Flight from Detroit: the encore Louisa Carter sat in her rocking chair, the only piece of furniture in her living room that wasn’t covered by a layer of dust. There were only three places she sat in this house: her bed, one specific dining room table chair, and her rocking chair. They were the places that were hers, always, places her children had never spent too much time. Everything else belonged to them. The rest of the table, the couch, the bedrooms that had stopped hosting warm bodies a long time ago--everything was theirs.
She glanced at the couch and couldn’t see anything but the ghosts of smiling faces, little ones who had stopped being little ones, some who had stopped being anything at all. Then Louisa would blink, and the world would be empty and dusty once again, and she would remember that she was alone.
It was cold now. Decembers in Detroit could be unforgiving, the lake lending to additional snowfall. Her house had ceased to be heated many winters ago, and she piled on as many blankets as she could tolerate, their scent heavy with memories, her arms shielded by an ill-fitting torn coat. It was almost like being homeless, squatting in a building that used to be a home. She’d raised her children here, as far as they got to be raised, but now it was just her and winter’s harsh bite.
Regardless of how briefly, she had seen Isis that summer. She couldn’t say she faulted her daughter for the assumption that no one lived there anymore. It looked unkempt because it was. Just like she was: messy and damaged, aged and decrepit. Louisa had never expected to feel this old, to be this old, really, but here she was, trapped in a home as stuffed with painful memories as she was, an echo that fed back into itself forever.
There was a silence she had grown to know, a silence permeated only by the squeak of her rocking chair, occasionally flavored by distant sirens or shouting. But today, it was pierced by a sharper, more sudden noise, almost like a Crack, shooting from the kitchen.
From her rocker, she could not see into the kitchen, but slowly, Louisa rose, letting her blankets slip to the ground. Slowly, she moved so the kitchen would be in view, and she felt herself burst. “You’re back,” she fumbled, tears instantly rising to her eyes.
“We’re leaving.”
***
“Leaving?” Her mother’s voice was incredulous and confused, but Isis kept her facial expression neutral. “What you mean leaving? Just where am I s’posed to go?”
“If you want to have me in your life, you’re getting out of Detroit,” said Isis. She had mastered the exterior, her lips not trembling despite the urge, but inside, she was far less stoic, her stomach one single knot that rolled like the ocean ebbed and flowed, pushing around the rest of her organs. The sight of her mother so damaged was still almost unbelievable, but Isis forced herself to understand it. “I got an apartment for you. It’s far away from here. I don’t know how much you’d want to bring, but this place is fully furnished. I can get you new clothes if you need. Bring what you want to keep.”
Her mother seemed frozen for a moment, perhaps literally as her only motion was involuntary shivering. She was silent until the ceiling creaked and a heap of snow fell between them. Isis took a few steps toward her, then another few, slowly extending a nervous hand. “I ain’t got nothin’ worth keepin’,” said Louisa, closing the gap between them and taking her daughter’s hand.
Isis wanted to smile but could not find it in her. “Hold on.” Her mother squeezed her eyes shut.
And they were gone, ripped from Detroit by the power of Apparation, whizzing through the world in a way that Isis still hardly understood, a way of which she could not imagine her mother making much sense. That was fine. She did not have to. All she had to understand was where they landed: her new residence.
It was somewhat small, but not too bad for a single person to call home. The living room was easily the largest room, but exactly where it ended was unclear as it bled into dining room, which bled into kitchen, not horribly different from the old house in its fairly open set-up. But there were no stairs as a house might have, just a door that led to the bedroom and its attached bathroom. The entire apartment had a fairly neutral color palette, but the fact that it was coordinated with matching furniture was already better than anything her mother ever had before. And, most importantly, it was warm and safe.
Her mother did not speak at first, perhaps both in awe of the apartment and nausea from the means of travel. She crossed slowly, lowering herself onto the couch and sliding out of her winter jacket. “It’s beautiful,” she said at last. Isis sat down on a nearby chair. Her mother turned to her. “Where are we?”
“Phoenix,” Isis answered. “I work in Arizona.” That was all the explanation she gave, but she knew her point had to be clear: she wanted to keep her mother close by, so she could check in more easily. Quietly beneath that, though, Isis found a symbolic sort of hope in the town. Maybe here, her mother could rise from the ashes.
Her mother paused thoughtfully, and Isis couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in her head.“Where you livin’?”
“It’s a boarding school,” the witch elaborated. “I live there through the school year.”
“What about the summer?” her mother was quick to inquire. She took a deep breath that only made Isis more nervous. “Will you stay here in the summer?”
“Oh, I-...” she fumbled nervously. “I don’t know about that.” Without realizing it, she sank back into the chair, retreating as best she could while seated. Had she been standing, she would have taken a few steps back, pulling back physically as she did mentally. Isis swallowed, begging her courage to return. “Look, don’t… don’t push me on this stuff, okay? I’m.. I’m trying very hard right now.” She wasn’t specific but the point was clear.
“I should really get going,” she announced, and suddenly she was on her feet. Her mother did not move, but she looked up at her with an expression that Isis could barely understand but instinctively knew, like she was so empty and yet so full. “You can say it,” said Isis knowingly. “Just know I won’t say it back.”
“I love you.”
Isis raised her hand weakly, waving a temporary goodbye to someone she had thought she said a permanent goodbye to a long time ago. She would never tell her, but before returning to the school, she was headed back to the old house. There were things she wanted to collect, for memory’s sake.