Imdalind 01 - Kiss of Fire

done to her a few moments ago. Her arm moved back around my shoulders, pulling me into an awkward side-hug.
    “When I met your father, we were in college. We were young and he was dashing.” She sighed and looked away, lost in her memories.
    “Some people say young love is fleeting, but I think that’s wrong. I think young love is perfect. It’s pure and full of hope and desire, but it’s more than that. Young love, true love, changes you. It’s like something deep down inside you grows and becomes part of the other person. It only takes a moment, but in that one fleeting glance of space and time, you change. You want to be with that person, and no one else.”
    My fuming began to lessen. I had never heard my mother talk like this before, her voice so soft and light. The way she spoke, I could see my parents meeting, the love she would have had in her eyes. All of a sudden my anger began to lull.
    “That’s how it was when I met your father. I couldn’t be without him, and in that one moment, when he first kissed me, I knew I never had to be. He was mine and I was his. I know it sounds crazy and you don’t have to believe me, but I still feel that way for him. I love him, Joclyn. Even though he left us, I still love him. I think you do, too. That’s why it hurts so much that he didn’t want to see you.” She scanned me as she pleaded for me to understand. I knew she was right, but at the same time, she was so very wrong. He did want to see me. He had sent me a gift and tracked me down. What hurt so much, and what had broken my heart was that he had betrayed me. He had used my blasted scar against me, told the world, and created some fabricated story that turned me into a science project.
    “So, you’re happy he’s alive, and not mad because you still love him?” I could feel the bile rising in my throat.
    “Honey, I…”
    “No! That’s not okay Mom. He left us. He left you. He saw his broken daughter and bailed so he wouldn’t have to fix her. He didn’t even care enough to try! Where was his love for me? Where was his commitment to either of us?” The bottled emotions of eleven years returned and came flooding out of me in a rush, my tongue barely able to form words through the threatening tears.
    “Joclyn! Don’t say that. He thinks he left out of love…”
    “Which only proves that he didn’t love us! That he didn’t care.”
    “But he does,” she pleaded. “Don’t you see? He came to your grandparents; he asked about both of us, I’m sure. It only proves that he does love us; he does care.”
    This time I kept my anger in check. This time I slowed my heartbeat. I had to; I couldn’t tell my mother the truth. Her words were so desperate. The truth that she had somehow been waiting for him to return all this time made me sick to my stomach. I glanced toward the garbage can where the ripped-up letter laid, the weight of my lie feeling like lead in my gut. I stood up, the forgotten cell phone tumbling to the ground.
    “I need to take a shower.” I felt numb as I walked away. My small breakthrough had opened up a chasm of forgotten pain and heartache that I didn’t want to revisit. Before I even hit the bathroom, I felt the tears fall. They splashed down my cheeks in warm trails that welcomed more. I turned on the hot water, hoping my mother wouldn’t hear my sobs, hoping the tears would take away all the pain.
    I stepped into the overly hot water, burning my skin before I could turn it down. I curled up on the floor of the tub, the water from the shower pouring over me. Only then, did I open my hand. The tiny purple bead still sat in my palm, glistening as the water ran over it. It shimmered and sparkled as the color danced and changed. I clenched my hand over it, not wanting to see it again. No matter how much I wanted to throw it down the drain to be lost forever, I knew I couldn’t. This stupid thing would always serve as a reminder of what I had lost, and what my mother had so foolishly let slip away.

    I woke around midday on Saturday to the rhythmic knocking that Ryland had used as his signature since he was fourteen. I sighed in frustration. He had been here a few times before, and his visits always made me uncomfortable. Ryland grew up in a 200,000 square foot mansion; I grew up in an apartment that was smaller than his bedroom. I listened to the incessant knocking for a minute more before grumbling and rolling out of bed.
    My body didn’t hurt as much now, but it