Friday, December 7, 1990
Two and a half weeks.
Somehow, two and a half weeks was all it took for things to return to… okay, actually? No. There was no point in saying that things had returned to anything even resembling a measure of normalcy. 'Normal' had gone quite squarely out the window five months ago, when the sky was briefly replaced by concrete, only to have what others described as a massive man-thing in a giant purple helmet fill everything above the horizon. Normal was dead, long live the new normal, we just had to take it a day at a time.
And that was what I'd been doing, a little bit at a time.
Stephen hadn't allowed me to leave the Sanctum Sanctorum for two full days. Which was good, because I spent most of Tuesday… well. In about as good of condition as I was after The Arrival, at least mentally. It wasn't until he confirmed for me that aside from having to have his jaw wired shut for a couple weeks, Matt was mostly okay, that I started to unwind.
And then, when I was finally allowed to leave, and once Wong escorted me home, I nearly fell over when Lorna quite literally flew into a hug. Even if I hadn't called to let Charles know what happened and that I was okay, he would probably have still let Lorna leave campus and take a few days off school in the aftermath. As it were, she was waiting for me to come home, along with Cate, who had agreed to let me list her as a secondary emergency contact, just in case the emergency was about me.
The rest of the week was a flurry of activity. John Jonah Jameson called, half to interview me, half to pump me for information on a lead for his investigative reporters. Cate needed to recuse herself from the resulting investigation due to our closeness, but she did accompany me when the Acting Special Agent in Charge needed to talk to me about what happened, which… helped. A lot.
But it had still been a difficult few weeks. Made better, thankfully by the call I'd received this morning.
"And who, pray tell, might that have been?" Charles Xavier asked before taking a sip of his tea.
"The acting special agent in charge," I answered, putting my own teacup down as I puzzled over it. Definitely an Earl Grey, but not one I'd had before. And it was incredibly good – we'd lost track of time in our discussion and allowed the tea to over-steep, but there was hardly any of the bitterness I'd expected to result. "He was calling to let me know that the attacker had been transferred to a maximum security facility out of state, just last night."
"When we spoke last week, I was under the impression that they were uncertain what to make of this… 'Bullseye', I believe you mentioned?" Charles' confusion was understandable, because that had been my response too.
Well. At least, it was. Until Cate explained that 'Bullseye' had received cosmetic surgery to remove his fingerprints, that his blood type O+ (the most common, by far), and that his overall appearance was so plain that he'd been exceedingly hard to identify. But records from 'the unknown source Langley said to stop calling about', according to Cate, identified the man as having escaped from a high security prison in Allentown, Pennsylvania.
So they shipped him right back to a federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania. This time in Canaan.
"Turns out, he's a former minor league baseball player by the name of 'Lester Poindexter', if you can believe it." I took a sip of my tea, and couldn't help but giggle a bit at the name. It was easy to be scared of a man called 'Bullseye', who you'd seen exhibit preternatural aim. It was a lot harder to stay scared of a man who shared a first name with your best friend's cat, and whose last name was a common pejorative towards know-it-alls. "Anyway, he's back in Canaan, serving out three life sentences. I think the feds may offer to transfer him to a part of the country with better weather if he cooperates?"
"And are you okay with such a development?"
I paused a little bit as I turned Charles' question over in my head. Was I altogether happy with the fact that I wouldn't get to see my assailant punished? That ADA Finnigan's death was just one more injustice tossed atop the mountain of crimes this unrepentant psychopath had already committed?
No. No, I wasn't happy with it. Not in the slightest.
But…
"Let me amend," I said. "Poindexter said he might cooperate if they transfer him to somewhere warmer." I offered Charles a somewhat feral smirk. "So I suggested the federal penitentiary in Tucson."
"A mite vindictive," Charles observed. "But not undeserved, I should say. I shall admit to my growing concern over the past weeks, and if this offers you some solace in the long term, then it remains worthwhile."
"I'm not usually one for schadenfreude. But I think that in this instance, I can make an exception." I smiled, and took another sip of my tea. "Okay. I need to ask. Where do you get your loose leaf tea? I usually go to a small spot near NYU, but this is the best Earl Grey I've ever had."
"From a small shop in the Grand Central Market, as it so happens!" Charles remarked. "I am afraid I cannot recall the name offhand, but it should be apparent from which stall I purchased my tea."
"Good to know, thank you," I said, making a mental note to come up with some excuse to be in midtown.
"It is my pleasure." Charles took a sip of his tea, set the cup down, and then looked me in the eye with a smile. "Now, I shall say that I am reasonably satisfied with the improvement of your mental and emotional states. While I am more than happy to continue meeting with you on a regular basis, I do not believe you require – ah," he paused, brows furrowing in thought. "What was that delightful word you used? The one in Yiddish, I believe it was?"
I somehow doubted Charles realized just how little 'the one in Yiddish' narrowed it down. That said, given the context?
"Are you thinking of 'schlep'?" I asked.
"Yes, indeed!" Charles said, snapping his fingers. "Yes, that is the one. As I was saying, I do not believe you need to continue, ah, 'schlepping' out here every week. If you wish to continue, by all means, you may retain this slot in my schedule, but I do not believe it necessary."
I sighed in relief, and offered Charles another small smile.
"I somehow doubt this will be our last appointment regardless." One last sip finished my tea, and I poured another cup. While waiting for it to cool down to a more drinkable temperature, I leaned back in my chair and crossed one leg over the other. "And on that note, should we switch to the other topic of discussion you mentioned wanting to get to today?"
"Of course!" Charles drained the rest of his own tea as well, but simply placed it back on the charger plate before sliding it to the side. Instead, he retrieved a folder, opened up the string closure, and pulled several other bundles of paper from inside. "Dear Lorna is in the middle of her final exam for the year, but given the subject, I dare say Dr. McCoy will simply give it a 100 with nary a look. As for her other subjects…"
It was almost impossible to spot the moment when Charles transitioned from psychotherapist to educator. It happened in the blink of an eye, in the space between two words. Moreover, the differences were exceedingly subtle. But it was there in his intonation, in his word choice.
Psychology was his passion. But education was his one true love.
And here I sat, having slid from a therapy session straight into a parent-teacher conference.
God. A parent-teacher conference. On the list of things I'd never expected to be part of, this occupied a particular place of honor. Given the social climate of the time, I'd long since resigned myself to being a bit of a spinster, and just adopting cats from the local ASPCA or other shelter. No adoption agency would ever give me the time of day, what with my being a mutant, a lesbian, and unmarried, regardless of how much money I threw around. Plus, by the time none of those were likely to present as much of a barrier, age would be the new problem.
And as for a donor? Well… no. No. Never. Not in a million years. Yes, the events of last month had been scary, and the Arrival had been existentially horrifying.
Neither of those terrified me quite so bad as the thought of pregnancy.
So, with the primary avenues all unlikely or otherwise off-limits, I'd just… sort of accepted that I'd never be in a position to attend one of these. Then Erik came along, grew on me like a tapeworm, and managed to get me invested enough that he was comfortable dropping his kid in my lap.
… okay, that was… ahem. Uncharitable of me, to put it lightly. Especially when I'd barely had Lorna in my life for two measly months, and yet my condo already felt wrongly quiet on the nights she boarded at Xavier's. But the point remained that, well. I never expected to be part of these. I always thought they would remain something I heard about in passing from other attorneys, griping about having to make up billable hours because their kid demanded a measly thirty minutes of their attention. (I know that also sounds uncharitable, but, uh, no. That was me paraphrasing a conversation I overheard in my second year at LL&L…)
Regardless, being the legal guardian of a twelve-year-old meant some measure of investment in her academic performance. Charles and I had had a meeting about this before, when we were initially discussing how things would work for Lorna once the adoption was formalized, but she'd also had a major life change since then (being adopted, if it wasn't obvious). If anything was going to reveal weaknesses in her academics, it would be that.
"As we discussed back in October, Lorna's scientific and mathematical acumen are almost without peer." Charles pulled those documents from the pile and put them right back into the latch-tie folder. "Some of her other subjects, however, show not insubstantial room for growth."
He passed two manilla folders across the table to me, and I opened them up. One was quite clearly a social studies folder, while the other was English, if the reading list on the first page was anything to go by. Idly, I checked the assigned reading list, and was… overall impressed, if a tad discomfited.
"Are you certain that 'Night' is the best option to put on a reading list for preteens?" I asked, letting my concern show in my voice. "Far be it for the daughter of Holocaust survivors to tell you that this shouldn't be on the curriculum, but…" I trailed off, trying to think of how I wanted to phrase this.
"But you are concerned about the effects reading this account might have on the students," Charles finished for me.
"I am," I agreed with a nod. "I know how important the subject matter is, better than most of your staff, I would expect." I caught the moment in which Charles nearly objected, just before he caught the particulars of my word choice.
"And I understand your concerns. Perhaps it would interest you to know that students tend to receive some of their highest marks of the year on that unit," Charles said. "If there was any sign of their attentiveness, and of how much they absorb the material, I should say that would be it."
At that, I ceded the point. There was only so much I could argue about the suitability of material for students; after all, I'd read Night when I was nine.
The conversation carried on in that vein for some time. I learned that while Lorna had initially seemed as strong in history as she was in science and math, her grade there had slipped a bit. And in English, she was maybe a B average. I was familiar with this tendency – the kids who excelled in the areas with definite answers tended to have some difficulty once there was more than one way to skin a cat.
"And as for elective courses—"
The ringing of the school bell shocked me, and I hissed when my sudden jump at the noise sent my tail slamming into one of my chair's legs. Charles offered an apologetic expression, only for his eyes to go unfocused for a moment.
"Pardon me…" Two fingers from each hand found their way to his temples, and he closed his eyes in concentration, only to open them a few seconds later. "Ah. I do believe we shall have to cut our discussion short. After all, we shall be having company in three, two, one…"
Sure enough, after three extremely rapid knocks on the door, it opened, and my goddaughter flew in, kicking her legs as she sat side-saddle atop the rolling suitcase she used in lieu of a backpack.
"Finals over?" I asked, drinking the last of my Earl Grey before I picked up my purse and stood. A few quick steps brought me over to Lorna, who was (thoughtfully) hovering such that she sat eye-level with me, and I gave her a quick hug.
"Yeah, all done," she said. "Physics is easy. Oh, uh, do you have a spare hair tie?"
I rolled my eyes, but reached into my purse to grab a few. From the choices of black, white, and green, Lorna picked… green.
Well, it matched her hair at least. So did her nails – my manicurist was more than happy to add another customer to his schedule on my dime, and he and Lorna had fun giving her nails a verdant gradient from fingertip to fingertip.
"So, ready to go home?"
"Gotta go grab my other suitcase first, but then I'm good!" Lorna offered Charles a wave. "Bye, Professor!"
"Enjoy your time away, my dear," he said with a chuckle. "Will you be attending the holiday festivities this year, Miss Dane? Or will we not be seeing you again until the new year?"
"And miss the snowball fight!?" Lorna gasped. "No way! I still gotta get Alex back for last year!"
I laughed at that, and mentally slotted the 26th through 28th as 'days Lorna will be back at school'. Which meant I had to make plans... that would ultimately wind up boiling down to 'spend the night at Cate's and bake to our hearts' content'.
"We'll leave you to it, Charles." I put a hand on Lorna's suitcase and gave a light shove, which she took as her signal to get moving. "Happy holidays!"
"And hag sammich to you," Charles said.
I stopped. Lorna was giggling, and Charles just had this look of pure, childlike innocence on his face. Or he would, if not for the slight shaking of his shoulders.
He had a good twenty plus years on me, and yet… God. Must be spending so much time around teens.
"It's pronounced, Chag Sameach," I said, stressing the syllables carefully. "I swear, 'hag sammich', if I never hear that again it'll still be too soon."
"Happy holidays!" Charles called out around his chuckles.
And yes, Lorna was still giggling by the time we got into the rental car.
Tuesday, December 11, 1990
My original plan for the holidays had been for us to fly to St. Louis so Lorna could meet my parents, and experience Chanukah for the first time with them.
That plan lasted about as long as it took me to remember that Lorna lost her mother and stepdad in a plane crash.
My attempt to salvage it involved calling Amtrak and asking how long the train journey from Grand Central to St. Louis would take. The answer I received was "34 hours, with two changes". I did consider the option, weighing the pros and cons, then remembered that just taking the subway in the city was a bit much for her.
So I called up my parents, and the plan changed. I hadn't hosted my parents in the city since I bought my condo back in 1985, and that was largely so that my dad could kosherize the place. I called in a favor to get them a room in a hotel… and then I got a call back, my payment refunded back to me, and the reservation upgraded to a suite.
When the hotel you picked was the one that visiting sports teams tended to stay at, and some people in that community still remembered you as 'the lawyer that saved professional sports'? Well… this was the fourth time I'd received a 'gift' or other thanks for that case, and I still didn't expect it. (Which reminded me, I hope the wine I sent Jacques made it alright. Note to self, follow up with him, try and get more info about this boyfriend he let slip about last time we spoke!)
At the very least, the order of events for the day was simple. Have a car service ready to pick my parents up at the airport, have the menorah out and ready, make sure Lorna hasn't found the presents.
Now, this was both easier and more difficult than I'd initially expected. Having Lorna out of the condo for days at a time meant that acquiring her gifts and tucking them away was easy enough. Finding a good hiding spot for them, on the other hand? That was tricky, especially since she could just float up to look on top of shelves, or sense something out of place in an ordinarily empty cabinet.
Eventually, I decided that it would be easier to just keep her distracted until my parents got in. And that distraction came in the form of teaching her to cook junk food.
Or, well. For a given definition of 'junk', anyway.
"Alright, all the potatoes are grated!" Lorna placed the bowl down in front of me, panting a little bit from the exertion. "What now?"
"Well, you could grate the onion next," I said, holding it up in one hand. "Or I can just mince it by hand, your choice."
Lorna eyed the onion, then the box grater, then me. She visibly warred with herself before taking the onion from my hand and peeling the skin off.
"Oh this is gonna suck," she murmured. Then she screwed her eyes shut and began grinding away at the onion with both hands, using her powers to hold the grater in place, just like she had with the potatoes.
I could also tell she hadn't twigged onto the idea of laying the grater on its side to give herself a better angle, but that was one of those lessons for the future. Basics first, time- and effort-saving refinements after.
As she did that, I prepped half a cup of matzah meal and cracked three eggs, which I lightly whisked with a fork. Then in some measuring spoons, I got a teaspoon of salt, and half that of black pepper, then waited for Lorna to finish.
Two minutes later, Lorna floated past me, one arm covering her watering eyes, the other outstretched before her as she levitated herself down the hall and to her bathroom, grumbling and groaning all the way.
"Better get used to it!" I called out over her quiet hissing. "Most good recipes have onion in them!"
The sound of the faucets, both in her bathroom and at the kitchen sink, drowned out whatever response Lorna made. While she rinsed out her eyes, I added the grated onion to the potatoes, rinsed the mixture to get any excess starch off, then bundled them up into a freshly-cleaned kitchen towel to wring out as much water as I could.
Then I transferred the mixture to a second towel and wrung it out again, because let me tell you, there is a lot of moisture in both potatoes and onions.
"Feeling better?" I asked as I heard Lorna walk back into the kitchen, still pawing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.
"Oww," she murmured.
"I'll take that as a 'not yet'," I said brightly, and got a stink-eye from my adorable goddaughter for it. "Alright, so come here? See how I have the potato and onion in this towel?"
"Yeah?" Lorna asked.
I pulled the bowl that had initially held the potatoes over, and showed her all the starchy water sitting in it.
"This is what I squeezed out of it," I told her. Her eyes went wide as she looked from the potato mixture to the bowl, only to snap out of it when I took the next ingredients. "Now, we add the eggs, salt, and pepper, and mix. Once that's all come together, we add the matzah meal."
"Can I?" Lorna asked, reaching for the wooden spoon on the countertop. I smiled and stepped aside, letting the preteen try her hand at it. Her motions were vigorous, almost splashing some of the mixture out of the bowl before a light touch on her elbow calmed the motions, and before long we'd added the matzah meal, bringing the mixture to the perfect consistency.
"Alright, now is where things can get dangerous if you're not careful," I said, bringing the mixing bowl and a quarter cup measuring cup over to the stovetop, where I'd prepped a deep, wide skillet with about a quarter inch of oil in it. "Any time you're frying anything, no matter whether it's a shallow fry or a deep fry, you need to be careful. Too much water in what you're frying, and it will pop, fizzle, and possibly explode."
"Oh, that's — wait, explode?" Lorna asked.
"Water gets pushed out of the food as it expands due to heating up, and when the water passes into the surrounding hot oil, it rapidly boils," I said, explaining it the way my physics-acing goddaughter would understand. "This is why you should always be careful when cooking, and especially when frying. Now, the oil will take a few minutes to heat up—"
The doorbell rang, and I perked up immediately. Lorna's eyes shot to the door, then switched back to looking a little behind me, where I was certain my tail had begun swaying a little. I gave a small, embarrassed cough. Stupid tail, making it obvious when I was happy or excited…
Leaving the skillet on the cold stove, I went to the door, Lorna staying behind to hover in the doorway. I could practically feel the apprehension bleeding off of her, even as I went on tiptoes to look through the peephole, felt the sway of my tail pick up speed, and finally opened the door.
Only to almost immediately squeal in delight as my father pulled me into a great big hug, spinning me around as he twirled through the doorway and into the condo.
"Ah, my bubbeleh!" he cried in delight as I giggled with glee, interrupted only briefly by a disappointed moue when he set me down. "Oh, we missed you on the high holidays!" Dad continued in Yiddish as he pulled back from the hug and tucked a stray lock of my hair behind one horn.
"Aaron," my mother started as she entered, tone reproachful. "English, remember?"
"Yes, yes, but can a man not be excited to be seeing his daughter?" Dad looked up and over my shoulder, his wild grin shifting to a soft smile as his eyes fell on Lorna. "And there she is. Ah, I can see the resemblance…"
Lorna squeaked and hid further behind the doorway to the kitchen. Not that it did her much good, since her ponytail was hanging out.
I pulled out of my dad's embrace and walked over to Lorna. I reached for a hand, and she let me take it, which I used to slowly guide her out of the kitchen and into the entryway proper.
"Mom, Dad, I know I've told you plenty over the phone, but... this is Lorna," I said, keeping the girl in question at my side.
I very carefully didn't mention Erik — or Max, as my parents knew him — particularly because of his status as an absentee father, if I was being generous. Yes, he had his reasons. That didn't mean I liked them, especially when I could readily see how Erik's willful orphaning affected Lorna.
"Lorna, these are my parents," I said, waving lightly in their direction. "Rifka and Rabbi Aaron Schaefer."
Lorna looked to me with a question in her eyes, and I offered her a smile. To my great relief, she took a deep breath, stepped away from me, and offered my parents a curtsy.
"I-it's a pleasure to meet you," she said, a bit stiffly.
I saw the look in my mother's eyes. She wanted to come and give this poor dear a hug. It was the Yenta Instinct (trademark pending), something I'd been coming to understand quite well in the past several months, thanks to Matt, Peter, and Lorna.
Which meant I needed to head that off at the pass before my mom pushed Lorna's boundaries too much and too soon.
"I was just teaching Lorna how to make latkes when you two got here!" I said, clapping my hands to pull attention off of poor Lorna and onto myself. "We've got another hour until sundown, but that's still a bit early for dinner, so I was thinking we could have these as an appetizer, light the menorah, and then I can work on dinner?"
This turned out to be the perfect choice.
The awkwardness persisted for maybe the first batch of three latkes before a brief discussion of toppings led to me and my father reiterating a very, very, very well-worn debate between the two of us. That is to say, the question of sour cream versus applesauce.
Dad was on Team Cream. Dad was wrong.
There was only one true answer to the best topping for latkes, and that answer was applesauce.
Lorna didn't care either way. After all, at the end of the day, it was fried potatoes, and she was heading into puberty.
Eventually though, the sun dipped below the horizon, and my parents managed to distract Lorna long enough for me to retrieve her present for the night, which I hid on one of the seats at the dining table. In the kitchen, Dad set up the menorah near the window, a sheet of aluminum foil underneath it to catch any wax that dripped down.
"Because it happens at roughly the same time of year, gentiles like to think of Chanukah as the Jewish equivalent of Christmas," my father explained as he used a lighter to slightly melt the wax of the first night's candle, which he inserted into the far right end of the menorah. "In truth, while Christmas is among the most important holidays to Christianity, Chanukah is… so-so," he said with a wave of. his hand, gently placing the shammash into the raised holder in the center. "The gift-giving aspect is… well, there is debate. I will not bore you with the debates."
"Trust me, that's a good thing," I mock-whispered to Lorna. "I've heard it at least a dozen times, and no, it doesn't get better."
"Ach, my own daughter! You wound me!" Dad handed me the lighter, which I accepted. "Would you care to do the honors, bubbeleh?"
"What does that mean?" Lorna asked, interjecting from where she hovered cross-legged in midair. (And didn't that give my parents a fright! Ugh, I should've had the Polaroid ready…)
"Term of endearment," I answered as I took the candle. "Means 'darling', more or less."
"… oh," Lorna said, her hovering posture listing a bit to the left. Which was adorable. "Can you teach me more of those words?"
I smiled, nodded, and tried to keep that gooey feeling in my heart from making my smile turn weepy. I still had some prayers to get through, after all!
Lighter in hand, I turned towards the menorah, and lit the center candle.
"Baruch ata Adonai," I sang, feeling my father's approval at the choice to sing instead of say. "Eloheinu melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzovtav, v'tzivanu, l'hadlik ner, shel Hanukkah!~"
Then, I took the shammash, and as I lowered it to light the first night's candle, I sang another prayer.
"Baruch ata Adonai, eloheinu melech ha'olam, she'asa nisim, la'avoteinu, ba'yamim ha'heim, ba'z'man ha'ze~"
And then, as I re-melted the base of the shammash to put it back in its place of pride, my mother, father, and I all joined in song for the last prayer, only for the first night.
"Baruch ata Adonai," my father led us in song, surprising Lorna enough to scoot her floating fully upright again. "Eloheinu, melech ha'olam—"
And as our eyes closed, our voices rose, and we prayed for light. For life.
"Shehecheyanu, v'ki'y'manu, v'higianu, la'z'man, ha~zeh!"
Shehecheyanu.
I opened my eyes.
And I caught the briefest glimpse of a glimmer of light, shining through my scales. The same kind of light that had filled the mezuzah focus Stephen gave me since this past July… that had been destroyed. That was…
I shook my head. No. No, this wasn't the time to ponder that. It was time for family, and worship, and tradition.
And speaking of tradition! First, I had to keep an eye on when and where Fiddler on the Roof would be playing – Lorna *needed* to see it. And second…
I walked out to the dining room, picked up the gift-wrapped box I'd hidden on the seat of a chair, and brought it with me back to the kitchen.
"So!"
I punctuated my statement by letting the box in my hands give a slight thunk as I put it on the countertop. Lorna squeaked, eyes finally leaving the candles in the menorah to see me, and more importantly, the present in my hands.
"Christmas is just one day. Chanukah is eight nights," I began, initially stating the obvious. "Different families have different traditions—"
"Traditioooooooon—!~ Tradition!"
I rolled my eyes at my father's antics, and let out a put-upon sigh. I should have expected that, yes, but still. And moreover, while my mother may have been giggling, Lorna didn't have the context needed to get the reference! What a waste to have tossed it out now, before I'd given my goddaughter a proper theatrical experience!
"As I was saying," I continued, giving my father a Look(tm), "different families have different traditions regarding how to best use all eight nights. Some just do like the goyim, and give all the gifts at once." I let my flat tone do all the explaining needed to understand my opinion on that take. "Some families have a few large gifts on the first night, and use the remainder to build upon that. As for us?" I gestured at my parents. "We prefer that each person get a night to give their gifts. That way, the gifts aren't competing for attention."
I pushed the box across the countertop towards Lorna.
"And tonight is mine."
Lorna gave me a look, as if asking for permission. I gave her a smile and a nod.
The Star-of-David wrapping paper didn't last five seconds.
Beneath it lay an ocean-blue box, with a seam in the top and hinges part of the way up either side. It had a handle on the rear, and a latch at the front.
Lorna went to open it up. I put two fingers on top of it to draw her attention.
"A couple of things before you look inside?" Lorna nodded, eyes still fixed on the box. "One, I've noticed that some of my makeup has either gone missing, or wasn't where I left it."
"I-I—!"
"I'm not mad," I interrupted before Lorna could work herself into a tizzy, offering a smile to let her know it was okay. "But I need you to promise me you won't do it again, and that's because it's not safe."
I put a lot of emphasis on that final word, which had my mother nodding sagely as Lorna frowned in confusion.
"Why…?" she asked.
"Hygiene!" I answered. "If someone is sick and you try their lipstick, odds are you'll get sick too," I offered as an example. "Or getting pink-eye from another girl's eyeliner pencil. Or a rash from foundation you're allergic to. Or… ah," I paused, realizing I was starting to go a bit inside baseball on this one. "Anyways! Telling you not to use mine doesn't actually help if you don't have any of your own, so…"
With that, I took my hand away from the box. Lorna opened it up.
And the great big smile spreading across her face was one of the most incredible things I had ever seen.
"I tried to get you a little bit of everything important to get you started, with plenty of room for more as you go," I said, pointing everything out in the box. "I know you have some skin care products in your bathroom, so make sure to use that first before experimenting. We've got primer, foundation," I listed, pointing as I went. "Concealer, blush, eyeliner pencil, liquid eyeliner, not a fan of that, but to each her oof—!"
I didn't get to finish. Instead, I found myself pulled into a great big hug by my goddaughter.
My goddaughter who, I realized, had managed to grow just the tiniest bit taller than I was in just the last two months.
"Happy Chanukah, Lorna," I said, hugging her back.
Lorna's reply wasn't coherent. More just mumbling noises.
Then the click of the Polaroid went off, and I couldn't help but wonder how my mother knew where I kept that thing stashed, despite not having been here for six years.
Saturday, December 29, 1990
The phone rang twice before the person on the other end picked up.
"Good morning; this is Professor Charles Xavier. May I ask who's calling?"
"Hi Charles, it's Noa," I answered, pushing my glasses back up the bridge of my nose. Gently, so as not to disturb my glamour. "Listen, I was near Rockefeller Plaza for an errand that wrapped up much, much sooner than expected—"
"In a good manner, or for the worse?" he asked, perceptive as always.
"Good. Very good, actually," I said, feeling a mite pleased at the papers that now sat in my purse. "But anyways, I remember you mentioning the tea shop you get your Earl Grey from, but I forgot to write it down, so could you remind me where it was again?"
"Ah, I see!" There was mirth in Charles' voice, and in my mind's eye, I envisioned him smiling at me from over the rim of a teacup. "Enter Grand Central Market from East 42nd Street. It should be on your right; you will know it by the heavenly scent, if the bins and tins of spices are not plainly visible."
"Rooooger that," I said, writing down the directions. "Grand Central Terminal from the south, counterclockwise, should be obvious. Got it, thanks. Want me to pick up anything for you while I'm there? I can have Lorna bring it when classes start back up."
"Oh, that will not be necessary," Charles said. "An associate of mine visits there regularly, and resupplies me consistently. My thanks, however. Enjoy your day Noa, and if I do not speak to you before then, a Happy New Year to yourself and Lorna."
"You as well, Professor," I said. "Take care now."
"Cheers."
With that, I hung up, put my notepad back in my purse, and started walking. It was about a twenty-five minute walk to get from Rockefeller Plaza to Grand Central Station, less if you could push through crowds better than I could, and even faster when it wasn't winter. Charles' directions said to go in from the south side, probably because it was easier to get to the specific spot he mentioned from there, so I took his advice, rather than cutting in from Park Avenue. Much to my embarrassment, I managed to walk past the spot he mentioned the first time around, probably because the cold left me with a bit of a runny nose.
On my second trip around, though? Just like Charles said I would, I smelled it.
It was a heavenly melange of spices, sweet and heady and wonderful. I turned right, and saw a store that might as well have been plucked straight from my dreams.
Teas and coffees, barrels of spices, bags of and barrels of herbs. The aroma filled the store air, drawing me from shelf to shelf as I peeked inside of small tins filled to the very brim with all the most wonderful stuff. Cinnamon bark and fresh nutmeg, allspice berries and cloves, what looked to be sealed glass vials of saffron threads, varieties of tea I hadn't ever seen all in one place before…
It was incredible.
I had no idea where to start.
I went back to the front of the store and picked up one of the small hand-baskets they had by the door, and decided to just go shelf by shelf, inspecting everything I saw. I had nowhere to be today, Lorna would be with Pietro until after dinner, so if I spent a few hours practically getting high on the aroma of high-quality tea leaves (yes, really), who could blame me?
A trio of two-ounce bags of Earl Grey tea, each a different blend, was the first to grace my basket, but it was hardly so homogenous for long. A bag of lapsang souchong joined it, followed by a sencha and a hibiscus tea. Then, I found myself agonizing over several other floral teas – did I really need another rose hip tea? Or… ooh, what was this? Pu'erh? I hadn't had that before, I would have to—
"Ah, Ms. Braddock! About that time again?"
Until the shopkeep finished saying the name, I thought for a moment that he somehow recognized me from my several fifteen minute stints of fame, and shot upright from where I'd been leaning down to peruse the shelves. Once I registered what the shopkeep had said (in a rather British accent – maybe that explained where the tea selection came from?) though, I relaxed, and put the two-ounce bag of pu'erh into my basket.
"Afraid not, my good sir. I was looking to browse, add a bit of variety. Anything new?"
I blinked. That voice was… familiar. Perfect Queen's English and all. Why was it familiar? Where had I heard that voice before? I turned to look at the woman that had come in, and, and, and… and… and—
… oh. Oh, wow. Oh my goodness, that…
Okay. Okay, please, picture this with me.
She carried a large, tan overcoat over one arm, which matched the handbag slung over her other shoulder. Sleek, glossy black hair pulled into a low tail hung over one shoulder of a white turtleneck sweater that clung to her every curve, somehow seeming more indecent than if she'd been wearing less. The lines of the turtleneck flowed into a pair of gray slacks, hugging her legs until flaring out slightly below the calf, a pair of tan, low-heeled ankle boots that clicked with her steps rounding off the ensemble.
And beneath everything else… that same odd pang of familiarity as when I heard her voice.
I suddenly felt very self-conscious of my own middling outfit. I loved this teal dress, and the leggings were great to keep warm in winter, but next to this vision of beauty?... I felt woefully inadequate.
"Ah, not as such on the tea front, I'm afraid." The shopkeep's words pulled me out of my reverie, and I hurriedly looked away when I caught the other woman looking back at me. "Though, I did get a few new spices in. A different garam masala blend than I had before, as well as some szechuan peppercorns."
Wait, he had what?
"I'm sorry, did you say szechuan peppercorn?" I asked, stepping up to the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other woman's appraising eye pass over me, and inwardly cringed at the attention. God, I hope she didn't pay too much attention to my face, I'd barely put on any makeup today, especially after helping Lorna fix up hers for half an hour. It's not like I'd cared; after all, it was an errand run day!
And yet now, under this beauty's watchful eye, I found myself desperately hoping my minimalist eyeliner and tinted lip balm was sufficient.
"I did indeed, ma'am!" The shopkeep said with a smile, brushing his thumb over a large mustache. "Care to give it a try? Although as a fair warning, I've heard from me mum that the spice was something different, after she came back from Hong Kong."
"I'd love to!" I answered, a smile crossing my face as I thought of all the things I could try with this. Gosh, it was such a special type of spicy! Maybe I should use some and make chili oil, or chili crisp? Ooh, or… oh, right! "Could I get a few ounces of peppercorns, and an equal amount of Chinese five spice?"
"How does three ounces each sound, luv?" the shopkeep asked.
"A deal." I pulled my wallet out of my purse and fished out a few bills. The spices, combined with the teas I'd picked, came out to $28.50. So I paid with two twenties, and when he handed me back my change and shopping bag, I tossed six bucks into the tip jar.
"Much obliged!" The shopkeep gave me a nod, then turned to the other woman in the store… whose presence I'd managed to forget for just a few moments. "And how about yourself, ma'am?"
"I believe I shall abstain," she said with a soft smile. "I am afraid too much spice does not sit well with me."
"Suit yourself! Well, if you two would excuse me…"
With that, the shopkeep went into the back, leaving me alone with my fellow customer.
I was suddenly all too aware of the other woman's attention, and the soft smile tugging at one corner of perfect cupid's-bow lips.
"I thought you seemed a mite familiar," she said to me. I barely suppressed the squeak that threatened to slip out from between my lips, and turned to face her. "But I couldn't place it without hearing your voice. The seminar at Xavier's, yes? That was you?"
"Y-yes!" I responded, almost stumbling over my words to answer her, my invisible tail going stiff before settling into a gentle wave. God, even her voice was… wow. "It was, yes! I-I mean…" My thoughts stalled out as I looked down at my hands, and saw pale, unbroken skin. "Well, I probably look a little, well, different right now. Uh, because of the whole, well, ah, you know." I waved a hand passed the side of my head, one finger extended to trace a vague outline of where my horn would be.
"Indeed so," she said. Her eyes left mine, and fell on a point a bit behind me, which looked for all the world to be nothing but empty air. "I cannot help but wonder what I would see right now, if not for that."
Oh, God, this woman was… oh, my poor heart!
"A-ah," I stammered out, stumbling over my own tongue as I looked away, unsure how to reply. "Well ah, that is…"
Her warm, gentle laughter pulled me out of my mental spiral, and I couldn't help but look back into her warm, chocolate-brown eyes, dancing with amusement in the store's light.
"Ah, it's a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance outside the context of academia." She shifted her overcoat to her left arm, and extended her hand. "Elizabeth Braddock. Although I would much prefer Betsy."
I blinked, then hurriedly accepted the handshake.
"Noa Schaefer," I replied. "And uh, yeah. Definitely more personal outside of a lecture hall. Much nicer."
Much nicer!? Oh, no, why did I have to say that!?
Despite my internal panic, though, Elizabeth—Betsy—merely offered a good-natured chuckle.
"I couldn't agree more," she said. Her eyes fell to the small shopping bag in my hands before drifting back up to my face, although when they took their sweet time getting there, I couldn't help but swallow lightly. "While it is a shame that I could not find anything new to suit my fancy, it would appear to be your first time visiting this shop, yes?"
"Ah, well, you can thank our mutual professorial acquaintance for that," I said, idly tucking a stray lock of hair back behind my horn. "I asked where he got his Earl Grey, and now I'm gonna need to come up with excuses to come back up to Midtown for more."
"Well as it happens…" Betsy's stance changed, opening up almost, and she took a couple steps to position herself beside me. "I learned of this establishment from a friend at the Consulate, who also swears by a small cafe not three blocks east of here. Perhaps you would care to accompany me? I wager two opinions are better than one, mind," she finished with an inviting smile.
I looked up to meet her gaze, a sudden light, almost fluttering feeling in my stomach. It was almost anxious, but it didn't bleed out into pins and needles the way anxiety did. It felt… floaty?
Butterflies. Butterflies in my stomach. God, how long had it been since I felt this way?
"I-I…" I stammered, trailing off as I suddenly felt self-conscious all over again.
In that instant of hesitation, I saw Betsy's expression begin to fall, her smile dipping. No, no, we couldn't have that. I didn't want to be the reason this lovely lady fell into a frown.
"I'd love to!" I said.
Betsy's smile returned, brighter even than before, and I couldn't help but smile back in response.
"Splendid!" Betsy walked to the door and held it open. "Shall we?"
"Oh, one sec!"
I pulled my purse around to my front and undid the latch, then tucked my purchases away inside. Or I tried to, initially. Then I realized they wouldn't fit all at once, so I took them out of the bag, and slid them into the available space in my purse one by one.
When I looked back up, I saw Betsy leaning against the held-open door, her features warring between a strained smile and an amused laugh.
I couldn't help the warmth in my cheeks.
"S-sorry," I said, feeling suddenly bashful as I shuffled out of the store, which let Betsy release the door.
"Oh, no, think nothing of it," she said, humor evident in her voice. "Although I am glad no other customers arrived then."
"Oh, please, don't even joke," I groaned, prompting another giggle.
I followed Betsy out of the terminal, letting her greater height forge a path through the gathering crowds as the day went on.
It was only once both of our winter coats were on that the realization slipped through. The realization of what exactly might be happening here. And…
Oh. Oh, dear.
Had I just agreed to an impromptu date?