Epilogue

Griffin

Iggy touched my hand briefly with few pale fingers. His blue eyes raked over the surroundings, soaking up all the details. Roses bloomed in orderly garden beds, and the pale pink walls of the house were neat and pristine. A dark church with a needle-like spire stabbed into the sky behind the house. Lace trimmed curtains overed the windows; pink florals were printed on the thin cotton. Light poured through the leaves of the trees lining the street. A roof of lush greenery enclosed the suburban street, and cool air with the faintest bite of winter lingered beneath.

Nearby, a young woman guided a little girl on a tricycle. The little girl laughed, and the woman smiled warmly, ruffling her air. From behind, a young man with an excitable spaniel on a leash approached. The young woman's eyes lit up, and she kissed the man on the cheek as the girl shrieked and patted the dog. The dog licked her face, frisking about as the girl petted it, tricycle forgotten. I couldn't help but smile. Iggy smiled too, seeing the little scene. We understood. We both had our girls, far away. We were missing them, and with any hope, they were missing us too. The family gave us hope. The future, however unlikely, could be like it: full of innocence and happiness and goodness.

The door of the small house was white, and numbered with a gold metal 38. The plaque on the wall read Griffiths in shining gold letters. A simple gold knocker was fastened to the wood. Iggy shivered, and I patted down my windbreaker. We were both nervous. It was just us two, with the rest of the combined flocks in Arizona. Kichiro needed his rest (Eila wouldn't leave him), and Rhaksha and Whisper only seemed to want to be together. Fleur and Nudge were left in charge, Mist and Bobby and the others deserved the down time. He broke contact; he smiled at me as his eyes clouded over again. His expression changed abruptly as he turned to face the house again.

"There's no putting it off any more, is there?" he bitterly.

"I'm grinning," I said. Iggy decisively lifted his hand to the knocker. He rapped sharply on the door three times. From inside, there was the sound of hurried footsteps and low voices conversing. The door was opened by a strawberry-blonde woman with the eyes like mine and Iggy's. Her long fingers brushed down a white half-apron as she peered out. The woman had the same body shape as us, long and lanky and slender; her hair was threaded with grey, and lines fanned from around her eyes and mouth.

"Hi," we started, "Remember us?"

Her hand flew to her throat and she gasped, taking us in in our identical glory. She looked us up and down from head to toe, several times. We wore identical light blue windbreakers over white long-sleeved shirts. Our partings were done in the same way, and we wore near-identical scuffed sneakers. The woman stared at us, blue eyes wide with shock. Slowly, they filled with tears. She ushered us in and all but slammed the door shut.

There was a moment's silence, then we were engulfed in the woman's embrace. The woman sobbed against us as I relaxed into her embrace. Iggy stared at the ground over her shoulder, face set in a bitter mask.

"My sons, my babies," she sobbed. "My babies."

She finally peeled herself away from us. I smiled a little bit.

"Hi…Mom," I ventured. Iggy's mouth pressed into a tight line. I nudged him, and his expression became less 'grim' and more 'uncertain'. I briefly made contact with his fingers and smiled at him in silent thanks. He was doing it for me. He didn't want to be here, but he was my blood brother and he was sticking it out for me.

The woman- our biological mother- herded us into the living room. It was all floral sofas and wing chairs, with a fireplace and a marble mantel-piece covered in lace. A black and white portrait of the man and woman in early life sat on the mantelpiece, while a framed Polaroid was the one of the only other object on the mantelpiece. It showed the woman, sweaty hair matted against her face and holding two very red-faced babies. The final photograph was of two pale, blonde babies with their eyes wide open. The one on the left was strawberry blonde, just like the woman, with darker, sky-blue eyes. The other baby was paler than the other, with nearly white hair and ice-blue eyes.

I picked up the photograph and Iggy followed the sound of my footsteps. Our fingertips met, and his other hand traced the outline of the babies' faces. I closed my eyes and imagined or a second. I couldn't imagine this woman as a mother, but Fleur- oh, Fleur. I could see her already, holding the hands of a little blonde girl and a dark-haired boy. And a Labrador, a chocolate puppy, trotting by as I trailed along.

"It's us," he said quietly. He turned to the woman, "Why didn't you tell me? That I had a twin?"

She wiped her eyes. "When you came, then- I thought, I thought you'd be together, that you'd already know."

We stared at her. The man, our biological father, was nowhere to be seen. The woman wiped her red eyes, and her gold bangles tinkled together. She collapsed onto the cabbage-rose sofa. She beckoned for us to sit. We did.

"So," I said, "You're…my mother."

She nodded, smiling tearfully. Iggy lounged, leaning back on his elbows with his legs outstretched. He still looked apprehensive. There was tense silence. I had nothing to say. I just needed to know that this woman was my other. I had a mother, and I was more human than I was not.

"Why?" Iggy finally said. I could almost see the pieces of silence drifting to the floor, shattering into diamond dust.

"Why did you do what you did, two years ago?" he asked, leaning forward, brow creased. I had no part in this.

"I…" she quavered, "I, I don't know why. I just wanted you to stay. It didn't matter to me, if you were blind and different- you are my son. I could love you no matter what."

"Then who?" I asked. "Who did what they did?"

She gripped the fabric of her apron. Tears glimmered in her eyes again as she flushed. Her hands shook.

"He did," she stated simply, shame and anger bleeding into her tones.

"Who did?" Iggy asked, frowning.

"Your father," she said. Her tone changed, and her expression of bitterness morphed into one of tentative hope. "He's not here anymore. You can come home. Your secret will be- I'll never tell. Your rooms are still exactly the same, in case you ever came back-"

I held up a hand. The feverish light in her eyes faded, stopped dead by cold, hard reality.

"We can't," I said. "We have- responsibilities. And duties, and loyalties and families that we can't live without. Something big, something bigger than us, bigger than this, is going to happen. And, I have someone waiting for me. I have to return to her."

Her expression softened. She understood. "Oh. I see."

She smiled softly, and got up, opening a drawer in one of the tasteful bureaus. She drew a blue-wrapped packaged from the drawer, and turned, bringing it to us. Iggy touched my hand with a pinkie. Our mother sat at the sofa and unwrapped the soft blue bundle. Inside were two baby quilts, one sky blue and aquamarine. The other was ice-blue and silvery-white. She carefully unfolded the quilts, spreading them over the low table.

Within were two tiny feathers, one white and black, the other soft grey.

She smiled at us, and folded the quilts again.

"I see, now. I can't be your mother," she said. We nodded in understanding. She had come into our lives so late; we hadn't needed her for comfort or reassurance when were young and afraid of the dark. Our lives had been so tumultuous, so violent and dark and devoid of freedom. A mother didn't fit into the unending, eternal riddle that was our existence.

"Go," the woman said. "Go and have your happiness. If you ever need me, I'll still be here."

She handed us the folded bundle and lead us out of the living room and to the front door. She embraced us one last time. The quilts were tucked into my bag. She smiled at us, looking lighter and freer than she had when we had come. She knew we were fine, and that we could live and be ourselves and be happy. That was all she needed. She didn't need to be our mother, even though she had hoped. I guess she knew that we were never her sons in the first place; yet, we would always be. She wouldn't need the reminders of us anymore. We would never leave her, not completely. I yanked a loose feather free of my secondaries, and Iggy pulled off one of his loose feathers. We handed them to the woman, our mother, and stepped outside.

She smiled and closed the door.