast it’s dizzying - up, down, left, right, B, A, start, all that jazz - as I let out a roar. I don’t know why I’m screaming, in that second - maybe in the hopes that a human or monster attacker would look at the crazy, bedraggled woman wielding a knife and yelling at two in the morning and think twice about engaging.

There’s no attacker.

No - there’s no attacker. But it’s so much worse. Two panicked doves dive past me, fucking flowers held in their beaks, slamming into the windshield before managing to escape out the still opened driver’s door. They fled from a scene that looked something like this: a wicker basket laden with white linen blankets, surrounded by a sprinkling of roses, and right in the middle of said basket, blinking open its blue eyes, a pudgy, flushed baby with a thick tuft of black hair. 

No. God damn it, no. The knife clatters to the floor of the RV. The world lurches as the baby blinks awake. My frantic eyes find the long, silken ribbon discarded on the floor; some parody of those triumphant baby shower It’s A Girl! banners, except it declares, in loopy golden letters, Estelle. 

You know, I never got around to reading any of the Percy Jackson books past The Last Olympian. By the time the series had multiplied, I’d been deep in my academic obsession with nursing, too busy studying to care. But I’d heard faint chatter - that Sally got remarried, and had a second kid, at some point. Good for her, I’d thought, not thinking anything of a fictional side-character from a children’s series I hadn’t read in a decade. The whole of that thought had occupied less than ten seconds of my time.

But that was foolish, right? Because the same way Percy’s existence had persevered despite my arrival in this world, this must’ve been established too, no matter how it had to come about. The fates are fucking bastards, and they’re laughing at me. Throw another kid at the woman living out of an oversized van - and this time, let’s make sure her previous problems will be doubled. Or maybe that’s what I’m telling myself to make the sinking feeling in my chest slow its rapid descent. 

I’m frozen like a statue, even as the baby starts sniffling. God damn it all.

I think of Paula - the way she’d held my hand, the way her smile glimmered, the way I’d dismissed her general aura as a result of just being a wealthy partying socialite buoyed by the festivities of a New York winter and emboldened by undoubtably getting everything she’d ever wanted. She'd seemed the type. We’d had sex. My stomach turns. “You’re a good mother” her voice seems to bounce in my skull, her smile as she’d seen that picture Percy had drawn. Insanely gorgeous, pink dress, able to tie a cherry into a fucking bowtie with her tongue. And I’d had sex with her. Could I get any more obtuse? I’d done this. Goddamn it. Goddamn it all to hell. 

Estelle starts crying. I join her in doing that.

Chapter Text

I cried for a long time. 

Like, sunk to my knees, slammed my palms on the ground, and cried. Estelle cried too, and even though misery loves company, if anything, her shrieks just made me feel worse.

Another baby. Another kid. I press my head to the floor, trying to calm down, breathing shallowly, and failing miserably. I think of my hopes for the new year, and decide that I am never making any resolutions ever again. Or having sex, while I’m at it. Goddamn it, can I not have anything? My tears are actually forming a puddle on the floor, which is pathetic in it’s own right, and it’s not helping that my nose is getting irritated by the stupid fucking rose petals Aphrodite deemed appropriate to leave all over my RV. 

On top of everything else, I’ll have to clean this shit up. Fuck. After a few more minutes of me crying and Estelle borderline screaming, wrinkly face unhappy and bright red, I take the time to scramble to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. I drink it all in one go, and the plastic crinkles loudly in my hand as I look at the wicker basket that contains my newest problem. 

It feels unkind to even think it. I wince, and turn my thoughts to other matters: how the fuck does Estelle exist? The answer is pretty simple, as long as I don’t think about it for too long - we’d fucked, Aphrodite had decided to speedrun pregnancy for shits and giggles even though neither of us had the equipment to make that biologically possible, and now I’m a distressed mother of two. Great. Estelle keeps screaming. She’s got big lungs for such a little body.

The longer I listen to her scream, the more stressed out I get. Finally, I cave, and crawl over to her basket on the floor. Her eyes are squeezed shut. It’s been so long since I’ve held a really little baby that I’d almost forgotten how wriggly newborns are - Estelle squirms as I pick her up, swaddled, and I bring her to my chest. Muscle memory wells up, and I start rocking around the clock, singing something under my breath that’s horribly off pitch and definitely not a song for kids.

She calms. Her eyes pop back open again, and I’m hit with another wave of deja vu. What is it with demigod babies and being so damn uncanny? She’s a sinfully cute newborn - even Percy, as much as I adored him, was, I privately acknowledge, rough looking for those first few months - and has, to my hysteric delight, chunky little arms. I remember something from all those years ago, like a flash, and awkwardly maneuver my tanktop up and off my person, unwrapping her from the swaddle. I press our bare skin together, and make a conscious effort to breathe. 

Skin to skin for dummies. I try to take in every detail of this new magicked baby, forcing myself, despite my trepidation and my underlying desire to start sobbing and possibly vomiting, to press her closer to me. It’s the same situation as Percy, I think, in that she’d probably have a better life with someone else, but giving her to anyone else is just asking for dog monsters to rip her apart. Aphrodite is also known as being a magnificent bitch - probably the next Olympian besides the obvious contenders who you’d never want to piss off. My heart skips a beat in fear. 

And what about Poseidon? Was he still keeping an eye on us? At least enough to recognize when the mother of his child was now the mother of one of his councilmate’s children? Do Sea Gods get possessive over their exes? I bite down a maniacal giggle. 

Her fingers are tiny. I forgot how tiny baby fingers are. One of her fists grasps my single finger, and I almost tear up at seeing the two together. My fingernails are ragged, my hands are calloused, and the baby’s soft, smooth skin in comparison pushes both extremes even further. “Hey, Estelle…” I murmur to her, and she obviously doesn’t reply back, being freshly…born? Conjured? Magicked into existence? Whatever. 

We sit for a few more moments, me stroking her head, bending her little toes back and forth, when something hits me. How the hell am I going to explain this to the Ayads? To Percy? To anyone? I peer into the basket, cradling Estelle in one harm as I use to other to dig through the white linen sheets. They’re nice sheets, but the thought of using them for any of my bedding feels grimy. At the bottom of the basket, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. I pack the sheets back into the basket, seething, and carefully set Estelle down, running a hand over her downy head one more time, before I stalk to the driver’s cabin and punch the crackling leather sheets until I’m panting. I’m tempted to bang my head on the window glass, but the only thing worse than a surprise baby is a surprise baby and a visit to the hospital for a concussion. 

I try to use that big brain of mine, rubbing my temples, still topless, as I pace the cabin of the RV. I have a baby. The baby’s name is Estelle. Estelle was presumably left here with - I glance at the wicker basket where she squirms - a bunch of linen sheets, fucking roses, no explanation, two doves that promptly fucked off, and of course, no legal documents. Can nothing be easy? I’m developing a stress ulcer, but through the pain, I decide there’s only one thing to do: take a trip to the hospital, and fast. I need documents for Estelle, and she needs to be vaccinated lest she develop fucking polio. It actually strikes me just how vulnerable a newborn baby’s immune system is - a newborn baby left in a cold RV with filthy birds. What the actual fuck is wrong with Paula? 

My mind races, and it finally stumbles on something that’s so rare, so ‘what the hell’ that it just might work. At least for people who don’t personally know me. Estelle’s wicker crib is carted to the passenger seat, and secured the best I can with both my arms shaking from stress. The thought of leaving her to slip and slide around in a plant basket where I can’t see as I gun it to the hospital makes me feel like I’m about to enter cardiac arrest. 

I despair that Shilan was right. Fuck sentimental value, I’d have given anything to have a smidge of Percy’s baby clothes or supplies back with me. I’d gotten rid of or repurposed all that shit; sue me, I wasn’t planning on having another kid anytime soon. Now, I’m left high and dry, needing to convince other people of the story for my stork baby, get myself in the correct mental place to raise two half-eldritch children instead of one, and face the horrifying realization that I’d performed cunnilingus on a being thousands of years my elder. All before - I glanced at the RV clock, wincing at the reading of 2:58 - the Ayads woke up, realized I was missing, and called the police. 

I channel all of my hysterical energy into performance. 

That’s why my little show in the ER waiting room goes so well - I hadn’t had to fake the tears or the desperation, and I definitely hadn’t had to fake the scream as the nurse attempted to take Estelle from me. 

I’m so good at being hysterical and bothersome that I’m in and out of the hospital within four hours. Impressive, I know. The wheels of bureaucracy spin fast if you’re wheeling to lube them up a little bit. A woman crying that she just didn’t know she was pregnant and that she didn’t know what to do besides coming to the hospital definitely got me sympathetic back rubs from our healthcare heroes. 

With the required documents marking Estelle as a real person in my left hand and the girl in question held up to my right shoulder, I feel pretty damn good. The baby is also no longer naked - she’s been outfitted in a little pink beanie for her soft head and a yellow duckie onesie. My pockets are definitely lighter; I didn’t have health insurance, and all those shots Estelle had fielded by screaming and crying had broken open the proverbial Jackson piggy bank. 

I’d also managed to pull myself together enough to purchase a breast pump through the hospital; I’d played it off like I’d had previous trouble lactating with my first kid, but really, it was because I knew I wouldn’t be able to unless I’d had some outside assistance. I didn’t have any pregnancy hormones of any sort floating through my system; I’d just have to pump and pray, or shell out money I didn’t have for formula. Goody. 

I climb into the RV, rearranging her wicker basket and setting her inside again, before crawling over to the driver’s seat. I take another glance at Estelle before I pull off - she’s fast asleep, undoubtedly tired from a busy day of heckling doctors - and then put the RV into drive.

As I make my way back to the Ayad’s apartment, I feel oddly serene. I’m thinking that I must be in shock, to some degree. New baby. Most of our money gone. A whole lot of work ahead. A fake explanation about cryptic pregnancy. Questions to field about Estelle’s ‘dad.’ I let myself rest my head on the wheel at a stoplight, feeling my eyes burn. My eyelids are so heavy. My whole body hurts. Estelle sniffles, and I pray to whoever is listening - hopefully her deadbeat other mother - that she just sleeps for the rest of the drive. I don’t think I could handle something as delicate as a baby right now. 

Someone honks. I shoot back from the wheel, and realize that the light is green. I push the gas, and the RV shoots forward. My hand hovers over the radio button; music always makes me less drowsy when I’m driving and has the added benefit of making me feel like a human being again, before it falls uselessly into my lap. Music would wake up Estelle, and that was the last thing I wanted. With a baby around, a lot of my limited joys in life just got a whole lot more limited.

The rest of the drive is silent. 

The moment the RV pulls up to the apartment’s parking lot, I know that my absence has been noticed. It’s 7:25 as I put the motorhome into park, pointedly ignoring the woman-shaped hunch that rises and hurries over to the vehicle. Her knocks on the door feel like fingers on a chalkboard, and for once in my life, I’m not excited to greet Shilan.

I sit up, and pull Estelle from the wicker basket. Holding her to my chest, I decide to rip off the bandaid - I walk over, take a deep breath, and pull the sliding door open. Shilan’s hand is still raised mid-knock, and she’s wearing loose pajama pants and an embroidered, worn-out SUNY-P hoodie. When she sees me, her face falls in relief and confusion; I can see the moment her eyes land on the baby against my chest because her whole face goes pale. 

“Sally…” she murmurs, hand falling to her side, “...whose baby is that?” I almost want to laugh. I do, actually, letting a giggle slip out before I stop entirely. My mouth feels very dry. I wet my lips. Estelle’s breath creates a steady pattern against my neck. I mentally recall my lie, and I decide that I’m just going to have to commit to the bit. 

“What do you know about cryptic pregnancies?” I ask, praying to whatever aliens will listen that this works out, and Shilan’s eyebrows raise. “I’ve…heard the term.” I hurry forward before she can speak again, “...yeah, that. I had to turn off the RV alarm last night, and I, uh, pissed while I was out here. And my water broke. I went to the hospital, and she slipped out at…” The birth certificate estimates 3 AM, so that’s what I repeat to her. “I kept skipping my period, but I’ve missed it before without being pregnant. Duh. I thought I was just, like, nutritionally deficit. And I didn’t gain weight at all. She was…” I choke out a laugh, “...a surprise. Everyone was surprised.” 

Shilan blinks. Rapidly. Carefully, she slips into the RV. I’m grateful that I took the time earlier to quickly shovel out all the rose petals and that obnoxious banner. She sits on the sofa, and pats for me to sit next to her. I do. For a minute, we sit in silence. Finally she glances at me and says, “That’s like something out of a soap opera. Or a very poorly written novel.”

I feel a cold sweat break out on my neck. I’m thankful that Estelle is sleeping. She lets out a long sigh, and I almost flinch away from her touch - I don’t. She rubs her hand up and down my arm, and I feel myself relax. Her thumb kneads soothing circles into my elbow. I feel my eyes water. “She’s beautiful,” Shilan asserts, peering at the newborn, “...but twice is the emergence of a pattern. How is it that your children will always be older than mine?” 

It takes me a second to realize she’s making a joke. I smile at her, and she must see the way my lips wobble, my trembling pupils, because she pulls me closer, our shoulders knocking together. Her hoodie smells like the laundry detergent she uses. I managed to reply, “...yeah. It seems that way. Ever consider that maybe my kids are unfashionably early to the party and yours are fashionably late?” She chuckles.

We sat in silence for a few minutes more, listening to Estelle breathe. I bring one hand away from the baby, hovering it over Shilan’s stomach. “Can I…?” She nods, and I, feather-light, press my hand down. I can’t exactly tell her this, but I’ve never actually felt a baby bump before. Even over the fabric of her sweater, it feels odd. Like a big meaty basketball. I still can’t believe there’s a whole person in there. 

“Are you scared?” I blurt, and flush immediately at how stupid I sound. Like, how fucking vague can I be? Thankfully, she lets me rest my hand there as she hums, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Yes and no,” Shilan finally decides, turning to look at me. Her eyes are soft. “Yes, because pregnancy is scary. You know,” I don’t know, in fact, “...the way your body changes. It’s changed after you give birth, but pregnancy itself is,” she huffs sardonically, “...the easiest part. For most people. It’s the baby that's hard. With Dima, I’d wanted her for so long and it was still…” she looks almost ashamed, the next word coming out warily, “...hard. Even with all Amer’s help. I thought I was prepared for how it would change our life. I wasn’t.” Her eyes are intense, and I bring my hand away from her baby bump to rub her arm in turn, trying to channel as much supportive energy as I can.

“No, because I love Dima, and I’ll love my son as well. There’s more than love, though,” she bites her lip, tapping the side of her glasses like she’s in the middle of grading a particularly zany paper, “it’s duty. It’s responsibility. That’s hard to articulate, but it’s true. It’s trying to prepare to guide another person, every day, for the rest of your life. But no - because there’s love, and there’s the other things that come with love. Those things can be scary to carry out, but I’m not scared of them. I know who I’m doing it for, and it’s not myself. That makes these things easier.” 

I nod slowly, puzzling over her words. My throat feels scratchy, and my next words feel like a dark confession, like I’m almost doing something wrong. “I didn’t want Percy,” I say, and the moment the words hit the air I feel terrible, but it’s true. “I didn’t want him. He was an accident.” It’s true, in a way. I let out an ugly, choked sob, and confess again, “I don’t want her.” I tilt my head downward, feeling hot tears drip from my eyes. They drip onto Estelle’s dark head. “It’s so hard, living like this, and I never wanted it. Percy was an honest accident but this…” I jerk my head at the baby I hold, the rest of my body still, “...this was me being stupid. Preventable. I thought it’d be okay. And now - I don’t want her, and I don’t want her to live like this. I can’t give them up. They’d be in danger. Either of them - and that’s the worst part because I know…” I inhale shakily, trailing off, “God, Shilan, please don’t hate me for saying this.” 

Shilan grips my free hand. Her eyes are wet. “Never,” she says, and her voice is shaking. “I - Sally. I would never.” Her fingers press on my palm points, her head nodding calmingly. Her voice is so low I almost can’t hear her. “When Dima was a toddler…I just wanted to sleep. She used to cry so much. I’d taken PTO from work, to spend more time with her. It was nap time. She wouldn’t stop crying. Amer was out at the store…” she pressed her eyelids together, and to my dismay, tears drop out of her eyes, “...and she kept crying. Astaghfir Allah, in my anger I screamed at her. I hit her. When she was finally silent, I was ashamed. Ashamed of my actions, and ashamed because I was relieved. For a moment, the silence was like she wasn’t even there. I am still ashamed. But Sally…” she opens her eyes, and brings her hand up to push a strand of hair behind my ears. “...no one is perfect. We seek forgiveness, we change our behavior, and we go forward. Allow yourself to feel this way. This is the way forward; if you can feel this, it can change.” 

My eyes are fully leaking tears, and I nod, my lips trembling. “I think I love her,” I say, pushing down my inherent shame because god, what person can’t love their baby? And continue, “but I’m angry. I feel…tired. I live in an RV, and I broke the bank for that visit to the hospital, and nothing -” my voice cracks, “- nothing feels like it’ll be okay. We have like no money, and we can’t stop moving. How can things be okay?” My emotional dam finally breaks, and I sob outright, awkwardly maneuvering Estelle against my chest. 

Shilan fully embraces me, and we stay that way for a long time. 

We stay at the Ayad’s for an extra week. It’s a risky move, especially because I’ve now got two monster bait kids under my belt, but it’s frankly necessary; I needed time to mentally recoup, or I was sure I’d merge onto the highway and spin the whole RV out into a ditch. I doubt that Shilan or Amer would’ve let me leave anyway; in that week, it seemed like they conspired together to make it as pleasant as possible. How terrible. I did my part to repay them by constantly massaging Shilan’s shoulders - being pregnant apparently gave her bad back pain. I was once again selfishly grateful that I'd never experienced it. 

To my relief, in all the turmoil I feel that week, none of it is directed towards Percy - or Estelle. Frankly, Percy seemed ecstatic at the presence of a baby sister, even if he had looked stunned at her initial appearance. Me too, kid. 

He’d pleaded with me to hold her, to which I obliged, and from that moment forward, seemed absolutely obsessed with everything she did. Estelle drooled all over herself during a nap? Percy was there to laugh. Estelle screamed and pounded her chubby fists on the carpet? Percy sympathized. Estelle seemed overly unhappy? Percy advocated for her. It was sort of a relief, in a weird way, that Percy seemed relatively happy with a new younger sibling. I guess it made sense - he was the same way with Dima, but Dima was much less obliged to let Percy manhandle and baby her now that she was a ‘big kid’ at the ripe age of 6. Frequently clad in disney princess nightgowns with bunny ear slippers, she definitely cut the figure of a little accountant in the making. 

Dima seemed to take Estelle’s presence as a sort of ‘practice trial’ for her upcoming brother- she’d been dismayed to learn that Shilan was having a boy, but was coping rather admirably. She was also content to hover around Estelle and take in her every move, though the baby’s lack of intellectualism bothered her. She’d taken to reading to her in the hopes that she’d become, “less stupid” even though Amer had scolded her when she’d voiced that complaint. “She can't talk and she drools on herself,” she'd doubled down, turning up her little nose. Percy had hurried to defend Estelle’s honor, but Dima couldn't be swayed. 

“Well, when your brother's here, he'll do it too!” Percy had resorted to, and Dima had shaken her head. “No, he won't” was her retort, and the following argument had ended in the two being separated for the hour before apologies were doled out alongside Amer's homemade ice cream. 

I was mostly grateful for the passive emotional support I was receiving. Frankly, it was only the soothing atmosphere of the apartment that allowed me to interact with Estelle without feeling like I was going to get on my knees and start vomiting. Anytime I saw the baby I felt like I was experiencing motion sickness, which didn't make my guilt about feeling that way any better. Still, I tried, and my efforts were valiant, and at least partially successful- I'd done it with Percy, and I could do it again. Constant exposure therapy to babies to make me care about them - didn't that make me feel like a great Mom? 

Still, it worked. By the end of the week, my nauseous feeling had mostly resided. Any chance Estelle wasn't being smothered by Percy, she was being smothered by me. Held, rocked, cooed at, observed, changed: doing all these things made me feel like I was flexing some dormant muscle. I'd also forgotten just how much newborns could shit. Yippee. 

Estelle was a fussy baby, but she seemed to be shaping up to be a baby that loved attention - her carefully curated cuteness was effective. I'd never known a newborn to gurgle and blow spit bubbles so tactically; not that I'd known many newborns. For someone whose eyesight wasn't fully developed, she had keen perception. Amer and Shilan, in their budding baby craziness, were happy to occupy the moments when her time wasn't consumed by everyone else in the apartment attempting to do the same. 

When I wasn't enjoying the atmosphere of the apartment and the people within it, I was driving The Agora around and attempting to make sales. I had good success, people being flush with new years resolutions about spending money more mindfully and all that bullshit. In my years of business, I'd learned that just a little desperation and a lot of craftsmanship went a long way. Considering that I sold clothes for a living out of the back of the same place I lived, I had both in spades. 

By the end of the week, it wasn't that we were financially stable again - not that we ever were - but we were at least not one gas station stop away from having 0.00 in the piggy bank. It was good to be able to buy a few needed things for Estelle, the type of things I couldn't make myself. Given the canned foods I’d waited in line for at a local food drive for the needy (that's us), whatever the Ayad’s could spare and my own obsessive stash of canned and dry goods, we wouldn't starve either, which was a relief.

By the end of the week, I felt almost 25% sure that I’d be able to handle life on the road without falling apart, which would just have to be good enough. Frankly, anxiety was eating my ass alive for having stayed in New York as long as we did. On the morning of our departure from the Ayad household, it was raining. The mass of us were huddled under an umbrella, though Percy wasn’t even making an attempt to pretend he cared about being dry; he had one arm linked through mine and was hanging off my body like a jungle-gym, sticking his tongue out in an attempt to catch rain drops. His hair was soaking wet, I despaired, and he’d have to take a hot shower or risk getting a cold, because he’d refused to put on a jacket - I wasn’t in the mental space to argue. It was a good thing I’d refilled the RV’s water tank. In a carrier against my chest, Estelle was napping. For all my hang-ups around my doubled motherhood, I had to admit that she was adorable in the button-up duckie onesie I’d crafted. She really was a very cute baby. No idea where she got that from. 

Shilan had waved us off in the early morning, but she’d gone back to bed afterwards; I could tell that being pregnant was taking a toll on her. Amer and Dima had walked us to the door, hugs and well-wishes being exchanged, before we had walked outside and across the parking lot. Now, I fumbled with my keys, Percy tugging on my arm absently, as I struggled to open the front door. 

Finally, it slid open. Percy scrambled in, shooting for the ladder to his loft. “You’re tracking water everywhere, bud” I told him as I climbed up myself, and he paused, guiltily walking backwards to the entrance to wrench his sneakers off. That admittedly made me snort and beat back a smile. I flicked on the light, and began taking inventory, as I’d been routinely doing for a week in a faulty attempt to soothe my anxiety. The kitchenette area with many cans in the little cabinets and a few easily reheatable meals in the fridge. The septic tank as empty and clean as I could manage it, the bathroom freshly scrubbed, now complete with a plastic tub hanging on a hook outside the door - I despaired the day I’d have to attempt to give Estelle a miniature bath. 

My sewing corner was the same as ever - tote bag full of materials, tiny desk I’d bolted to the wall absolutely overflowing with pattern books and a few taped up design sketches. I’d also managed to fit Estelle’s crib here - a delightful carved wooden frame and equally tiny mattress that was ripped straight from the sixties. 

Another little corner dedicated to all the junk that we couldn’t find a place for otherwise - a bookshelf, the space heater, whatever other odds and ends we owned. I kept the suitcases with our spare clothes under the sofa-bed, alongside any money we had. A new car seat was fastened onto the sofa, and I’d forgone the curtain separating the driver’s compartment from the rest of the vehicle. Instead, that same curtain served to separate Percy’s loft from the rest of the living area. As much as he adored Estelle, I knew what it was like to have a little sibling underfoot. Especially a baby. As soon as the magic wore off and the true sibling bond was settled, I had no doubts he’d be itching for a little privacy. 

I let Percy have his moment for a while, undoubtedly arranging his new things in with his old things, before I call him back down. I decide to level with him, stroking a hand over Essie’s dark hair as I do. “Listen, sharkboy - I’ve got an important task for you,” I say, and Percy lights up. His t-shirt (a rather charming little thrift find - the Care Bears informing the youth that It’s Cool to Care! Put Litter in it’s Place!) is soaked, and I wince. He needs a bath, or he’ll get sick. Can the son of the sea god catch the flu? I don’t want to find out anytime soon. “Okay, first of all, you’ve got to shower and change clothes…” he makes a disappointed sound, and I tut, jutting out a hip to match his stance, “...but what I really wanted to task you with is staying down here…” I point firmly towards the RV floor, “...while I’m driving. Estelle’s really little, so I just want to make sure she’s not totally unattended while we’re on the road. If she needs to be changed or fed or anything, I do it. She needs to be generally entertained and snuggled? That’s your job on the road. How’s that sound?” Percy considers this offer, but I can see it in his eyes. Good thing too - either he was volunteering for it or I was corralling him into watching his sister. Tough shit kid - that’s life as an older brother. 

“I’ll shower,” he says, - and I snort because that part wasn’t a debate - before continuing, in all the seven year old seriousness he can muster, “- and I’ll stay down here with Essie. We can hang out while you drive, Mom!” He sounds enthusiastic at the prospect of hanging out with someone who can’t even lift up their own head yet, but I decide not to burst his bubble. Kids have a lot of fun imagining what a baby could be thinking or feeling, and Percy was no different. He’d seemed positively enraptured in whatever thoughts were going on behind Estelle’s (Essie? Another nickname) drooling face and batting blue eyes. 

He keeps going, even as he scrambles to grab his pajamas from beneath the sofa. “I’ll take good care of Essie, Mom. I totally promise.” I hum in agreement, taking a seat on the sofa and unlatching said girl from my chest. Percy is shooed off into the bathroom - he has to slam the door to get it shut all the way. Piece of shit RV. Estelle goes into the baby carrier, which is strapped to the spare sofa seat. I fiddle with it as I hear Percy start the shower. With the rain outside, I feel like I’m being white-noised on all sides by the sound of water. It’s actually sort of soothing. 

I hold Estelle’s little onesie clad foot in my hand, marveling for the hundredth time at just how small babies are. She stirs, but doesn’t wake up. I take a deep breath, still holding onto her fat limb to bring myself some comfort. Another baby. I wasn’t even ready for the first one, and now I’ve got two. Sheesh. From the way my mother made it sound, you would’ve thought by now I’d be prepared for it. Evidently not. 

I kneel there for a while, resting my forehead against the sofa and holding Estelle’s little foot. It’s a nice respite from the hustle and bustle of chaos of the past week. Just me and a baby, with my other child singing Hungry Like the Wolf from the shower. What a choice. Estelle is a big name for a really little girl, I think to myself. Technically, I hadn’t chosen either of my children’s names - Percy’s had been a fate-derived accident, and Estelle had come pre-labelled. That thought was a tad depressing to me, spiraling dangerously close into ‘I didn’t choose any of this, why do these aliens torment me so, dear God why?’ territory, so I discarded it. Long story short, Percy and Estelle wouldn’t have been my first choice of naming convention for my children. But those were my children’s names, and frankly, changing them seemed wrong. Or at least tempting the collective consciousness of the universe to knock me out with a wiffle bat for my arrogance. 

I recalled what Percy had taken to calling her, and tried it out. 

“Hey Essie,” I say to the sleeping infant, and tilt my head a few times at the way it feels. It’s a cute nickname. Alongside Percy and Sally, the ‘e’ sound ending is appropriate. The naming convention isn’t lost on me. I hope people don’t think I’m someone who chooses a theme for their kids' names. I snort at the thought. 

Just Sally and her two kids. That’s it all it is. That’s how simple it’s got to be. 

Having two kids instead of one is certainly an adjustment to make. 

Suddenly, everything in the Jackson family budget is nonessential unless we absolutely need it, and I’m up to my neck in sewing work to be done - Percy needs a new coat because his old one is too ratty for even me to salvage? That’s a sale. Estelle needs diapers? Three sales. We need more food? I’ve got to sell more shit. Input-output and all that. Baby stuff was woefully expensive, and even trawling through charity shops for all of our needs wasn’t exactly lightening the load on my pockets - sure, it was cheap, but we were just about cheaper. We couldn’t stop eating, and we couldn’t stop using up gas, and those two things happened to be our biggest expenses. Yippee. 

Our very limited ‘fun fund’ - as I’d taken to calling the rare occasions when I had enough money that Percy and I could actually go out to eat at a shitty fast food place or hit a cheap zoo - dwindles to zero. Unless the fun is free and doesn’t take up too much mileage on top of our already daily travels, well, we’re not having it. Percy was taking it admirably well: mostly because we hadn’t done those things much anyway. My idea of mother-child bonding was pulling over so he could hit the park, or stopping us at a library. Real low cost stuff here. Even those things had taken a nosedive with the arrival of a new baby - I was too busy making sure we didn’t all starve. My predictions came true; by week three of us being back on the road, I could tell Percy was a tad disillusioned with less than minimum wage stretched across three people. 

Essie, for her part, seemed perfectly content to shit and scream to her heart’s content. She’d admittedly grown on me in the month since we’d hit the road again. It was impossible for her not to; despite my hang ups, I’d succeeded in my baby exposure therapy. The thought of someone, or something, taking her away made me want to go into cardiac arrest. She had such a big personality I marveled, aware that it made me sound like a mommy blogger. Whatever. But really, she did. She liked to be paid attention to - all babies did, but Essie especially delighted in the experience. Her favorite person was Percy, which chafed me just a tad - my chest was horribly tender from lactation, and some gratitude would’ve been appreciated. But still - I wasn’t really mad, because it made my heart skip a beat when she grasped for my fingers with her tiny fists. Cutie.  

It was a brisk February day when I had scrimped and saved just enough for us to have a day out at the illustrious Omaha children’s museum. In those trying times after Essie’s birth, I’d taken to hovering around the good old state of Nebraska - sue me, even in 2000 it was cheap as hell. It made me feel more comfortable, being on home turf - even if that hometurf was technically a universe and several decades away. Moreover, I knew the roadways in Nebraska like the back of my hand - luckily for me, they hadn’t changed from dimension to dimension. That was good, because in the weeks following Essie joining our party, I’d felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle more and more. It was no coincidence that we’d burned more rubber in the past three weeks than some of our slower months combined - most mornings, I wasn’t comfortable until I’d completed my routine of moving the RV twenty-five minutes from our previous location and maybe even circling a block for a while afterwards. Priorities. 

Pushing all that aside, I was determined to have a fun day out with my kids. The museum opened at 9, so of course I had the whole family outside the ticketbooth door at 8:45. I hold Percy’s hand to my left, Estelle strapped to my chest. I figured that she was way too young to enjoy the experience, but even a two month old enjoyed touching random objects, right? Right. It was really more about the spirit of things, I mused optimistically - we could definitely make another trip when she was older. 

“Are you ready for this, bud?” I ask Percy, and he nods, rocking on his heels. He holds the crinkled pamphlet from the outdoor booth in his fingers, fanning through it. His cheeks are pink from the chill - it takes everything in me not to coo and ruffle his hair. He holds the sun-dried paper up, squinting like he’s reading something of great importance. “Listen to this, Mom…” he clears his throat, which just cracks me up, and reads over my laughter, “... Pirate Island is the newest exhibit at the Om-Oham…” he stumbles, and I stop laughing.

He’s frowning. His cheeks are pinker, but almost in embarrassment. In moments like this, I’m always unsure if I should let him power through and figure out the word himself or provide him with the answer. What would someone better at this parenting thing then me do? Percy could read - but he was a little behind the curb. Whether it was a failure on my part in my whole hare-brained homeschooling idea or a wicked combination of ADHD and dyslexia, he’d been running into some second-grade roadblocks with reading and writing. 

Despite my encouragement, I never felt like I was saying the right thing. What was there to say? I mean, what could I do for him? 

He sucked up every piece of cowboy-related physical media he could swallow, which certainly helped alleviate my fears that he’d grow to resent reading. His room in the loft was absolute proof that he loved learning; his milk-crate bookshelf I’d bolted to the floor and he’d packed with things ranging from Wild West picture books to, funnily enough, a copy of Lonesome Dove that he had seen at a thrift store, taken one glance at the cover, and begged me for. What was a little boy going to do with a book that big? Use it for self defense purposes? I mean, shit - when I’d read the back, I’d wondered if I was going to catch a thousand judgemental stares for buying it for my seven year old son. Hardly age appropriate. Another point in bad mother territory. 

Still, he’d had his heart set on it, so I’d shelled out the coins for it. The absolute tome sat menacingly in the milk-crate shelf, and I was privately hoping that he’d give up on the idea of reading it, at least anytime soon. But yes - he had his reading difficulties, and we were working through it. Slowly, together. 

I tap his chin, gesturing at the paper. “You’ve got it,” I say, “Keep going.” 

He shakes his head, crumbling the pamphlet, stuffing it into his jacket. “It’s stupid,” he declares, and I sigh. I want to press the issue - you’ve just gotta keep going dude, I promise, no one’ll judge you for taking your time, not me, not Essie - but the gate to the children’s museum opens. A bright-faced attendant smiles at us. 

“Up early, huh?” She asks, and I nod. I want to say something to Percy. I don’t. 

Aside from The Pamphlet, we have a wonderful day at the children’s museum. Percy quickly finds a gang of other sticky-handed second grade miscreants to lead from station to station, as is traditional for my cult-leading kiddo. I mostly watch, content to munch on overpriced popcorn and occasionally dip Essie’s chubby hands into a miniature wave pool. 

“Feel that, sweet girl?” I ask her, maneuvering her arm. She blinks, and seems content enough to let me sweep her arm through the current. I run a finger over her head, and almost tear up when she spit bubbles up at me. Christ. The sap allegations are catching up to me. 

Percy eventually slinks back to me, kneeling at the edge of the touch pool. He holds out a hand, blinking innocently. When I stare at him, he sighs, jerk, propping his hands on his hips. “Popcorn, please?” He demands, and I snort. I gently shove his shoulder. “You are a little snot,” I tell him, but I give him a handful of popcorn anyways. “No!” He declares, and shoves cheddar-cheese kernels into his mouth. I am suddenly, incredibly glad that he knows how to chew food properly now - and that I won’t have to deal with Estelle developing shark teeth as a toddler only to have to re-train her into chewing normally as a young child. Small blessings, when your two half-alien children have different parents. 

Percy kneels by the touch pool, grabbing a nearby miniature boat. I do a very conspicuous glance around the room, just to hope that nobody notices that my son’s hand is bone-dry despite having been submerged in water seconds prior. He presents the little sailing rig to Estelle, who observes it as pleased as any two-month old can. “This is a boat, Essie!” He tells her, and attempts to wrap her chubby fingers around it. 

He fails, and it falls back into the water. He laughs, presenting it to her again. “You sail on boats. When we go to the beach, I’ll show you. Maybe we could go on one again! Like the bay-you. Right, Mom?” I snort again, shaking and nodding my head at the same time. Fishing in a rickety canoe in the bayou was enough to fulfill all of my nonexistent boating fantasies for the next, say, half-century? Maybe a little longer. The farther away we could get from the nearest body of water, the happier I was. Sort of a correlation-causation moment. 

“Maybe in the future,” I say noncommittally, and he smiles, like he’s the one driving this RV and paying for Estelle’s diapers. “That means yeah, Essie. You’ll love being on a boat! When we lived in Louisiana…” he skirts the boat through the water, illustrating our riveting fishing adventure to his sister. Essie’s eyes are drooping - by the time he finishes, she’s fully asleep. And if the uncomfortable warmth from the underside of her onesie is any indication, she’s also just shit herself through the power of my son’s storytelling. Truly a charmed life I live. 

It’s early March and we're in the middle of a massive 7-11 in Middle of Nowhere, Missouri. We're making our way back to New York - Shilan was due to pop out the newest Ayad any day now. I was determined to be there for the event. 

If the way my son has his shark hoodie zipped over his face is any indication, it’s cold - inside and outside the store. He’s also insisted on holding Estelle - the three month old doesn’t seem to mind, but I do, so I keep an eye on my big kid and my little kid as Percy crouches, peering through the mesh-mouth of his shark hoodie at an overpriced Payday. To his credit, his form when holding Essie is borderline textbook - he’d been as serious as a soldier in heeding my warnings about 'supporting her neck’ and ‘holding on to her, no matter what.’

When he turns away, I shove the candybar down my pants. Sue me, I like making my kids happy. I also doubt that the hick town we’ve found ourselves in really cares enough to come after me, even if the cashier does notice me stealing - which I doubt. We’ve almost finished our customary suspicious circling of the store so I can grab all the junk food our hearts desire when we turn the corner to the fizzy drinks aisle, and a man looks up from inspecting a bottle of cotton-candy Faygo.

His sparkling smile cracks his face in half, and I don’t hold back my groan - he raises a hand, and Cody Fleet waves like we’re long lost best friends. “Sally!” He crows, and makes a big show of shutting the fridge, the Faygo quietly slipping into the back pocket of his massive JNCO jeans. He’s even more kitted out in early y2k garb than the last time we had the displeasure of meeting - his belt is blingier than ever, his converse pristine, his massive angel-winged shirt doing an impressive job of hiding whatever else he’s got stuffed in his waistband. The demon is almost as bad as me.

“Hey,” I say, and readjust the honey bun smashed into my bra. He smiles, pleased. We’ve had a few phone conversations - he’s not my first choice of contact, probably never will be, but he’s sort of funny, when he’s not unnervingly canny, and it really is nice to ‘talk shop’ with somebody who cares about the art of theft, even though I feel like a pretentious asshole to phrase it that way. 

“What brings you ‘round these parts?” He simpers, country-boy facade in full effect, and I can’t hold back another eyeroll, another groan, a half-giggle. He laughs, and opens his mouth to respond - but his jaw drops just a little, and his gaze is fixed where…I look to my side, and feel myself stiffen. He’s looking straight at Percy and Estelle, who are tucked into my side.

I like Cody, but I am also aware of his demon nature - whatever he is, the moment he comes for my kids, I come for him. I pull Percy close to my side by his shoulders, smiling with teeth. I lay my hand over Estelle’s little head. “These are my kids,” I offer simply, no other explanation, and his hands wave, his sputtering growing in volume.

“ Kids ?!” He declares, a little hysterical. “Multiple?” I frown, because, okay, rude - but to my relief, he doesn’t seem murder-happy - just confused. He lets out another laugh, and runs a hand through his corn-blonde hair. “Sally…” he says, and shakes his head. “I know you bat for the other team, but…” he lets out a low whistle, almost impressed, “...twice?” I frown harder, because, wow, fucking dickhead, but Percy beats me to the punch.

“Who are you?” He asks, and Cody’s attention snaps to him again. He kneels and holds out his hand, smiling in a way that might be charming if he weren’t as rhinestoned as a disco ball. “I’m Cody. One of your mom’s friends,” he winks up at me, and I return it with a deadpan stare. Percy doesn’t even attempt to seem interested - he takes a step back, and tugs at my tank top. “You’re weird,” he declares to the store at large, gripping Essie harder, and Cody laughs again. He looks absolutely delighted at my child’s disdain. He must have some sort of eye twitch - he winks at me again.

“As charming as their mom,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. Fucking asshole. He coos as Estelle, who returns a gurgle, little traitor, and stands up again. He gives me a look - it’s judgemental, it’s discerning, and it’s sort of worried, all at once. 

“How’s that gun working out for you? Or that dog?” He asks suddenly, even though I know he knows that I made that shit up to get him to leave me alone the first time we met. I make a so-so hand motion, and he hums. Despite my better judgment, we walk out of the store together and back to The Agora’s door. Percy scrambles inside, face still obscured by his hoodie, but his glare at Cody is evident. He takes Essie with him, and I hear the rustle of a blanket. He must be laying Essie’s tummy-time mat out. 

I lean against my RV, looking Cody up and down. We sort of size each other up. Somewhere, a tumbleweed blows past. He draws first - a deep intake of breath, a smile as he looks up at the windows of the loft, where Percy sleeps. I am suddenly incredibly conscious of the cowboy pictures glued there. Not like our shitbox has any sort of aesthetic value anyways, but still. 

“Sally,” he says, hooking his fingers into his belt. His smile, somehow, turns serious. “You should be careful. I’m sure you know but -” his eyes gleam in a way that’s not human, but not malicious, still enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck, “-well, you know.” He waves a hand, blaise-fair. “I know,” I snip back, because this conversation isn’t telling me anything new. My children are hunted by monsters because they are half-alien and smell like peaches and cream to any nearby evil spirits. Cody Fleet is some sort of male nymph who likes gas stations and hitting on homeless women. Shilan Ayad is beautiful. Facts of life. 

He nods, and seems to mull something over. “I don’t usually do this, but…” he trails off, rummaging around in one of his ridiculously large pockets. He doesn’t even attempt to make whatever sort of magic bullshit he’s doing subtle - his forearms sizzle gold, like he’s smeared on more glitter and self-tanner, and from his painfully 2000s jeans he pulls a gun. An honest to G-O-D gun.

I take a step back, pressing myself to the RV. My heart races like a rabbit. He shakes his head at my reaction, but he doesn’t laugh. “I’m not shooting you - can’t believe I’d say that, huh? I’m just so rogue-like and handsome, right? Real air of a criminal. Stick em up!” he glances at the loft windows again. “Your windows reminded me of someone, and I think he’d probably want you to have this. It doesn’t really serve me, even though it’s sentimental. Also, if you’re going to keep fighting that good fight much longer…” he tilts his head, and holds the gun out towards me, an offer. His drawl is so heavy it’s downright performative, but he’s not joking. Not right now. 

“You’ll need this. Seriously.” I stare at Cody Fleet. He shimmers in the sunset. And like I’m making a deal with the devil, I take the gun from his hands. 

My hands are trembling, as I turn it over and over, like the details of it will change. It’s a real revolver - I’d never seen one outside of the pages of some dusty american history book, back when I’d been a pimple-faced kid. The grip is smooth, aged wood. A nearly indecipherable inlay of a horse rests against my palm. I manage to open the chamber, and I see the bullets - they’re pristine. There’s also only five. Duh. My heart sinks.

His voice startles me from my trance. “Don’t bother being cautious with it. Don’t bother using it on other people.” He chews his lower lip, propping his hip to the side, glancing nervously at the sky. His voice lowers. “And don’t bother worrying about bullets, neither. Self-replenishing. Neat feature for the original owner. You do have to cock that hammer every time. It’s got an antique charm, sort of outdated. You’ll figure it out -” he watches me drop the hammer of the gun, John Wayne’s voice echoing in my ears. You don’t grow up in a trailer park in Nebraska with a Dad who you call Pop without learning at least a little about guns, old and new, from shitty TV movies and paranoid neighbors.

I point the muzzle to the ground, and let my finger drop the trigger - predictably, nothing happens. I let the hammer rest on its empty chamber, and tuck the gun into my waistband. I can read between the lines. I remember some of the Percy Jackson books - those kids got magical golden swords that slay monsters in awesome fashion, I’ve received a secondhand gun better suited in a museum that shoots bullets only as fast as I can push them forward in the chamber. There’s a joke in here somewhere. He takes a step back, and nods in acquiesce. 

I meet his eyes. “Thank you,” I say, embarrassingly choked up, and he smiles, pleased as punch. At the moment, lesbianism be damned, deals with the devil forgotten, I could just kiss this horribly vibrant man-demon-creature thing in human skin.

“Don’t mention it, seriously. Just doing as I do, for a friend!” He winks conspiratorially at me, and miracles abound, I wink back. He spins on his heel, and saunters to an obnoxiously new green motorcycle. He gives me a big wave, kicks off, and skirts down the freeway road, bad pop-rock music blaring from his speakers. He’s going at least 30 over the limit. In a matter of seconds, he’s disappeared over the horizon line.

I’m left in his wake, incredibly grateful, and for once in this life, after seven years, left with a real fighting chance.

I climb back into my shitbox with a smile. 

Chapter Text

Sepehr is my favorite child, and he’s not even mine. 

He stares, completely focused, at his older sister and Percy, who duel with foam swords in the Ayad’s living room. I try to get his attention, but he only flickers his big dark eyes up at me with disapproval and continues leaning forward, his chubby infant face enraptured as Dima spears the notebook paper crown from my son’s head with a cry of triumph. It’s funny enough to make me laugh, and Percy shoots me a look of acute betrayal. Downright devastation. 

The baby’s concentration is unbroken - it gives me crazy deja-vu to little Dima in the liquor store, glaring at me like she could see the worth of my soul. 

I smooth my hand over Sepehr’s little bald head - it’s totally unlike the other newborns I’ve been exposed to. It’s endearing. Having Essie has made me much more prone to automatic cuddling and he’s like a little squirming teddy-bear. Unlike Essie, he doesn’t throw up all over me the second I let my guard down. She senses weakness, my daughter. I bring him to my chest, and the cute aggression is so strong that I have the passing thought that I might be cutting off his oxygen supply. He gives me a look so loathsome for someone with poor eyesight that it sends me spiraling into giggles again, and leaning back on the carpet.

“You just can’t stand me, huh?” I murmur to him, delicately poking his stomach with my finger. He sighs (actually sighs, what the hell!) and closes his tiny eyes, which tells me he’s done with the conversation. I’m sure the shaking of my chest as I hold back laughter probably makes him think it’s nap time. 

Essie looks perfectly happy to be bounced on Shilan’s knee, cooing and burbling as my friend claps along to the baby programming on TV. In contrast to Sepehr, she’s got a full head of hair - shiny and thick for a baby, and both Shilan and Amer had treated her like a little doll when they’d seen her again. I could tell that they were riding high off the ecstasy of having their second baby, and it leaked into every interaction with the kids. Essie had eaten the attention up in stride, and was rocking a comically large headband bow that made her look like a very adorable cabbage patch baby. 

Percy tumbles over the back of the sofa, and Dima jumps on the cushion next to her mother and Essie, standing imperiously over the edge. Her foam sword is leveled like she’s preparing to sever his head from his shoulders. She adjusts Percy’s paper crown on her pigtailed head, and declares, as serious as the grave to my son, “You are a fake king. Yield.” Shilan gives her an unimpressed look, and that’s enough for Dima to come back to the floor, still circling around the sofa to corner Percy again. 

What a vocabulary. I wonder what Percy will do next. He scoffs, and leans back. “I am not,” he declares simply, and jabs his foam sword at her ankles - it works, and he swipes the crown from her head when she squeals and jumps. “Cheater! You - you -” she’s giggling, but trying to seethe, “you are such a miscreant, a -” she turns to Shilan, and climbs onto the sofa cushion again, kneeling next to her Mother.

“Mama, what’s another word I could use?” She asks, and Shilan hums. “Cad. Criminal. Scoundrel. Deviant,” Shilan supplies, and I can’t hold back my laughter at Percy’s look of utter betrayal. Them’s the breaks, kid. Against my chest, Sepehr squirms. Poor baby - I coo in apology. Dima parrots these words back to Percy, who glares. He scrambles to Shilan’s other side, laying his hands over Essie’s ears and glaring at Dima.

“Don’t say that in front of Essie! What if I told Sep that you’re a -” he looks meaningfully at Shilan, who leans her head against the sofa cushions. She’s such an instigator, as is her nature in teaching highschool English - she rattles off words like Evildoer, Enemy, Wretch to which Percy looks more and more dissatisfied. He shakes his head at last, and breaks away from the sofa, picking up his sword again. He swings it by the plastic hilt, and bounds for Dima, who squeals, and darts for the corner of the living room.

He’s silent, but in the way that I imagine could be called malicious and worrying. I think that any counselor in the tri-state area would cut off their own thumb to get our family in a room and really figure out what goes on in these brains of ours. We could inspire a thousand research studies. He battles Dima back, and props his hands on his hips. With dramatics that could make us a killing if I ever scrounge up enough for him to participate in extracurriculars, he makes his way over to me and holds out his hands expectedly.

I look over at Shilan, and she nods in the affirmative. Carefully, I hand my son Sepehr, who is still awake, and very, very grumpy. Percy smiles, bouncing him. He pokes Sepehr’s bald head - both he and Dima seem to be utterly fascinated by the baby’s lack of hair, much to Amer’s amusement - and says, like it’s a very normal thing for a seven year old to say, “Dima is a fucking wastoid.”

I blink at him, horrified. Shilan falls into laughter, even though she’s shaking her head in disapproval. Dima evidently didn’t hear - when she shuffles over, she demands for Percy to repeat what he said. I furiously shake my head - do NOT repeat what you just said to this little girl, little boy. Amer chuckles from wherever the fuck in the apartment he’s hanging out at. 

“That is not okay to say about Dima,” I scold, and he scowls. In his home-made cow-print sweater and strings of poorly beaded necklaces that spell out things like Sheriff Jackson and Best Big Brother , he’s got the gall to argue with me. Like he’s the disappointed mother, holding an infant on his hip. Are you serious? Only my kid. “ Mom , You say that when people on the high-way piss you off! You - you said that the other day, you yelled, really loud, Move, you fucking wastoid!” He accuses me, and well, I’m not beating these accusations. I do, in fact, have the tendency to curse out people on the freeway - I just like to think that I’m being quiet about it. Not apparently, as Percy has helpfully pointed out. 

Shilan’s howling - I guess the way he phrased it is funny enough for her to let me handle it. I’m mortified. I wrap my hands around his shoulders, and shake my head. “Oh-kay - I say that to those people on the highway because I don’t know them or like them - you know Dima, and you like her. It’s not okay to call her that. Or to curse - when you’re my age, you can say F-U-C-K-I-N-G as much as you want. Adult word. Also, lay off on saying ‘piss’ alright? I’ve told you, that’s a…questionable word too. Others can take that the wrong way, shark boy,” I finish, feeling optimistic about my chances of him listening to me.

He levels me with a look that’s unimpressed, and rolls his eyes. What the fuck. He nods, but I get the sense that he’s placating me. At least on the piss thing. To be fair, I do say it - a lot. In general, I curse a lot; probably more than I should around my kids. Scratch that; definitely more. I’m scared that if anybody ever asks Percy what his first memory is, it’ll be one of me fiddling with the RV’s septic-tank and getting so foul mouthed it’d make a sailor blush. 

“Understand?” I reiterate, just to get a verbal response, and he nods again. “Yeah…” he turns to Dima, his mouth downturned - hey, he does feel guilty! - and apologizes, “Sorry, Dima. That wasn’t nice. You just pissed me-” our eyes lock. Only my kid, man. I slowly shake my head. He backtracks, smart seven year old, and says, “-made me really mad. Sorry.” 

Shilan is wiping tears from her eyes. This whole ‘being responsible’ thing sort of blows. I see why I avoid it as much as I can. 

I debate not telling Percy about the gun for a long while after it’s given to me. 

On the one hand, it’s a magical gun. Of course I shouldn’t tell my elementary school son. It’s not like I ever leave it sitting around the RV - I sleep with the thing digging an imprint into the mattress below my pillow, for God’s sake. I’ve taken up the bad habit of constantly touching it - laying my hand on my hip, wearing drawstring pants or tucking it into the side of my briefs. That’s kind of gross, but I promise I wipe the thing down. 

On the other hand, it’s a magical gun and I’ve got two magical kids. The gun is being used to protect the kids. The kids should know about it, in case there was ever - and this is a big knock on wood moment - a time when they might have to - what? Use it? Know of it? I hadn’t had the chance to practice with it - I could hardly whip it out without explanation and do some target practice in the woods somewhere without explaining what exactly I was doing to the RV and its child occupants that would come with me. My Pop, bless him, had a gun my whole childhood.

Fuck’s sake, that rifle had hung in a place of honor above our back door for years. Despite the eight of us being little shits, we’d understood from a very early age - the gun is not a toy. Don’t touch the gun, do not bring the gun down, and don’t ever, in your spirit, get it in your head to point the muzzle at anyone else or yourself unless you accept the fact that you might just send them to meet Christ. My mother had phrased it that way too, as prim as she was - You want to meet Jesus? Bring that gun down and point it at yourself. Don’t ever get it in your head to do such a thing. Your poppa’ll whoop you if you live. I’d gotten the message, and I’d gotten it fast. Later, as a teenager, I’d been given a crash course in shooting and gun safety from my hardass shaky-handed Grandmother using her own hunting gun. That experience had driven the point home, something engraved in my white-trash mind that couldn’t be scrubbed by nursing school or having two kids in an alternate dimension - the gun is not a toy. Be aware of a gun, treat it like a wild animal, and don’t play with it. 

That’s what pushes me to tell Percy. I need to practice shooting this thing. The better I am at shooting, the more likely it is that I can protect my children. The more aware Percy is of the gun’s danger, the less likely he is to ever stumble upon it and treat it like a fun toy - that would be just my luck, my cowboy obsessed son getting his hands on something that looked straight out of a Western and deciding to point it at his sister and drop the hammer. The thought gives me a headache. Are demigods harmed by weapons made to kill monsters? I can’t remember, and I don’t want to find out. I have a creeping feeling that the answer is probably yes. 

I broach the subject when Essie’s been put to nap. It’s high noon - ha! - on a sunny May day. I’m watching Percy kick a ball around the patch of grass I’ve chosen to park our RV in. We’re somewhere in rural New Jersey, and he’s having a bit of ‘recess’ - probably a welcome reprieve between me cramming end-of-the-school-year arithmetic into his little head and Estelle demanding as much attention as any newborn can have. I close my eyes, and rub my temples. I let out a sigh. Let’s do this.

“Come ‘ere!” I yell, mindful of the sleeping and very grumpy infant in the vehicle behind me, and he turns. He juggles the ball in his arms, and he comes to me. His face is tanned from the sun. “Hey,” he says, and I smile. I can’t resist ruffling his hair, even though he yelps and leans away from me. “Mom, no,” he whines, and I laugh. I sober up pretty quickly though, and pat the step next to me. He sits, and he drops the ball. That’s good.

I bring my hand to his hip. I search his big, baby eyes (because God, both of these kids are just babies) - and almost chicken out. “What I’m about to show you is not a toy, okay, Perce? Never, ever, will you use it as a toy. Can you make that pledge for me?” I ask, and his interest is piqued. I see it in the shift of his eyes. Honest boy he is, he raises his hand. “I, Percy Jackson, will not use it as a toy,” he declares seriously, and blinks up at me, his hand falling to his lap, “...what is it?” 

I bring out the gun. I’m careful to keep it close to me, and hold it downward. I hear his excited gasp. His fingers twitch, and skitter around his lap. “That’s a Colt, Mom…” he breathes, sounding very much like he wants to take it out of my hands and play with it, and I blink, because, what? I raise my eyebrows, and nod. Is it? I didn’t know that. Whatever that means. “Whatever it is, it’s a gun,” I try to think of what he reads in those books of his, what might make this conversation mildly less painful for a kid, and can’t come up with anything, “A real gun. It isn’t like your toys, okay? It’s not a prop, like in your books, no matter how cool it looks.” I wait until he excitedly nods to continue. “Don’t ever touch this gun, unless for some reason, I tell you to. In detail. To your face. If you touch the gun, it could go off accidentally unless you know what you’re doing. You don’t want to accidentally shoot someone - you could hurt yourself, or me, or Estelle. You could kill someone. I will only ever shoot this gun if I intend to kill something. Stone dead. Capiche, kid?” 

He nods, and his fingers grasp at nothing in mid-air. I can tell, suddenly, that he wants to touch it very badly. I put that thought on freeze frame, and ask, “What’d you say it was called? This real gun?” Sue me, maybe I’m being obnoxious, but I want to drive the point home. His reaction has just convinced me I’ve done the right thing. 

He gasps, and his hands flutter. He scrambles backwards into the RV, and up the ladder to his loft - I lean my head back and watch him as he practically throws himself down the ladder, ignoring my hissed warning, toting a massive hardback book in his arms. It’s the Illustrated Encyclopedia of the Old West. He’s shoved pieces of notebook paper in between certain pages - his writing is large, round, and almost indecipherable if you don’t know what you’re looking for, but he flips with certainty to a page.

He can’t hold himself back anymore, his smile breaking across his face. Percy presents the book to me, practically vibrating. True enough, there’s a black and white photograph of the very gun I’m holding in my lap. Looking between the photograph and real-life thing in my hand feels disorientating. There’s also a carefully colored drawing attempting to replicate the gun (and honestly, all things considered, it’s pretty good for a kid), under which my son’s handwriting carefully spells out the name of the gun. 

“It’s a Colt Single Action Army, Mom. Look! It’s the same one. It looks like an origi-original model. It was super popular in the West. It was used by outlaws and law-men, and it was the standard issue of the US Army for, like, twenty years. That’s cool, right?” I nod, impressed - not at the gun, but at just how much my son loves this sort of shit. He recites all this knowledge without glancing at the page himself with the certainty that can only come from being really, really into something. Like me with CPR methodology. Can’t CPR if you can’t ABC and all that. 

He continues, the book still proudly presented to me. “It came in three lengths, but the shorter ones are called the Civilian and the Gunfighter model. That one’s a gunfighter, I think, cause they said, right here…” he points to a Fun Fact! Section on the page, “...that you can about lay your hand on the barrel and just about cover it. Yours does, see?” I look, and true enough, he’s right again. “That one’s a six shooter, which is even cooler. Every cowboy had one, and they always hold it like…” he does a pretty impressive pose, right hand stretched out as if it’s a gun, eyes lowered to the horizon. “...like that.”

He turns to me, and snaps the book shut. He’s squirming from where he’s sat, and he stands up, beginning to do a sort of half-step. His eyes are focused on the gun - the Colt. I reiterate, “Still, this is not a toy, alright? I’m glad you told me all that, and that you know all of that, but just because it’s cool doesn’t mean you can treat it like you’re a gun-slinging cowboy, alright?” He doesn’t nod, but he does jump, just hopping in front of me, excitement pouring off him.

Carefully, I pop all five shining bullets from the chamber. I tuck them into my pocket. I angle the empty gun downwards, and gesture him forward. “I am giving you express permission to touch it, right now, at this moment, okay? Just because you’re so excited, and you’re seeing something cool in real life.”

He squeals. Honest to God, squeals. The moment it’s offered, shark boy takes the empty gun in his hands, holding it up to his eyes. My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest, but there’s nothing he can hurt himself with since the gun is empty - I make sure the bullets haven’t magically zipped back to the gun, and all things lucky, they haven’t. Small blessings.

He runs his hands over every bit of it, dropping the hammer, opening the chamber, and inspecting it like he’s an appraiser on Pawn Stars and I’ve brought him something truly fascinating. “I’m holding a real Peacemaker,” Percy whispers in awe, and I don’t really know what that means, but I’m glad he’s happy about it. 

I blow the heads off of an unfortunate series of ragdolls propped against logs, and receive my applause with a bow, waving gunsmoke out of my face. My ears ring. Perks of shooting a gun that was last considered haute couture during the civil war. 

“Thank you, thank you!” I shout to Percy behind me - he gives me a double thumbs up, and maneuvers Essie’s sticky little hands to do the same from her place in his lap. Both of their dark heads are covered in adorably fuzzy earmuffs - my makeshift solution so they wouldn’t lose their hearing because of my frequent shooting practice.

Paired with their late summer outfits, they look odd as all hell - my son’s oversized patchwork overalls and mismatched flip flops clash horribly with the bright purple muffs, and Essie looks like her head’s in a different temperature zone than the rest of her body, which is just covered in a diaper and Dumbo shorts. It’s hot as hell - I hadn’t wanted to wrestle her into a onesie just to watch her sweat through it. Or shit it. Doing laundry in the RV is already a task and a half without increasing the supply of dirty clothes I’ve got to clean between the three of us. 

He yells louder than he needs to, wiggling Essie in his lap. “Good job, Mom! Can I set up the new targets?” I lift the hammer, tuck the gun into my waistband, and amble my way back towards the RV. I press kisses to his and Essie’s face, smiling when she attempts one back. She’s too cute. I take her from Percy, and push the earmuffs from his ears. “Sure,” I say, and dig around in our designated junk box - I manage to find four chipped bowling pins, and hand them to him with all the sanctity of a chancellor presenting robes to a recent graduate. 

“Set them up real difficult, okay?” I stress, and he nods, his eyes fixed firmly on the forest. He scans the forest, and scampers off, still within eyesight, to do just that. I hold Essie in my arms, and rest my chin on her little head. She’s a little squirmy, but I guess I don’t blame her - at eight months, she’s started getting the hang of not exactly walking, but holding onto surfaces and sort of bobbing, doing a fair impression of a buoy in the water. Enough to make any mom wonder when exactly the kid was going to start running about her RV and tugging things off of surfaces and screaming out, Mommy, Mommy, Look, Mommy. Totally not pulling from previous experiences right now. I had a creeping feeling that if Percy’s twos could be described as terrible, Essie’s would be better predicted as catastrophic. I both dread and heavily anticipate the day she makes the jump from buoying to walking. 

I hold her up, still keeping an eye on Percy in my peripherals. He’s managed to shimmy up a thick tree trunk, maneuvering a bowling pin into the knot there. Held in the air, Essie curls her legs closer to her, sort of like she’s preparing an epic cannonball maneuver, or an incredibly talented somersault. “Do you like your Dumbo shorts?” I ask her, and she predictably doesn’t respond, but she does kick her legs in a way that I’ll take as an affirmative. I smile at her, and watch as she smiles back, letting out a cry of excitement. I bring her closer to me, rubbing our noses together - yes, I am that type of mother, shut up - and pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek. “I think you’d like more summer shorts, right, sweet girl? What about - dino shorts? Or Christmas barbie shorts?” She predictably doesn’t respond, but gives another kick that I’ll take as an affirmative. I’ve been on a vintage comforter kick - that is to say, I have both a dinosaur and Christmas barbie comforter I’d managed to salvage from a thrift store somewhere along the highway, and I was raging for an excuse to make more baby clothes.

It wasn’t like we had any shortage of baby-related items selling out of The Agora. With the arrival of Essie, sewing had well and truly shown itself to be an incredibly useful skill to have. Not only was I making a pretty penny selling baby rompers and little onesies to every starry-eyed new parent who would buy them, I was also the semi-successful seller of several cloth diapers. I’d been unsure about their market value, but it seemed like a lot of people who approached a clothes shop on wheels were also the same people who appreciated a nice hand sewn diaper for a baby. I guess there’s a certain level of charm in knowing that the carefully constructed cloth crafted by a single mother of two will soon be covered in your child’s shit for only a small fee. 

Essie’s coo breaks me out of my train of thought, and I just can’t resist it - I bring her to me, and cuddle harder. “Look at Percy, hun,” I say, and idly play with her socked foot as he finally shimmies his way down the tree, no bowling pins in his arms. “That’s your brother, hiding bowling pins for me to blast. Wild, right? That you’re here, and you’ve got an older brother, and you’re living out an RV - this is it, girly. Hell or highwater, we’re the Jacksons. World’s worst sitcom. You’re stuck with us,” I state, and my baby - because this is my baby - doesn’t respond. Her hair smells like baby powder. We’ve run out - again. I’ll have to buy more.

I think about Paula - about Aphrodite - looking at the inside of my RV. Looking at my small supply of canned food, my lank hair I washed with dollar-tree shampoo, the fact I didn’t even have my own bedroom - what made her think it was okay? To just - drop a baby on me, and leave? The thought niggles at me.

Percy takes Essie from my arms, slips his earmuffs on, and the three of us collectively give each other a round of thumbs-up; Percy is giggling, Essie’s chubby little face is about as content as an infant can be, and I’m smiling. I try to brand this image in my mind, for whatever might happen next - my two kids, mine, safe and mostly fed and as happy as I could ask. 

My smile sort of slips off my face when I turn to face the poor bowling pins, in the trees beyond the clearing. I raise the gun, a little higher than you might think, and I go for the first bowling pin. It’s sat on a log. Easy pickings. Before I drop the hammer, I think about Paula again. This time, I just feel sick. I don’t want to think about it with my babies behind me, my fingers wrapped around the cold steel of a gun, but I do. I think about the sex. My first time. It makes me sad to think that such a magical experience was - what? Just an excuse for her to drop a baby on me? A test, to see if she liked me just that much to bring another life into this world - the world she knows to be cruel, because she’s got an abundance of children. Children who she just dropped into life, and waved goodbye. Other kids like Estelle. Other people like me. My finger slips, and my shot flies high. It misses the first bowling pin. Rats.

I search for the second, and find it nestled in the branches of a high brush. I must be on my period or something, because I start getting emotional, my fingers trembling against the gun. Now that I was thinking, I just couldn’t stop. I’m no philosopher but - there’s got to be more to life than fear, right? There’s got to be more to life than worry. I know there is. I think about the night after Percy’s eighth birthday, just earlier that August - we’d camped near the beach, in the RV, and slid the door open. I remember the cool breeze of the ocean - I remember the way the fairy lights had looked. The way my children had felt underneath my arms, as we’d sat on my bed that was also our sofa and watched My Little Pony on the box TV that hadn’t seen a peaceful day since Percy was a shark-toothed toddler. Percy had sung the theme song, big pieces of leftover cake making him slur his words, and Essie had seemed enraptured, wide-eyed at the colorful ponies. I’d just liked it. Afterwards, with Percy in bed and Essie in her crib, I’d made myself a cup of coffee. It tasted like dirt, but it had burned my throat so nicely, and I’d turned the television on mute and watched Dirty Dancing with only the subtitles, so as not to wake them, and tried to forget for just one moment how absurd my life was.

I try to focus, and shoot for the second pin. No dice. I only succeed in sending a branch tumbling to the ground.

Third pin. This one is more of a challenge to find, and my son’s craftier than I expected - there’s a big piece of twine keeping the bowling pin swaying in air from its position on the lowest hanging branch of a tree. I watch the bowling pin make a lazy half circle in the wind. I feel incredibly selfish to even think about it, but the quiet moments are so much rarer, now. With two children, every day is a day about - what they will eat, where we will go, what we’ll do, how we’ll plan for the next day. I squeeze my eyes shut - which is antithetical to attempting to hit something when you’re shooting - and try to, for one second, think back to college. In Iowa. A lifetime ago. The way my dorm room looked. How I’d study at my shitty desk and knock back energy drinks and think My future, my life, my career, mine, mine, mine. Sometimes I miss it. I can admit that. On the days where we just drive and drive and drive and Nebraska gets farther and farther away. On the days where the kids are driving me up the wall. On the days where I get those sticky creeping feelings so much that I’m on edge the whole day and neither child leaves my sight - I miss the dorm room. I miss studying. I miss casual burgers at 3 AM and having no one to report to and just being me. I shoot, with my eyes closed, incredibly stupidly, and predictably, hit nothing but air. 

I force my eyes open. The sunlight burns. Fourth bowling pin. This is the one in the knot hole of the tree. I’ve mourned my previous life to death and back, in the only way I could - there’s nothing left to mourn. It’s more like longing for a fantasy. Trying to remember details of a book you read a lot as a kid - the irony of that is not lost on me. I don’t hate the life I live now. I just hate - aspects of it. I hate feeling like my choices only matter as much as someone higher than me allows them too. I hate thinking that maybe, when I least expect it, I’ll wake up at my desk in college when the Fates or whoever the fuck it is decides I’ve done enough. They’ve yanked me from my life before - what stops it from happening again? Don’t take me away again. 

Can’t I decide when I’m done? Can’t I be given enough dignity as a grown ass woman to - decide? Decide when and if to have children, decide the safety of my children, decide that, you know, I think I’d like to have an apartment up in Omaha or Lincoln and smoke out on my back porch and not care about all this universe-upturning Alien bullshit and just stay somewhere for a while. Can’t I decide that? 

The fourth bowling pin is no match for me. Smoke clouds my eyes, but I can see the moment it shatters - white shards all over the forest floor. Good thing we’re not cleaning it up. Not today. I tuck the Colt back into my waistband, and decide that I’m done practicing for the day. Demons be damned, I want to sit and sew and listen to Fleetwood Mac and just - think. I need to think. My head feels like it’s stuffed full of comforter cotton.

It’s a quiet night in the RV, and it’s one of those good nights. The kind that makes me really happy - the kind that makes me practice shooting, and not even cuss out needles when I prick my fingers sewing endlessly and the kind that still makes a thrill shoot up my spine when I merge onto a highway. You know, one of those corny, my faith in the ability of goodness and light and love has been restored by this night, kind of nights. 

I’ll tell you about it, just as a treat. Picture this: it’s almost on the cusp of fall, and we’re in Minnesota, so it’s chilly. We didn’t drive much that day, which was already a point in its favor. I’d made some good sales, camping outside of a church and catching the afternoon congregation high on the spirit of the Lord, ready to empty their pockets out into mine. I’d snuck a phone call to Shilan, and we’d managed to spin-out a half hour conversation even as Essie treated my breast like a teething toy and Percy doodled in the grime of the phone booth.  

It was almost six PM when I slid a frozen pizza into our scratched toaster oven, turned on the TV, and finally finished hemming a shirt that had been bothering me since forever. I was able to get through all of Grease in the next two hours - and that was nice, because scrounging up the DVD at the Walmart bargain bin had been a stroke of luck. I devoured half of the pizza, and Percy, who had crashed onto my bed with a notebook and alternated between scrawling and watching the movie, pecked away at two slices, eating the crust and then the toppings. Weirdo. Essie joined us about halfway, and was entertained enough to crawl around on the floor of the RV and stand holding onto the bed, something that got my heart racing, just bouncing, perfectly content to not walk, nor make any attempts. I put her to bed eventually, after the movie ended, and stood there for a while over her rickety wooden crib, just holding her. Percy had insisted on staying up - and if by staying up, he meant falling asleep in my bed, not even managing the climb up to the loft, collapsed with twitching hands and dried pizza sauce on his face, then I guess he’d succeeded. 

But yes - there I was, appreciating the weight of Essie in my arms, closing my eyes to hear her little muted breaths better. A little bit of an honest cuddle session - and shut up, because yeah, I do rub noses with my baby and I do cuddle with her. In between wiping shit that somehow managed to crawl up her back and my disastrous attempts at baby baths, these are nice respites. I’d done the same with Percy - baby exposure therapy via lots of hugs and lots of talking. It must work, too, because I’ve started doing it of my own volition.  I’d been carding through her hair, and for a minute, had felt my heart race - certain parts of the underside of her hair were white. Speckled white. A new development. 

For a while, I carefully examined her head. I even brought her over to my sewing desk, turned on the lamp, and maneuvered her head around the ring, so I could see her hair better. Lice? Some sort of baby dandruff? My God, does my baby have a dry scalp? I was already despairing what sort of expensive bullshit ointment or cream I’d have to buy, holding her whitened hair in my hands, when it hit me. It was both funny, and incredibly unfunny. 

I shook with silent laughter when I laid her down in her crib, and woke up Percy as I chuckled over the kitchenette. He stared at me groggily, groaned, and snuggled harder into my comforter. Rude little fucker. That made the whole situation even more comedic to me, so I knelt and put my face in my hands and laughed until I had tears in my eyes. I remembered Paula’s chunky blonde-white highlights. This is absolutely not how normal genetics works; the secondary mom has highlighted hair, so the baby is - what? Born with a balayage? God, what the fuck is wrong with Paula? 

I wheeze out another laugh, bury my face in my arms, and just - laugh. It’s just incredibly funny to me, and it makes an already good night even better. 

Of course, with the good comes the bad. And no matter how much we moved, how noseblind I was with the oodles and oodles of herbs I strung from our RV ceilings and grew in dented bean cans that rattled when we drove, no matter how much I practiced - well, I still had two bright yellow HERE I AM! beacons on me at all times, in the form of my children. 

It’s no surprise to me that sometimes, I wake up to the RV rustling, and not normal rustling. A suspicious rustle. Some nights, I’ll check on Percy in the loft, and Estelle, in the crib, and creep outside, hand on my gun. And sometimes, I find things.

Before, I might’ve driven away - now, no matter the form, I aim, and I fire. Brute force is my favorite method of logicking - if they’re human, the bullets won’t hurt them. If they’re not human - well, they get hurt. Besides, what normal person could blame me for firing a warning shot - I was a homeless lady living in an oversized vehicle with two children; why the fuck wouldn’t I have a weapon on me? 

There’s a satisfaction to it. A gas station attendant fiddling with our wheels gets a bullet for the keeping as soon as she bares her three-inch fangs, and the hole in the middle of her skull from where the Colt ripped through soon melts, as does the rest of her, into a glittering pile of gold. I’ll admit, I get a sort of thrill out of it - I think I’ve almost got an advantage on them, in many cases. The monsters don’t really see me - well, they do, but they think I’m just the normal sort of mortal crazy, standing between them and their next meal - they think that they’re protected and empowered by the Mist to do whatever the hell they want. It’s too bad - I’m not a mortal sort of crazy, and I’m not wielding a mortal gun.

It’s not always so easy. A man who primped and posed as a police officer with no car and eyes that gleamed in the dark and had knocked on the RV at the ripe hour of 2 PM because we were trespassing in the middle of fuckass nowhere? Insisted on flashing his badge too quickly and too eagerly, asking to just come inside for a few moments? An Illinois badge while we camp out in countryside Indiana? Please. I wasn’t born yesterday. 

You can figure it out. 

I glance both ways, and luck of the draw (ha!) manage two quick shots to his knees, which promptly collapse, and reveal themselves to be an illusioned snake’s body. My ears ring from the noise. Smoke, smoke everywhere - it blinds him, sure, but it blinds me too. He hisses curses at me, and manages to sink his teeth into my leg, right through my jeans, which hurts like hell, and begins trying to drag me. Away from the van, away from my kids. I hang on to the sliding RV door for all life, and kick with my non injured leg. I’m gritting my teeth to not start screaming profanities. I kick like a donkey with my good leg, and beat on his fat head with my forearm, grip on the Colt so tight you might’ve think I glued it there. I can’t get a good grip on the hammer, dammit, and even if I could, it’s not aimed right. My heart feels like it’s going to drop out my ass. 

I hold onto that RV door, hear the telltale sound of Percy opening the loft curtain, because of course, he has ears too, and holler, heart racing, still gripping the door with one hand and attempting to fumble the hammer of the revolver with my other hand, “ Percy Jackson , stay up in that loft! I’m busy, don’t you dare come down right now!” And by the grace of God, something in my tone must tell him that I’m serious - he doesn’t come down, and doesn’t get to witness the beauty of the next few moments. Essie starts crying from her crib, which just makes things that much better. So relaxing.

Snake man digs his teeth deeper into my leg, my grip on the door loosens - I get a firm grip on the revolver, and pull. The lower half of his skull slides off, halved by the bullet, and is dust before it even hits the ground. The feeling of the bullet leaving the chamber is a motion I remember long after the moment itself has passed. I’m left panting, holding onto the RV door, my leg bleeding and limp and my heart racing. I spit into the pile of dust he’s left, and pull the RV door shut behind me, panting. Inside, on the floor, I inspect my leg. It’s…not moving. Limp like a noodle. Hopefully temporarily. Snake venom bullshit. The rest of my body is trembling. Essie’s still crying, and I wiggle out of my jeans, maneuvering my useless leg so I can chuck them into the laundry basket. I lay my hands across my eyes, and try to take deep breaths. 

My two puncture marks are covered with sanitizer and two large Band-Aids, and I practically kiss the Colt, the Peacemaker, in gratitude. Beautiful thing. Beautiful, beautiful thing. 

Later that night, after I’ve jerked us up and around the highway and found another rest stop, I’ll limp to a phone booth. I’ll call Cody Fleet, and ramble on for just a little too long about you know, I think more people should get into Grand Theft Auto, don’t you think they’re sort of underrated, vehicular crimes and he won’t even stop me, so if that overdressed gas station nymph’s got anything going for him, it’s the patience of a saint.  

The paralysis goes away, in a few days. It’s a pain in the ass to deal with, because I have to figure out how to drive with my left leg, and even worse to field Percy’s concerned little questions and half-glances. I tell him that I got bit by a mean snake, and it’s fucked over my leg, at least temporarily, and I just wasn’t wanting him to see me, uh, get rid of the thing. He accepts the explanation, and if that makes me feel worse about lying, well, there’s a kernel of truth in my tale. Essie, still burbling, almost walking, but with the chubbiest little hands and sweetest little attitude, presses extra kisses to my face for those next days. She knows what’s up. 

Later, after the puncture wounds pus and bleed and heal, I’ll be left with a discolored blob of skin halfway up my right calf. I wear that oddity with pride. Our monster encounters aren’t usually so obvious, but they’re always a pain in the ass. 

Chapter Text

November 2000

The cold of the cop car raises goose bumps on my stomach. It doesn’t help that I’ve got a bruise there from being slammed into the surface. My thin sports bra isn’t doing much for protection against the late fall weather, even in somewhere as temperate as Florida. 

“Christ, you can’t let me put on a fucking shirt?” I swear at the officer raising me from the surface to maneuver me to the backseat of the car, and want to throw up at the way my voice is shaking. My greasy hair is hanging into my face, and the scent of my own nervous sweat makes me feel like I’m on the world’s worst roller coaster ride.

I crane my neck back to where the RV is parked, hidden beneath a tree at the back of the strip mall’s parking lot - and my heart thuds out of my chest. The curtain has been swiftly moved back into place, but behind it, I swear I can see the curl of little fingers. Which means that my son is having the pleasure of watching me be arrested. At least he’s not coming out. At least the cops…don’t know my children are in there. 

Or would it be better if they did? No, maybe not. A homeless lady’s two kids living out of an RV? A zing of fear zips through me. They’d be gone in the system before my happy ass could spell CPS. But alone in the RV, they weren’t much better. What was I going to do? Why’d that stupid fucking employee have eagle eyes and spot me slipping cans down my pants?

God. I feel sick. I need to get back to the RV. I can’t leave Percy and Essie alone.

“Let me go, you stupid fucker!” I hiss, and throw my body in all sorts of directions as the cop tries to move me, which isn’t smart. I’m basically hissing, “Let me go, let me go, let me go…” I snarl at him, and the crowd of people, including the stupid fucking assistant manager of the Kroger who called the police on me for stealing - they’re all watching, all of them, but the looks on their faces blur together in my panic. 

I’m not making the smartest decisions today, am I? I catch the assistant manager’s eyes, and I somehow raise my voice higher as the cop fights to shove me into the back of the car, “I’m going to find you and hurt you, do you in, you stupid fucking bitch, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill -” I’m finally in the seat, and the door is swiftly shut and locked. Great. Goody. I’m still screaming as the cop gets into the front seat, beating my reddened shoulders against the door, the metal grate, anything, and my eyes - my eyes aren’t on that stupid bitch, they’re on the RV, on my kids who are left alone in my RV. My God. At least Percy has the gun? At least my child has a gun. At least I managed a panicked hand off of the colt. Great. That’s my consolation.

I’m screaming as we pull off, and coughing up phlegm, and the cop is telling me to calm down, Ma’am, and obviously thinks I’m having some sort of break, but how can I be calm when my kids are left in that fucking vehicle without me? Where anyone, any demon, any vengeful spirit, could come and get them. Because of me. Because for once in my stupid fucking second life, I’d gotten caught. 

By the time we get to the precinct, I’m crying.

I get to make three phone calls, after my arrest and booking with the Miami Police Department. It’s got to be night time, and I’ve been locked in a holding cell for the last however many hours it took me to calm down and not scream at any officer who approached, but thank goodness, I get the right to make a phone call at the dead of night. While my children are alone in my shitty RV that basically loses components every time I drive it, I have the right, according to the local legislature, to make a phone call.

Three phone calls. I only want to call one person. Really, there's only one person I should call.

I want to call Shilan. I stare at my hands in the phone booth, the short sleeves of my gray jumpsuit brushing at my arms. They’d taken my street clothes after my booking. There are strands of hair between my fingers. I’d been…tearing my hair out. Just ever so slightly. I watch the strands flutter to the ground, raise my hand to my scalp, and hiss. It’s tender. Sore. My fingers come away slightly bloody. Obviously because I’d been ripping the fucking hair out of my head. Duh. I feel like more of a numbskull than usual. 

Even though it’d been hours before, my eyes are still sore from the flash of the camera. I was now the proud owner of a mugshot that was undoubtedly ugly - me, hair a mess, pupils like needles, my lips bleeding from my own teeth - proudly displayed as Jackson, Sally courtesy of the MPD of Florida. I’d told them to kiss my ass, but that didn’t make it on my record, unfortunately enough.

I really want to call Shilan, but I think of what she’ll think , and my heart stutters. 

What would I even say? Hey, Shilan, funny that I’m calling you in the middle of the night - I got arrested because I’m a frequent flier in terms of the five-finger discount and it finally caught up to me. I’ll probably be facing at least six months in prison but no more than a year because it’s my first criminal offense, but maybe more, because I am probably going to catch a charge for resisting arrest because I couldn’t calm the fuck down. Could you pretty please drive, say, eight to ten hours down to Florida to be with my children? And keep my children safe for that same period of time? For the next business year or so? And also keep CPS off their back? Assuming they haven’t already been torn to shreds because I’m not with them. Like, right now. Because they’re being hunted by -

God, no. What the fuck? My fingers shake, and I put my head in my hands. I’m yanking out strands near the top of my head again when a terrible, terrible idea comes to mind. A number I know that just might help me - assuming I play my cards right and sound less like a charity case and more like a business partner. A demon I’m ready to sell my soul to if it gets me out of jail and with my children back in my arms without facing the consequences of my actions.

I really want to call Shilan. I dial, and I call Cody Fleet.

He answers, and his voice is highly amused, like he’s just gotten done laughing at something. As usual, he’s driving too fucking fast - air buffets the speaker. “Hey Cody,” I start off before he can, which is rare form for our conversations. “I’m currently at the MPD - that’s the Miami Police Department’s - downtown precinct, held under charges of, well, take a guess. How’s your day going?” I ask, and the lingering laughter on his breath dries up.

“...my day’s going a lot better now that you’ve called. How’d you manage that , Sally? Getting caught?” He simpers, and the jackass manages to sound judgemental. Of course his weird sense of empathy dries up just at the point where I need it to extend. Fucking bitch. I want to slam the receiver against the wall and scream until the cops have to really wrestle me back into the cell, but I manage a harsh huff of air.

I stare at the dirty wall in front of me. A gnat buzzes around my face. “Well, we all have off days,” I say, as if this off day didn’t have the capacity to ruin my entire groove and cause a monumental breakdown of everything I’d ever worked for, “- and for the best of us, those off days are catastrophic. And Kroger’s got tighter security than Walmart, which doesn’t help. Fucking manager saw me putting chili packets in my bra. Didn’t even make it to the RV.” That’s the ticket right there - he laughs, and hums. His fingers tap.

“That’s true,” he agrees, sounding as smug as ever, “...but I still find myself a little disappointed, Sally. That’s so…” I can sense his nose wrinkling, “...base. Not to say it’s provincial, that you were stealing food or something from that Kroger, you’ve got to eat, but I would’ve thought you’d go out on something bigger. Tricky fingers are meant for more than stuffing food down your pants, even though that’s half the fun.” He’s basically lecturing me, and I lean my forehead against the wall, exhaling. Take it, Sally. Just take it. 

My brain’s going a million miles an hour. “So sweet in my hour of need!” I enthuse, and he snorts. “But I didn’t call you to get bitched at. Listen, Cody…” and now it’s serious, because I rarely call this glorified boogeyman his ‘name’ to his face, “...my kids. They were…left alone, in my RV. I don’t have someone I can call to watch ‘em. My son…” I’m hesitant to mention my kids’ names too much around Cody, as I push through, “...he’s got the gun, and he’s watched me use it but - you know.” I know he knows what I’m talking about. Whatever little fucked up dryad or devil’s helper Cody is - he’s savvy to it. What my children are. What dangers they face in this world.

He hums in agreement. He does know. “I get that. I know you’ve gotta be worried for them. Especially with their…” he’s sucking his teeth, his lip smacking, “...unique conditions. How long have you been in custody?”

I sigh. I close my eyes, and stare at the back of my eyelids. “Eight hours. I looked at the clock - it’s been about eight hours.” Eight hours away from my children. Eight hours of them, in the RV, in that strip mall parking lot, alone. Eight hours of my elementary age son holding down the fort with a gun and his baby sister to take care of. Did Percy even know how to change diapers? Was Essie starving right now? I doubted that he’d let her starve, but it still ate at me. He was only eight. He shouldn’t have had to watch me get arrested - he shouldn’t have to be alone right now, wondering if I’d come back.

I prayed to anything that was listening that he’d be okay, and that when I returned to the RV, both of my kids would be there with all of their limbs still attached and their hearts mostly unbroken.

Cody whistles. He hums again, and the sound bounces around my skull. “So what do you want me to do about it?” He asks, and I open my mouth, before clicking my teeth shut. Despite his friendly manners, his farmboy affections, his disgustingly teenage dirtbag aesthetic - I have to remember that Cody isn’t human. Despite his kindness, his act of charity with the colt; I know better than to come out and tell him what to do. He’d found me telling him to fuck off amusing, found my abrasive attitude entertaining - I didn’t particularly want to know how far I could get with treating Cody Fleet of all creatures like he was my buddy for real and not just three raccoons in a trenchcoat who could talk shop with me.

I take a different approach. “I want to be out of here by the morning.” I begin, and I continue, trying to keep my voice from wavering. “I want to have my children back in my arms, and I want the MPD to leave me alone until I can get the hell out of Florida. That’s what I want. To get the hell out of here. What do you need done? What do I have to do to make that happen?” I ask, and Cody laughs, really laughs. For a minute, I’m scared he’ll hang up and the line will go dead. 

He doesn’t. He finishes laughing, and I can hear his smile. “ Magic, I tell you, we could make magic.” His wistful sigh raises the hair on the back of my neck, “Sally, it’s been a very hot minute since I’ve had a mo- woman - well, that sounds a little wrong - let’s go with a person , yeah, a person ask me that. What they can do for me . It’s refreshing. I’ve got a big idea, had it for a while, actually, and I think you’d be the perfect partner for it, yeah?” He says, and I know I’ve got him pinned. I’ve got him down. Whatever the hell Cody Fleet’s infatuation with me is, I won’t pull this off without taking advantage of it. Even if the way he says partner makes me think that he’s about to pitch me a supremely bad idea ala boss babe MLM levels of desperation.

“Sure. What’s the idea?” I ask, and I picture him kicking his feet, giggling into his shirt. The image doesn’t make me feel better. Cody lets out a high-pitched sigh, and I can sense a wondrous finger spread as he continues. 

“It’d be on a time crunch - since you wanna see your kids by, well, I guess later today - but with enough finesse, we could do it. I’d come and jailbreak you, and we’d do it. No turning back. But your mission, should you choose to accept…” I bite back a groan, because Jesus fucking Christ does this man ever shut up, “...well, it might be easier to draw a comparison. It’s an older movie, but have you ever seen Ocean’s 11?” 

My brain feels like it’s cracking in half. I want to unscrew my skull and run the contents of my head alongside a load of laundry - I feel like the cogs inside of it must be malfunctioning, because there is absolutely no way Cody is asking me what I think he’s asking me.

“That shitty heist movie? From the sixties? Cody, are you actually asking me to pull a heist. With you. What - what - is it the fucking sixties, Cody? How are we - how am I going to pull a heist in the 21st century in a few hours and not get caught ? I want to get out of jail, not stay here for the rest of my life!” I snarl into the phone, not even caring how I must sound to him, because, what the fuck is this request, and he simpers, whining.

“It’s not a casino we’d be robbing,” he says, like that helps, “It’s the big bank, down there, by Star Island. Really nice spot. They’ve got this…” he’s swooning, “...this state of the art security system, whatever that means, and I’ve been dying to see it. To beat it. They still keep all that money in a vault, can you believe it? No guards anymore. Not with that new system.” My silence must be speaking volumes, because he keeps chattering, happy as a clam, “And there’s a lot of money in that vault. How do you feel about a 70/30 split? 70 for me, 30 for you. We could count it together, afterwards,” he teases, and I want to beat his skull against the wall. And then my own. 

Cody Fleet is getting me out of jail, and all I have to do in return is successfully rob a bank with him within the next - I glance at the clock - five hours. Preferably before people - or things - or both - start nosing around my RV and my kids in the light of day. Assuming there’s still anything left to nose around. It’s a long shot. It’s ridiculous. It’s suicidal. But have I ever had the best self preservation skills? No. And I need to be back with my children. I can’t afford to go to jail.

I suck my lips in, smack my teeth, and grit out, “Let’s do it.” Like making a deal with the devil. The devil laughs, and promises to be at the MPD in ten minutes. 

The bank is huge, and it’s nice.

The area itself is the kind that I wouldn’t be able to enter during daytime hours - I’m pretty sure the HOA mothers and fathers would pepper spray me. It had taken us an hour to walk here - because Cody had insisted on walking to our heist, jackass, and he’d made a quick convenience store trip for the appropriate supplies. You know, as appropriate as you can get for a heist. I’d stood outside the Kwik-E mart and tried not to jump out my own skin at every passing drunkard. 

I’m in a ski mask that Cody Fleet graciously purchased (one of a matching set), and by ski mask, I mean an oversized beanie that my partner in crime cut eye holes into. Christ, we’re fucked. I’m kneeling in the bushes, carefully working a scraping blade around the edges of a grand window on the first floor. With gloves on, of course, because I don’t particularly want to be identified. Behind me, Cody is watching intently, and doing jack-shit. Great. A freeloader during our bank robbery.

I’ve got the vague idea that I’ll pop the glass out the frame and lower it to the ground after I’ve gotten done with scraping away the sediment. Hopefully it won’t trip the alarm - but what do I know, anyhow? I’m dumb enough to be doing this with one of Satan's foot soldiers while my children fend for themselves in our stupid RV. My mood sours further, and I keep scraping, the noise of the knife making my hair stand on end. 

Cody, being of no fucking help at all, just drums his fingers against the ground. I can feel my teeth clack together as I scrape, and I desperately want to jump up and shake like I’m possessed. I feel like every muscle in my body is clenching. The tension in my body is painful. With one final scrape, I’ve done it. I jiggle my gloved finger against the glass, and can feel how loose it is. For the moment of truth…I press my hand to the bottom of the glass, and push. It swings outward, and I just manage to grab the top of the pane before it takes off my nose. Steady, steady. It feels like it weighs a million pounds, but somehow, I fumble the glass pane to lean against the side of the building. So now, Cody and I look into the glassless window. Straight into the lobby of the bank. Nice place. 

“Well done,” Cody says, and I bite back an instinctive comment telling him to shut the hell up. Priorities. I awkwardly shuffle in through the window, and am immensely grateful when the lights inside the lobby are not motion activated. No lasers or tripwires yet, I think, and I’m only halfway joking. Cody is decidedly less cautious - he creeps around the lobby, sure, but creeps is doing a lot of heavy lifting in the sentence. He’s walking fucking everywhere, inspecting every piece of furniture like it’s going to start speaking to him. 

Finally, fed up, I yank the back of his stupid silk jacket, and hiss, “Let’s get this money, and get the hell out. We’re not here to resell their furniture, are we?” I ask, and even in the extremely low light from the window, I can see the glimmer of his eyes and teeth as he smiles. Creep. “Right,” he agrees easily, and vaults the bank teller’s counter, glass and all, like it’s nothing. What the fuck.

I, for my part, replicate my glass scraping trick. Even as Cody idles behind the bank counter, running his hands over what I presume to be the vault, I frantically scrape away until I can pop and lower another pane of glass to the tiled floor. The clinking sound makes me want to rip more of my hair out, like I’m not bald enough already. I awkwardly clamber onto the counter, sliding behind the teller’s booth with all the grace that being a malnourished twenty-something mother of two gives a woman. 

Behind the counter, I observe: Cody, knelt by the vault, his eyes illuminated by the silent red beeping of the electronic security system, and two flower-patterned tote bags he’s got unfolded near his knees. Our getaway bags. It looks like I could haul them over my shoulder and make a dangerous round at the farmer’s market, but no, these are the materials demon boy brings to our bank heist. I close my eyes for one restful minute, because, fuck, and finally force my body to move to where he’s knelt, observing the system for myself.

“Look at this,” he whispers, and his mouth is curled happily. This fucking freak. “This is the latest in security technology for these types of places, yeah?” He drums his gloved fingers just above the shiny handle of the vault, his eyes sliding towards me. “Nothing physical anymore. Can’t crack a lock that doesn’t exist. It’s all on the computer. Manager knows the code by heart, punches it into the computer, and it opens this up. No keypad either. That’d be too easy.” He nods to himself, wrapping and unwrapping his fingers on the handle, like he’s tempted to yank it open and fuck us both six ways to Sunday. His eyes are gleaming, and it’s not just the red glow from the security device that makes him look positively devilish. “What do you think, Sally?” He asks, and I resist the urge to scream in agony directly into his ear canal. 

What do I think? I close my eyes in frustration again. Does Cody think I’m some sort of computer genius? God, even in college, I’d forgotten my own computer password enough times to stone any IT major dead with stupid questions. How do you clear all your cookies anyway? I resist the urge to smash my head into the expensive marble floor and throw a tantrum. It’s 2000 and I’m still behind on technology. Fuck. I let out a few empathetic fucks, and my mind loops around itself like I’ve got a really terrible internet connection.

Cody is no help at all, curling and uncurling his fingers on the handle. What does he think? That we can dust the computer in the manager’s office for fingerprints? Reverse engineer our way into finding the password through carefully placed sticky notes like we’re making our way through a horror game? Is that really what he wants? A quick glance at his stupid face confirms that, yeah, that is probably what this airhead wants from this whole experience. 

I stumble a few feet away, and nearly bust my ass when a persian rug behind the counter catches my foot. I’m red faced, angry, and really want to say fuck it all and attempt my escape from Cody Fleet, back to my children (like that’d ever work out for me, pissing off one of the few entities who doesn’t want to totally fuck me over) when I realize - what the hell did my foot catch on? 

I drop to my knees, peel back the rug, and using my hands, squinting, feel the thick wire. I probably look ridiculous, but I army crawl over the wire until I slam into the side of the vault, where it disappears into parts unknown. I don’t pay Fleet anymind, and army crawl ass backwards, using the wire as my guide, until it vanishes into a million little wires, all streaking over and under every desk behind the counter, every carefully placed rug and nicetie. My anxiety rises again, trying to think of a way to somehow inspect every computer and individually figure out employee logins, when the answer to all of my problems presents itself with only the risk of going to jail for the rest of my natural born life if the alarm sounds - or just looking incredibly stupid if this does nothing at all for us. 

There are a pair of scissors in a floral cup nearest the smallest teller’s counter. I pick them up, make my way to the fattest section of the wire vanishing out from the vault, and pray that the simplest solution is the best. The computer tells the door to lock. No computer, no lock? No, no - no electricity, no lock? It’s y2k. No way they’ve trouble shot every bug in the ‘latest’ security tech, right? Right. I ignore Cody’s hisses as he sees my intentions, I set my blades around the wire, and I close the scissors with my full body weight behind the movement.

The wire doesn’t cut easily. My hand tingles - probably fielding a mild electrical burn - but in a moment like a snapshot, the connection is finally severed. I wait for it - an alarm. A police officer screaming that ma’am, kiss those kids goodbye, you’re gonna be in the slammer eating gruel until you’re shaking from age with that stunt - but nothing. Nothing. I turn around, and I can’t see much anymore, because the blinking red light of the vault has gone dead. A long, low, creaking sound fills the night. Like something massive opening - maybe the jaws of hell. For a minute, I fear that Cody Fleet has left me after my stupid stunt to find a significantly more intelligent heist partner, but then I’m blinded by a powerful little beam of light. 

Cody’s grinning face is contorted in odd ways by his ski-mask and his cheap LED flashlight. He hefts the farmer’s market tote in one hand, and at his back, the open vault is filled with dozens and dozens of rectangular metal containers, like a tiny mausoleum. One has been dragged out into the open, and I can see a stack of more money than I’ve ever seen at any point in my life.

He sounds like the cat that’s caught the canary. “Sally,” he says, and motions with his tote-bag handling arm, “You make the references too easy. I mean, hello, Phrygia -” I don’t even respond to whatever the hell his tangent is supposed to mean, scrambling over to him. I rip the tote bag from his arms, and like a kid at one of those ill thought out Halloween front porch baskets full of candy (‘Take one’ my ass) I reach into those bins, and I start shovelling handfuls of goodies into my bag.

“Up yours, Fleet,” I say, and for a moment, all I can see is a delicious green, a content rustling - “If I don’t go to jail for this stunt, you’ll be at my son’s graduation.” My hands waffle through at least 100 - 200 - 300 - well, so much money that my head spins. “Scratch that, you’ll be my daughter’s godparent. Do you prefer baptism or ordainment?” I hear his stupid laugh at my nonsensical joke, and almost bust a smile myself. Something about money puts you in a good mood.

12 hours. I have been away from my children for twelve hours. 

I want to make my body go faster as I trudge through the obnoxiously big strip mall parking lot, but I’m running on fumes. As you might’ve guessed, I spent the night away from my bed. The RV is in sight, and it doesn’t look too banged up, which should give me hope, but, well - looks are deceiving. I know that better than anyone. I could walk into my home on wheels and find that my life had effectively ended while Fleet and I were playing at Now You See Me. My eyes want to droop. It’s only about 6 in the morning, technically, but - it feels like it’s been forever since I was arrested. Yesterday afternoon? Basically an eon away. I’ve been trial-by-fire’d into greater heights of crime and debauchery.

I shift my money-stuffed tote bag higher onto my shoulder. Cody Fleet and I had parted pretty soon after the robbery, smart, - he with his tote bag, me with mine, and so I’d walked through downtown Miami in a beanie-turned-ski-mask-turned-beanie-again, dingy hoodie, and comically oversized bag stuffed full of cash and prayed no one would try to mug me. Maybe I’d looked more desperate than even the most desperate in the city - I’d been left alone for my walk. I didn’t know how much longer I had to get my happy ass away from Florida until the MPD put all hands on deck to catch whoever robbed a Star Island bank, but I really had no desire to test their mettle. 

Finally, I make it to the door of the RV. Hefting my tote bag higher on my shoulder, I break the quiet of the morning with a shout - well, more like a hoarse whisper-scream. “It’s me!” I say, and then, with my few remaining brain cells, remember to add something reassuring for my kids like, “-your Mom, in case that wasn’t clear. Percy, are you okay? Are you -”

The door creeps open, just an inch, and I don’t even have the mind to wince before I’m staring down the barrel of a gun. My heart’s breaking in my chest at the look on my son’s face - how I can hear Essie sniffling from somewhere deeper in the van. I feel like an utter failure of a parent. I think I am. 

Percy looks…rough. For an eight year old, he looks rough. From what little I can see of him, he looks rough - his eyes visible through the door crack are shot with red, like he’s been up all night. His hands tremble around the wooden grip of the colt. There’s a rope tied across the door, keeping it pulled shut, taut, from the inside. Just a sliver of him is visible. The RV is dark. I can hear the sound of the little TV - it drones My Little Pony, My Little Pony, Friendship is Magic…

Somewhere in the parking lot, a bird calls. The sound is low and mournful. My ears buzz. 

“Percy,” I say, and he raises the colt higher, his sniffles increasing. Why is he pointing the gun at me? Why the fuck is my son pointing the gun at me?

I can’t quite figure it out, running on a mixture of emotions only best described as counterintuitive to logical thinking. Arrest, sleep deprivation, sores on my head, cosplaying as a bank robber…my whole body feels like one big bruise. My brain wants to melt out of my ears. I’ve got more money than I’d ever even seen in my life in a farmer’s market tote bag, just hanging out on my arm in the open. And now my son’s pointing a gun at me. Today (tonight? yesterday?) is a day of contradictions.

His voice trembles, little jumps, and he’s snotting like he’s on the verge of crying. God. “I’ll - murder - kill you,” he says, and my heart drops, “You’re not my - my Mom. You should’ve give-given up last - last night.” he says, and I tilt my head, my mind racing. He continues, and he drops the hammer, cocking the gun and taking a deep breath, “I know you’re not my Mom.” 

Something…was coming around the RV last night? Sounding like me - or what, wearing my face? Telling my son to open the door? My blood runs cold. I crane my neck, careful not to move my body - and am relieved to see Essie in one piece behind him - albeit wearing a backwards onesie and with uncombed hair. She gurgles when she sees me, and waves her chubby fists in the air. One kid recognizes me. The other thinks that I’m a bodysnatcher. Understandably so. My eyes catch on a new scratch across the side of the van - something with claws sharp enough to pierce metal. Something sadistic enough to impersonate me. To taunt my children throughout the night. To play with its food. 

Percy must notice my attention - the door slides closed even further, until all I can see in the sliver of the door is the gun and one of his eyes, his pupils shrunk. “ Do not -don’t look at her,” he demands, and he’s such a brave boy that my heart hurts and I feel like the most undeserving mother in the world (because I am), “Look at me.” 

“It’s me, Sharkboy,” I say, and he tries to keep a stiff upper lip, but his mouth trembles. His hands are shaking hard. I try to rack my brain for something to say - something to convince my son that he’s not living in a creepypasta and that I am, in fact, his disappointing mother and no one else. No one with bad intentions. “...do you remember our boat trip down the bayou? Where you went fishing? We had to rent a fucking, uh…” I resist the urge to snap my fingers, “...canoe? Boat? Mini-boat? Skiff? Whatever, I had to rent one, and we fished, and you had some snacks on the water, and you told me more about…Annie? The one with the gun?” I recall, and Percy’s visible eye spills over with tears. 

The door slams shut, and I hear the sound of something coming undone. Then, the RV door wrenches back open - the sound reverberates in my head, Christ, all this slamming metal - and my son’s arms are looping around my waist, halfway hanging out the RV, and he’s sobbing. I can’t stop my own tears. I sound like an angry mongoose when I cry. It’s ugly. The colt is tucked into the waistband of his pajama pants, and he’s getting my shirt all wet. 

I sink to my knees in the dirty parking lot, and drop the tote bag, money be damned. I hug him back. My son’s hair smells dirty. I can feel that his heart is beating triple-time in his chest. He’s trembling. I take it all in, as an affirmative that he is in fact - alive. Despite all the odds being against us. Jesus Christ. I want to - well, I don’t know what I want. I mostly feel like my whole body is burning up.

I pick up my son like he’s not a gangly eight year old - like he’s that chubby toddler again, and like he still fits in my arms perfectly. I wrangle the tote bag awkwardly into the van, mindful that all of the contents are inside, and slide myself into the RV, still holding my son with all the strength of malnourished trailer park trash. I shut the door firmly behind me, and lock it quickly, Percy still cradled against my side. I manage to grab Essie, and bring both my kids into my embrace.

Percy is still sobbing - his face is bright red. I’m worried that he’ll run out of air. I try to tell him to breathe, but he just rubs at his eyes and sobs louder, so I quickly decide that I don’t know anything and shut the hell up. Essie is perfectly content to lean against me, and grasp my arm with her little fist. She glances up at me - and my heart, I don’t know, fucking melts. It’s bittersweet. At least one of my two kids isn’t horribly traumatized? God. I shut my eyes, and lean my head towards the ceiling. 

“The lady - had your voice, and she was - was screaming,” he says through sobs, and I wish, suddenly, that I’d never been born at all, or that he’d never been born so that this hadn’t happened, and oh, God, my brain just goes the worst places - “it - she - was screaming to LET ME IN and it was screaming, all - all - all night…” He places his little hands over his eyes - because he’s just a little boy, like he thinks if he can’t see it, it won’t hurt him, “It had your voice. The lady had your voice, Mommy. What was it? Why -” He stops talking. His sobbing abides. He leans close, and his hands still cover his eyes, his shoulders jumping. He’s shaking so much that I can hear his teeth chatter.

I decide right then that whatever had the nerve to impersonate me - to use my voice to torment my children - whatever it is, I’m going to kill it. Torture it, even. Rip off its fingernails and acid glaze its eyeballs while it still lives. Send it back to hell, or better, below hell, because surely, this can’t be - I feel winded by the unfairness of it all. Life. The night. The previous day? My head pounds. I can’t even keep track of time anymore. I can’t even answer his question. I can’t. I can’t do anything, it seems.

“It’s okay,” I say, and feel like a lying liar who lies, “It’s okay now. I’m here.” I say, and because I can’t think of anything else, my eyes drop to the tote bag, still filled with money. I rub Percy’s back, and watch his trembling reside. Essie drools against my knee. A lonely stack of fifties peeks out of the floral fabric of the bag. My mouth feels like cotton.

“I can fix it,” I tell my kids, and my big brain - the one that Pop and Momma had promised would take me anywhere, as long as I turned it on every once in a while - is racing for a solution, for something to do to make this never happen again. Too optimistic. I amend my statement: happen less. Something I can do with my ill-gotten gains to make this happen much, much less. 

“I can fix it,” I repeat, and maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll become true.