Mother Is The Name For God

I scanned the tall shelves, running my fingers over spines, both old and new. The library seems so out of place in a decaying city like Gehenna. Maybe the people who funded it hoped the residents would educate themselves and pull their city out of its decades-long funk. Unfortunately, crime, drugs, and poverty can’t be fixed with books. 

Two thick volunes rested under my arm; one on demonology, and one on angels—because there are two sides to every story. I tried to remind myself of that the other night when she showed up—this woman I wanted to know, until I saw her. We made eye contact for a second. The track marks dotting her arms told a story I didn’t want to read. She called me her baby. 

Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children. Don’t laugh that I’m quoting The Crow. I know—the irony. 

I turned into the biography section, hoping to find my next Muse. My English teacher was so impressed when I started reading Anais Nin. Truth was, she bored me. Damien Echoles was more interesting. Mrs. Clifton was less impressed when I pulled Marilyn Manson’s book out of my backpack a few weeks later. 

Whose mind did I want to peek inside now? Nothing jumped out. 

I went to the checkout desk, where the same matronly redhead with glasses magnifying her dill-green eyes scanned my books. “Just two today? You’re slacking.” 

I smiled, shoving my dueling choices in my backpack. 

The rain hadn’t let up in a week. It can’t rain all the time. Yeah. There I go again. 

My Doc Martens kept my feet dry, while the wind made a flag of my black hair and angry droplets pelted my face. 

I went down the alley behind the library and cut across the parking lot between the old movie theater and Dalrymple’s Deli. My backpack bounced up and down while I ran across the street and ducked in between the Chinese restaurant and the used bookstore, hoping Dad was still at the dojo. 

The tough bitch I try to be didn’t react when I saw the lights still on. But, the fourteen year old girl I am wanted to rejoice. My feet picked up speed, kicking up small arcs of rain behind them. 

Wind helped me open the heavy back door and ushered me in, as if the universe wanted me there. 

I wiped my feet on the “Welcome to the Darkside, We have Cookies,” mat by the door. “Dad?”

Papers rustled in the office, followed by the squeak of the desk chair. His shadow appeared flat on the hallway floor before he stepped out of the office. “Azure? Why aren’t you at home?”

“Why aren’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m paying bills. Did you walk here?”

“I was at the library.” I wiped water from my face and shook out my hair. 

“You left your favorite place to hang out with your old man?” he asked, closing the distance between us for a brief hug. 

“Don’t call yourself my old man, old man.” 

“What else should I call myself?”

“Dad,” I said, smirking  

The government calls him my father. Nature calls him my cousin. His friends call him Jeremy. No one would ever guess I’m adopted. Crow genes are strong. Black hair, blue eyes. The same high cheekbones. People in our family still talk about aunt Donna—the rare blonde Crow—the result of some ancestor’s fling with a Swede.

Crows take care of Crows. I wouldn’t be raised by strangers.

“I’m almost done, then we’ll head out, okay?”

“Okay.” I settled on the office floor, reading the book on demonology. Lilith. Adam’s first wife in Judaism. A demon to Christians. A mother who defied all societal expectations. The first real feminist. 

Mother. 

That drug addled wraith that knocked on our door a week ago was no Lilith. She was no mother, either. Did she expect I would come running into her arms? I gritted my teeth at her audacity. How dare she? I slammed the book shut so hard it made Dad jump. “Sorry,” I said, looking down at the floor to hide the moisture springing in my eyes. 

“What’s on your mind, Azure?”

I shook my head, refusing to look up. 

His shoes, scuffed and heavy, entered my field of vision and his calloused hands gripped my shoulders. He stooped down to my level, and I looked up into my own eyes.

“It’s just… her.”

We both stood up and he handed me a bottle of water from the mini fridge. “I’m sorry you had to see her. I don’t even know how she got our address.”

“It’s not your fault, Dad. I know you and Mom wouldn’t do that on purpose.” I sniffled and wiped my nose on my sleeve. The word Mom carried so much more weight now. That woman gave birth to me, but she’s not my Mom. My Mom is at home waiting for her kid and her man to join her. 

“I told her if she shows up again I’m calling the cops.” He passed me a tissue. “She won’t do it again, baby.” 

A nod was all I could manage. 

He pulled on his jacket and bent over to shut the computer down. “I can finish this tomorrow. Come on, let’s go.” 

When all the lights were off, he locked both doors and we headed to his car in the back lot. 

Rain barraged the window like clear marbles, drowning out the engine and the faint ghost of Ozzy singing Perry Mason on the radio. Dad turned on Laurel and Vine, and we passed all the old rundown houses with their crumbling concrete steps. “Where are we going?”

“I want to show you something,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. 

We stopped in front of a blue house with a skirt of hostas around the front porch and an blue Ford pickup in the driveway. “I lived in this house when I was your age, with your Aunt Jodi and her boyfriend, and a bunch of other people that just came and went.” 

“You all lived here?”

“Yeah. It was a crazy time.” 

“Were you really a drug dealer?”

He looked at me, wide eyed, but nodded. “Yeah. I was, for too many years. That all stopped when I met your Mom.” 

I looked at the blue house again, trying to imagine his younger self walking through those doors, and wondering which room was his. Did him and Mom sit on that porch talking till dawn, like they do now on our porch? 

Whose mind did I want to peek inside now? “Tell me more?”