Interlude II
"Your father was in a war a long time ago," my mother says, a cool evening breeze rushing through the trees above us. Our bare feet crunch along the white seashell riddled road as we walk hand-in-hand. I'm eight years old, keeping a sharp eye out for any of the bigger, curling snail shells to add to our collection in the garden at home. Even with the setting sun, it's too humid for anything else but a sleeveless T and shorts. For once, my mother has shed her business attire, settling for a shirt and capris.
"Why?" I ask, looking up at her. She's staring down the jagged path, the wind upsetting her long hair.
"To protect people," she says after a time.
"From who?"
"Creatures we called Angels."
"Like the ones from God?"
She smiles. "No. That's just what we called them."
White from the street scuffs my feet, a big toe smacking into the edge of a curved carapace. I let go of her hand, fingers ripping at the dirt to free the snail shell jutting out of the sand, a crumbling monument to a long dead traveler. Mother bends her knees, helping me clear some of it away before I'm able to tug the artifact free. It's rough and gray on the outside, making wide spirals towards the top where the inside is as smooth as glass.
"Is that why dad acts crazy?" I ask, quieter than I mean to. She doesn't answer and stands. I bang the shell on the ground to jostle the dirt free. The rustling of the leaves whispers over us, a crane crying in the distance, my eyes finding the way back home. He used to walk with us, hawkish eyes finding the biggest shells while I could only ever stumble over them. He never laughed at me for it, tapping the shell on the concrete just right to get all the sand out without breaking it. We found a shell the size of his head once, and he held it up to my ear so I could listen to the crash of the ocean.
"It's not his fault," mother says, a hand finding its way into my hair. "Your father loves you, Kazuya."
It didn't matter how many times she said it. Those words were always the greatest lie to me. If my dad loved me, he would get better. If he loved me, he wouldn't have dragged the war back with him. What my mother never told me was that she had been in a war a long time ago too. I found that out from Aunt Misato much later. In a quiet way, when one too many drinks had loosened her lips.
I had caught on long before that, though. Mother would always worry where I was, fret over every little thing. Normal behavior for any mom most would say. From her, it was heightened somehow. I explored a lot, often without telling anyone where I was going or how long I'd be gone, and like any good adventurer I came home with a proud menagerie of scrapes and bruises. I can't count how many times she yelled at me or grounded me for it. "What were you thinking? Do you have any idea how worried I was? What if it had been more serious?" she would say, sounding furious, but with a scared look her eyes – like my dad.
It was the scars that really made me wonder. Some had faded, while others dipped in shallow fissures, healed over with pale white skin. Most of them you couldn't see when she was dressed, but I'd gotten to know them whenever we went for a swim out in the pool or by the beach. They stretched over her stomach and reached up to her neck in ripping, jagged tears. I remember asking about them once and she made up some story about a car accident when she was younger. I'll probably never know what really caused them.
Then there were the night terrors that lasted for days, sometimes weeks – usually after one of dad's episodes. A shriek would echo across the house, bolting me awake. I'd bury myself under the covers, eyes squeezed shut while I pressed the pillows over my head so I wouldn't have to hear her crying in the living room.
Other times, when she was quieter, my body could still sense it. My legs stung, muscles aching with a restless need to be elsewhere. It would be in the middle of the night, and I'd find her sitting on the couch in the illuminating glow of the television. It was too dark to really see the red around her eyes from rubbing them dry. I'd shuffle over and she'd bring me up between her legs and hold me close until we both fell asleep.
During the day, a collection of pills decorated our kitchen counter, stored in a plastic container with just the right amount for each day of the week. The words on the pill bottles next to it were long and nonsensical, to a kid at least. My father took at least seven a day. It wasn't long before mom started taking pills of her own. She'd scratch at the scars on her arms until they were angry and red, or grab at her left eye and hold her stomach, stifling pained grunts by biting the inside of her cheek.
I knew that, somehow, the Eva had done this to her too.
It was always the Eva.
She tried hard to hide her nightmares from me, working 12 hour days so I wouldn't see just how much they wore her down. Leaving me at home with a father I had to worry might change because of a loud noise or the mere sight of blood. I used to hide in the closet and draw up plans of how I would escape my house if he ever came after me. I was terrified that one day mother would leave for work and never come back. I couldn't stand the thought of being left to face my father alone.
Yet she always returned. It became a bit of a routine: She'd step through the door, set her briefcase down, take off the jacket of her suit and drape it over the backrest of the couch. Then it was a handful of pills and she was off to bed – though not before stopping by my room to kiss me goodnight. If I was still awake, I'd beg her to stay – and she would silently oblige, lying with me until I fell asleep.
"Don't leave me," I'd say. "Promise you won't ever leave me."
She never promised. But she never left, either.