“Mom …” Zander couldn’t hide his exasperation.
She laughed again, a light, musical sound. “I’m sorry, Cassandra. I don’t mean to be overbearing. I’m sure you know how unique your gifts are and how hard it is to find another like yourselves. I’m just so happy for you both. And it must be such a relief for you, on your own before.”
“It is,” I agreed, feeling it was mostly true. “I’ve been …” Confused? Lonely? Afraid? “It’s been hard,” I said finally.
“I’m sure,” she said sympathetically. “Tell me your story, if you don’t mind. I’d love to hear it.”
So I did. Starting with how I figured out what the mark meant through my time in Kansas, learning about my mom. Calliope was an attentive listener, leaning forward, rarely taking her eyes off me.
“So your mother saw it, too,” Calliope said decisively, refilling my water glass. “What about your grandmother?”
I shrugged, looking down at my hands and feeling the sorrow that still came when I thought about Nan. “I don’t really know. She never said anything about it, even when she could see I was trying to figure it out.”
“But with your mother having it she must have known at least? Even if she didn’t have the gift herself ?” Calliope asked it gently, clearly understanding what I was struggling with.
I sighed, looking up. “Yeah. I think so.”
She patted my knee, her eyes kind. “We all make mistakes, Cassie. It doesn’t mean she loved you any less.”
Zander had been listening quietly, but I’d seen him growing increasingly restless. He seized the small break in conversation. “Mom,” he said bluntly, “is there anything we should be doing for, you know, dinner?”
Calliope glanced at the intricately carved clock, then stood, smiling fondly at him. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” he said. “And the smell of food is just about driving me crazy.”
“It’s probably ready. Why don’t you and Cassandra set the table and I’ll finish it up?”
We talked about more normal things over the lasagna and salad Calliope served. Vacations they’d taken, an eccentric client she was working for, the car she needed to replace. I glanced around the room, the objects on the walls taking on new meaning: a photo of a Greek temple, a framed shard of painted pottery, a tarnished dagger.
“You like them?” Calliope asked.
“Interesting,” I said. “Do they have any special meaning?”
“Mementos of Zander’s heritage, mostly,” she said. “There are no temples to Thanatos. The picture is one of Athena’s temples, from our first trip to Greece. That vase fragment”—she pointed at the pottery—“is an ancient depiction of Thanatos.”
“And the dagger?”
“One of his tools.” She smiled, adding, “A replica, of course. Not the original.”
It sent a little shiver up my spine.
After dinner, Zander offered to do the dishes. I asked if I could help, but he shook his head. “I’m making good on my promise: time to talk about you and me and our history and feelings,” he teased.
“I’m enjoying it,” I said, defiantly cocking an eyebrow at him. “At least your mom tells me something.”
“Oh, she’ll talk your ear off,” he said. “That’s actually my strategy. I figure after tonight, you’ll never want to hear another word about me.”
“Ha-ha.”
I settled back into my seat in the living room and Calliope took hers. The occasional clank of dishes from the kitchen was not unlike it had been at Jack’s house, he and I nestled on the sofa by the fire while his mom cleaned up. There was something cozy and familiar and comforting about this scene.
“Thank you so much for having me over,” I said to Calliope.
“Are you kidding?” she said. “I expect to see you here often, Cassandra. You’re far more than a girlfriend.” My heart leapt at her calling me that. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get tired of hearing or thinking about it. “You’re a missing part of our family.”
She leaned in then, taking my hand. “I want you to know I really feel for you and understand how conflicted you must be about your past, especially your grandmother.” She lowered her voice slightly. “I doubt Zander’s shared much about it, but we—especially he—has had his own troubles with his father.”
“What happened to him?” I asked, eager to hear what Zander was so unwilling to share. “Where is he?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh.” I felt terrible, even though this was the answer I’d half expected. “I’m so sorry.”
“No need to be, Cassandra,” she said evenly. “We all have our time. Immortality is a myth.”
“Right,” I said wryly. “Just like the Greek gods and goddesses?”
She smiled. “It was years ago, Zander had just turned ten, but he’s still working through it. You’ve probably noticed.”
I nodded. “I’ve asked about him a few times. I guess maybe I shouldn’t have.”
“No,” she said immediately. “On the contrary, perhaps you can get him to open up. I think it’d be good for him. I never imagined he’d have such difficulty.”
“Mr. Ludwig, the owner of the funeral home where I work, says people don’t finish grieving until they start talking about it,” I said. “Death is hard for lots of people. Even ones like us, who see an awful lot of it.”
“True.” Calliope paused, the silence between us comfortable. “He’s always been so strong and decisive about his duty. Even as a little boy. I never imagined his father would affect him so much.”
The words rolled over me harmlessly at first, but as I sat there, the meaning of each sank in, one by one, like rocks dropped into my consciousness. Calliope leaned back on the sofa, languidly sipping her tea, looking toward the darkened window. I stared at her, sitting so casually, and played back the sentence in my mind, hoping it would sound different.
“You don’t mean …” I hesitated. If I was wrong, what would she think of me that I’d even consider it? But if I was right, what would I think of her? Of them? “You don’t mean that he had a role in his father’s death, do you?”
She turned back to me, a mild frown knitting her brow. “Well, of course, Cassie. What else would I mean?”