Notes: Apologies for the delay in posting. The past two weeks have been a bit crazy.

Fair warning, this chapter is longer than the others, and is also a bit darker and more angsty than the other chapters.

9. His mother succumbed to cancer when he was fourteen (he was grateful).

Jeremie is in chemistry, carefully measuring out the correct amount of phosphorus while Odd bounces on his toes next to him, when there's a knock on the classroom door. Odd pauses in his bouncing to crane around Ulrich and Aelita and look over at the door. Ms. Hertz frowns and leaves Adelaide's group to go investigate the knock. The class erupts into curious whispers as Hertz partially steps out into the hall to speak with whoever is at the door.

Odd elbows the others and Jeremie glowers as he almost spills the test tube. "Watch it," he hisses.

"Who do you think it is?" Odd asks. "Do you think someone's in trouble?"

"I don't know, have you done anything particularly stupid lately?" Jeremie snipes.

"Ouch, Einstein."

He looks up and sees Aelita's wide green eyes staring at him with concern. Ulrich's frowning at him and Odd still has a smile on his face, but it looks a little tenser than usual. Jeremie wants to apologize, he's tired and cranky and can feel a migraine coming on. He doesn't want to fight with Odd. He sighs.

Before he can say anything, Hertz has the door open again. The class looks over curiously, experiments temporarily forgotten. The school's new guidance counselor, Mr. Spieker, is standing in the hall looking particularly forlorn.

"Mr. Belpois," Ms. Hertz says. She meets his eyes and he freezes at the look of sympathy on her face. "It appears you're needed in the front office." Wordlessly, Jeremie hands the test tube over to Aelita and pulls his gloves and goggles off. "Take your things with you."

Ulrich takes Jeremie's work apron and Odd steps aside when Jeremie grabs his satchel from his desk. He can feel the class's eyes on him. Ms. Hertz touches his shoulder briefly before she closes the door behind him.

"Jeremie is in trouble?" he hears Sissi demand, voice incredulous.

"Mr. Belpois," Mr. Spieker says. "If you'll come with me, we need to have a little chat."

Jeremie's mouth is dry.

. . … . .

Jeremie's mother is a disaster in the kitchen. She may follow a recipe word-for-word, but it always comes out slightly off. "I never have to worry about outgrowing my trousers," his father jokes. His mother rolls her eyes and swats him with a kitchen towel and he just laughs and presses a kiss to her cheek.

Jeremie's first six birthday cakes are edible, though not exactly gourmet. They always tilt, or the icing runs, or they come out flat because she forgets the baking soda (or is it powder?), or the chocolate tastes flat. For each one, his mother simply shrugs and laughs, blue eyes sparkling.

"Well, they're made with love," she states. "Love is many things, but it is never perfect and sometimes messy. It's what makes it magical." She wraps thin arms around him and presses a kiss to his forehead. "Happy birthday, Jeremie."

Jeremie's seventh birthday cake comes from the bakery down the street because his mother is too tired to get out of bed. "Look at that, eh?" his father asks, gesturing to the cake. "Nothing leaning, or dripping. I bet it tastes great too." His father's voice is thick, like he's fighting back a cough and Jeremie stares at the cake. It doesn't feel the same. "How about a picnic in bed?"

"With Maman?"

"Of course, I'm sure she wants to celebrate with you."

They bring the cake into his parents' room on a tray and his mother is propped up with pillows in the bed. She sees the cake and gives him a bright smile. "My, what a big cake for a big boy. Come, sit with me, Jeremie."

He crawls into the bed next to her and his father sets the tray down in front of him. "Make a wish, Jeremie."

Jeremie studies the flickering candles before closing his eyes and blowing out the seven tiny flames. When he opens his eyes he catches his mother rubbing lightly at her cheeks. "Good wish?" she asks. He nods solemnly and she smiles, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Her fingertips feel damp against his skin. "Now, don't tell us, or it won't come true."

"Alright, cake time," his father says, clapping his hands together and grinning.

Jeremie nods again. He reaches for his mother's hand and wraps her thin fingers in his. She gives him another smile while his father cuts into the cake.

He's careful to never voice his wish, but in the end it doesn't matter. It still doesn't come true.

. . … . .

"You alright, Jer?" Ulrich asks.

Jeremie looks up from where he's sitting on his bed. Ulrich has his dorm room door propped open, though he hasn't entered his room properly. "What are you doing? Don't you have…" he pauses, looks at the clock. He can't make sense of the numbers. "Class?"

Ulrich shrugs. He steps in and closes the door behind him. "It's gym, Jim'll let me off." Jeremie nods and returns to contemplating his folded hands. Ulrich studies the half-packed bag sitting on the bed next to him. "What happened?"

Jeremie swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. His eyes feel dry and itchy behind the lenses. "My mother died in the middle of the night," he says eventually. He senses movement and looks up to see Ulrich sit down, back against the wall across from him.

"I'm sorry," Ulrich says, and it sounds like he really means it. Not like Mr. Spieker when he'd sat Jeremie down in his office and told him the news, or when he'd told him they'd arranged for him to take the afternoon train to Reims where his aunt would pick him up. "I know it's not the same…but it's hard to lose someone you're close to."

Jeremie nods stiffly and then shrugs. "It shouldn't be a surprise," he says. "She's been sick for a while." His stomach twists at the words and he wonders if he'll be sick.

"It doesn't have to be a surprise to suck," Ulrich states, voice firm. He leans his head back against the wall and studies the ceiling. "It'll suck for a while, too," he adds. "They'll tell you it won't, or that it'll get easier, but that's not always true. Some days it is, and then you'll feel guilty about it. And other days it won't and you'll almost wish for the guilt instead."

Jeremie blinks at Ulrich and nods slowly. "They're sending me home for the next week," he says. "For mourning."

"Yeah," Ulrich says, nodding and not looking at Jeremie. "When do you leave?"

"Three. Mr. Spieker's taking me to the station." He pulls a face as he says it and sees Ulrich smile at him. "I'm supposed to be packing," he adds, gesturing unnecessarily at the half-packed suitcase.

"You want help?" Jeremie hesitates and Ulrich gets to his feet. He reaches over, gripping Jeremie's shoulder. "It's okay, Jer," he says softly. "We're all here for you when you need us."

Jeremie will not cry. His eyes itch and his stomach churns, but his eyes remain dry. "Just…company would be nice," he says finally.

Ulrich nods and takes a seat next to Jeremie this time. "Sure thing. You want me to let the others know, or would you prefer to?" Jeremie shrugs and Ulrich pulls out his phone, firing off a text. Jeremie exhales, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and his head bowed. He can feel his migraine in the back of his skull, pulsing.

"Thank you."

. . … . .

It isn't until the peripheral neuropathy sets in that he understands why his father wears the constant concerned look. His mother still gives him bright, warm smiles when he comes home from school. She isn't as tired these days, she tells him. She's better at hiding it, he thinks sourly. She laughs at her clumsiness when she drops a spoon or breaks a plate while cooking.

"It's only a little thing, ma petite étoile," she says, stooping to sweep up the broken porcelain. "Just clumsy."

"Let me help," he says, getting up from the table.

"No, no, it's fine." She looks at him and it's the first time he sees the pain in her blue eyes even as she smiles. "It's fine, Jeremie. Finish your homework."

"Yes, Maman," he replies. He sits back down dutifully, head bent over his textbook. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, sees her wipe at her eyes with the hem of her apron. He doesn't say anything.

. . … . .

Jeremie's aunt Sophie picks him up from the train station. She pulls him into a tight hug and doesn't let go for several minutes. Jeremie can feel the curious looks of passersby and awkwardly pats his aunt's shoulder. He's surprised to find that they're the same height and he has to bend awkwardly for her to wrap her arms around his neck.

"Oh, Jeremie, I am so sorry about your mother," she says, voice thick with emotion. She takes a step back and dabs a handkerchief against her wet eyes. "Come on, let's get you home. Patrick, grab Jeremie's bag."

Jeremie looks over his aunt's shoulder and notices his cousin for the first time. Patrick gives him a thin smile and head nod. "Hey, cuz," he says. He grabs Jeremie's bag while Aunt Sophie leads Jeremie to the carpark, babbling all along.

Jeremie slumps into the backseat and focuses on not hurling as his aunt starts the car. Patrick slams the trunk and a moment later clambers into the backseat next to Jeremie. He nudges Jeremie lightly with his elbow and Jeremie lifts his eyes to meet Patrick's sympathetic look.

"Your father wanted us to bring you to your house. He's out making the…well, he's not home. Would you rather visit with us?" Aunt Sophie questions.

Jeremie looks away from Patrick's uncomfortable gaze and sees his aunt's watery eyes staring at him in the rearview mirror. "I think I'd just like to go home," he says. "It was a long trip." He reaches out and squeezes his aunt's shoulder. "Thank you for picking me up, Aunt Sophie."

"Of course!" she reaches up to squeeze his fingers tightly in her own. "Of course, Jeremie."

/

Jeremie wanders into his bedroom and drops his bag at the foot of his bed. It's only been three months since he was here for Christmas, but it feels longer. He toes off his shoes, kicking them under the bed, and crawls beneath the navy blue duvet. His pillow smells like the lavender detergent his mother was always fond of. He burrows his face into the pillow, feels the frame of his glasses bite into cheekbone, and breathes ragged and quick.

He must doze off because he wakes to the creak of his bedroom door opening and the yellow light from the hallway spilling in. He rubs at his face. His nose feels congested and his throat feels dry and scratchy. He's still half asleep and for a moment he wonders if he's getting sick. For a moment he forgets where he is.

"Jeremie? You awake?"

He remembers at his father's voice. He pushes back the covers, feeling hot and cold simultaneously. "Papa," he starts. He stops, not sure what else to say, not liking the catch to his voice.

His father crosses the room, sits down on the bed next to him, and pulls him into a tight hug. It isn't the same as Aunt Sophie's, he doesn't have the awkward bend to his neck, or feel Aunt Sophie's sharp earrings poking into the side of his face. His father's chest hitches every so often as he holds Jeremie close.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there to get you."

Jeremie lets his head rest against his father's shoulder. He feels very young, suddenly, like he's woken from a nightmare and his father's come to tuck him back in. "Did she go peacefully?" he asks.

His father is quiet for a moment. His hand tightens on Jeremie's shoulder, almost painfully. "She knew it was time," he says finally. He sits back and looks at Jeremie and Jeremie looks back. He might feel younger, but his father looks so much older now. There are lines on his face that he doesn't remember from Christmas, and he wonders how much his father hadn't told him during their weekly chats. "Are you hungry?"

Jeremie is not. His stomach is still rolling and his throat still feels tight, but he sees the way his father's hands clench and unclench, knows that he's looking for something to do, something to fix. He nods. "I could eat," he agrees.

. . … . .

Jeremie comes home for Christmas his second year at Kadic to find only his father waiting for him at the train station. "Where's Maman?" he asks, surprised. He'd been sure both of his parents would come to greet him like they had the previous year.

"She's at home, cooking," his father says. He gives him a gentle smile. "I didn't mean to disappoint."

"You didn't," Jeremie replies, squashing the feeling of fear and anxiety in his stomach. For a moment he'd thought that his mother was in the hospital again. "Hello, Papa."

"Hello, Jeremie," his father replies. His father reaches out, pulling Jeremie into a tight hug. "You've grown."

"Not really," Jeremie replies, squirming out of his father's grasp. His father's smile is brighter and he grabs Jeremie's suitcase, leading him to the car. "How is Maman?" Jeremie questions as he's buckling into his seat.

His father frowns as he reverses out of the parking spot. "She is well," he says finally. "But Jeremie…she is not the same."

/

His mother is in the kitchen, humming a few bars of Swan Lake when he gets home. He pauses in the kitchen doorway to watch her. There's a stilted grace to her movements, as though she has to concentrate on each action now. She'd always been willowy, but now he'd describe her as bony. The biggest change is the colorful scarf tied around her head where she'd had thick blonde hair previously.

She turns, jumping when she sees him in the doorway, and the bowl of salad falls from her trembling hands. "Jeremie!" she exclaims.

"Hello, Maman," he greets. He steps over the spilled lettuce and kisses her on the cheek. Her skin feels thin against his lips. "Let me help."

"It's so good to see you," she says. She wraps him in a hug and he's surprised at the strength he feels in her arms. "Go sit down, you must be tired from your trip. Where is your father?"

"Speaking to Mr. Schumann next door," he replies. He steps out of her grasp and kneels to collect the lettuce leaves. He notices that the bowl is plastic now, not ceramic. "I've been sitting on a train for hours, it's good to move. Let me help."

He glances up to see her watching him, eyes uncertain and shining. Carefully, he stands with the lettuce collected in the bowl once more. He steps to the sink to rinse it out again. He bites his lip and sneaks a look at her again. She's still watching him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"I like the scarf," he says finally. "It's quite a fashion statement."

She laughs quietly, touching the brightly patterned head covering. "It's so gray outside, a little color livens it up, don't you think?"

He thinks it looks like something Odd or Aelita would wear. "It suits you," he says.

She laughs again, pulls him into another hug once he's set the lettuce aside. "You could never lie to me," she smiles. She presses a kiss to his forehead. "I think you've gotten taller since I last saw you." Her hands frames his face as she studies him. "You've changed so much in just a few months."

"Maman…"

"I'm so proud of you, you know that, yes?"

The front door bangs open and shut. "Jeanne? Jeremie?" his father calls. He walks into the kitchen and smiles at them. "He's gotten taller, hasn't he?"

"He has," she agrees.

. . … . .

The funeral is lovely. It's what everyone says.

The service was lovely.

The speech was lovely.

Jeanne looked lovely.

The day was lovely, for a burial.

Jeremie listens to the well-wishers as they move about in the kitchen and sitting room. Their apartment is too small for the amount of people who are visiting, but his father never could turn anyone away, and Jeremie retreats to his bedroom once his aunt is distracted trying to stack all the gifted casseroles into the fridge and freezer.

He's sitting on his bed, staring at his hands when there's a knock on his door. He doesn't say anything, hoping whoever it is will go away. He can't imagine Aunt Sophie has managed to fit everything into the fridge yet and his father wouldn't make him rejoin the wake.

The door opens.

His nails have black dirt under the fingernails from the cemetery. He should wash them.

The door closes and he hears heavy footsteps cross the worn floorboards. The bed dips. "Hey, cuz."

"Hi Patrick," he replies.

Patrick reaches up and adjusts the black tie hanging around his neck. He runs a hand through his hair. It's darker now, Jeremie notes idly. More golden brown than the blonde from when they were children. Patrick scuffs a foot against the constellation rug that's still a holdover from Jeremie's days of wanting to be an astronaut.

"How're you doing?" Patrick asks finally.

Jeremie shrugs and looks over at his cousin finally. "Fine," he says. He almost believes it. He wants to believe it. "She was sick for a while, it's not really that surprising."

"Yeah, but…I mean…" Patrick clears his throat and looks uncomfortable. "She was your mom."

"And she was sick," Jeremie replies, shrugging again. "She wasn't getting better." He pauses. "Everyone dies," he adds, voice softer. "It's the one thing we're guaranteed."

Patrick studies him quietly. He adjusts his tie again. "Yeah, well, word of advice? Don't say that to Uncle Michel." He pauses, frowning. "Or my parents."

Jeremie shrugs, turning his attention back to his hands and the graveyard dirt still caked under his nails. Patrick sits there quietly next to him and they listen to the rise and fall of too many voices filling the small apartment.

"It's okay, you know?" Patrick asks. Jeremie turns to him, head tilted and frowning. "It's okay to cry, for your mom. It's okay, if you want to."

Jeremie frowns, doesn't say he knows it's okay. He gets to his feet. "I need to wash my hands," he says in response to Patrick's confused look.

. . … . .

It snows during his fourteenth Christmas.

Not a lot, but there are definite flurries and his mother grins brightly and insists that they all go outside to see it. They've just finished opening presents and she's put on the knitted hat Aelita had sent along with him, one of her early adventures in knitting. It's a little off kilter, with wide bands of pink and orange separated by narrow bands of white yarn. His mother grins delightedly when she sees it and pulls it on.

"You'll need to invite this one around during summer holidays," she tells him. Jeremie's face flushes as red as the cranberries strung around their small tree and his mother's smile widens. "Yes, I want to meet the girl who makes my son blush like this," she decides.

"I'm not blushing," Jeremie protests. "It's hot in here."

"Of course, son," his father agrees. He shrugs into his coat. "Perhaps the snow will cool you off."

Jeremie resists the urge to stick his tongue out as he wraps his new scarf around his neck and helps his mother into her winter coat. It hangs heavy and loose on her narrow shoulders. She catches his concerned look and cups his cheek with her cold fingers.

"It's alright, Jeremie," she says, voice soft and firm. "I'm alright."

"Okay, Maman," he agrees.

His father offers an arm to his mother and she laughs. It's not as loud or forceful as he remembers, but her eyes are still bright and she's still smiling as she takes it. Jeremie notices the way she leans into his father, the way his father moderates his steps so she doesn't stumble. Jeremie gets the door open and they step outside into the snow flurries.

His mother tilts her face up so that the flurries dust her pale skin. "A Christmas miracle," she says softly. There's an edge to her voice that he can't decipher.

"Come on, Maman, let's dance." He takes her hand from his father and leads her, stumbling, through the basic three-step waltz she had taught him years and years ago. She smiles at him, soft and pleased, and he tries not to think of how light she is. His father watches them, smiling as well, as they dance amid the snow flurries on Christmas morning.

/

"How is school?" his mother asks later that break.

"It's going well," he says proudly. He launches into stories about chemistry and robotics and, more reluctantly, about gym class. He's top of his classes, except for gym, and his mother smiles at each story. They're sitting at the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate and the temperature is almost sweltering in the apartment, yet his mother is still in her thick fleece bathrobe.

"And your friends?" she presses. "Yumi and Ulrich and Odd…and Aelita?"

He shrugs, blames the warmth in his face on the heat from the chocolate and the furnace. "Good," he replies. "Odd still enjoys tormenting everyone with pranks. Yumi and Ulrich are dating, finally. Though that's a mess." He shakes his head and sips at his hot chocolate. "All they do is fight or make-out. It's disturbing."

His mother shakes her head. "Each relationship is different. Some are better than others." She pauses and looks at him. "They don't hurt each other, do they?"

Jeremie shrugs, uncomfortable. "No, no I don't think it's anything like that, Maman. Just…I thought their stupid jealousy fits would end when they got together. It seems to be getting worse."

His mother reaches over, wraps cool fingers around his hand and squeezes. "And what about Aelita?" she asks softly. She ducks her head to meet his gaze when he tries to look away. "She seems sweet."

"She is," he agrees. He jabs at one of the bobbing marshmallows in his mug and avoids his mother's smile. "She's really great," he admits finally. "She has this…this worldview that's so different. Everything is magical and new and she's always happy and smiling and she's just really brilliant."

His mother reaches over, brushing his hair from his face, and smiles. "I would love to meet her one day," she says, voice soft. "She must be something special to have you so happy."

"We're just friends, Maman," he protests. He sees his mother's eyebrows pull together, her face momentarily spasm as if in pain. "Maman? What is it?"

"Nothing," she replies. "Just a headache." His mother stares at him, grips his hand tighter. "I still hope I get to meet your friend one day," she says firmly.

. . … . .

"Jeremie," Aelita says. He looks up from the super computer screen and sees her standing in the doorway, watching him. He hadn't heard her come in. "When did you get back?"

"A couple hours ago," he replies.

"And you came…here?"

He shrugs and looks back at the blank screen in front of him. He can hear her pick her way across the floor, footsteps light on the concrete. He'd dropped his bag in his room, contemplated visiting Odd and Ulrich or Aelita, thought about calling Yumi…but he'd wanted peace and quiet. The week had been spent with family or family friends or neighbors stopping by, with his father's hopeless looks and the overwhelming silence of an apartment not filled with music. He couldn't stand more of that silence or idle chitchat.

Aelita rests a hand on his shoulder and he looks up at her. She studies his face before she pulls him up and into a tight hug. He feels like he can't breathe. He rests his chin on the top of her hair, smells her citrus shampoo. It's a sharp contrast to the lavender detergent he's been smelling all week.

"We're here for you, Jeremie," she murmurs. Her breath is warm against his neck and he swallows, throat dry. "I'm here for you."

Carefully, he disentangles himself from her tight grasp. She's still studying him intently and he swallows again. "I know," he says. He gives her a small smile. "I'm alright, Aelita. Really."

She cups his cheek in her warm fingers and searches his eyes. "You came to an abandoned factory instead of seeing your friends," she points out gently.

"Maybe I was just trying to avoid seeing Yumi and Ulrich sticking their tongues down each other's throats," he jokes.

She snorts and lets her hand fall away. "Well, can't blame you there." She stares at him intently. "I am sorry, Jeremie."

He shrugs, sitting down heavily in the computer seat. Aelita leans against the supercomputer and watches him. "She was sick, really sick, for so long. Half my life she was sick." He picks at a loose thread on his corduroys. "She couldn't even play piano anymore."

They sit in silence for a while, until Jeremie finally pulls the thread loose. "Am I a terrible son for…she was so sick," he says. He darts his eyes up to check Aelita's face. "She was-"

He breaks off, muffling a sudden sob with his fist. Aelita's face crumples and she pulls him into another hug, lets him cry into her shoulder as she rubs soothing circles into his back. "You are not a terrible person, Jeremie Belpois," she states, voice firm. "You are dedicated and brave and so loyal. No one would blame you for wanting to see your mother at peace."

He lets her words wash over him, inhaling the fresh scent of orange and feeling her hand rub warmth back into his shoulders. He isn't sure how long he sits there, sniffling into her turquoise sweater and feeling his neck begin to get a crick in it from the awkward angle.

"You are not terrible," she repeats at last. He feels her lips brush his cheek.

He wishes he could believe her.