Robin Wasserman - Frozen

“Can you be civil?”

“Unlikely.”

“Then enjoy your evening,” the man said. “Somewhere else.”

We didn’t talk until we were out of the house.

And then we didn’t talk some more.

Auden walked me to my car. I got in, then left the door open, waiting. After a moment, he climbed in too. His hands clenched into fists.

“You don’t embarrass me,” he said finally. “ He does.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Parents are just…”

“It’s not parents,” Auden said furiously. “Just him. Parent. Singular.”

“Your mother… left?”

“Died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t kill her.”

I looked away.

“I’m sorry.” He touched my shoulder, hesitated, then drew his hand away. I didn’t move. “It’s been a long time, but I still…”

“Yeah. I get it.” I didn’t, not really. My mother wasn’t dead; my father wasn’t evil. I couldn’t get it, any more than he could get what it was like to be me.

It was weird, how many different ways there were for life to suck.

“I’m sorry for what he said. He shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

I shrugged. “I’m getting used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

True. But there were a lot of things I shouldn’t have to get used to, and if I started making a list, I might never stop.

“So Tara’s your stepmother?” I asked.

“She’s the new wife.”

“And the girls…?”

“Tess and Tami. The perfect little daughters my father always wanted.”

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to keep asking questions, but I didn’t know what else to do. “Your mother was the one who wanted a son?”

He snorted and, for the first time, he sounded like his father. “No one wanted a son.”

“I don’t get it.” Everyone got what they wanted these days, even if you barely had any credit. Looks, skills, personality, that was all more expensive, but sex was basic. Check box number one for a girl, box number two for a boy, and that was it. Case closed.

“My mother…” Auden squirmed in his seat. “It’s going to sound weird.”

“Since when do you care about that?”

“My mother was sort of old-fashioned,” Auden said. “She didn’t… Well, she thought genetic screening was, uh, tampering with God’s work.” He paused, waiting for me to react. For once I was glad that my face’s default expression was blank.

Because what kind of lunatic fringe freak didn’t believe in gen-tech?

“I mean, she let them do the basics,” he said quickly. “Screen out diseases, mutations, all that stuff, but as for everything else…”

“You’re a natural ?” I asked, incredulous. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d even wondered a few times, back when Auden was just another weirdo to avoid, when it seemed like no one would choose to have a kid like him. It would explain the crooked nose, the slightly lumpy body, and all the rest of it. But it was still hard to believe. Families like ours just didn’t do things like that.

He blushed. “Pretty much.” He turned his head toward the window, looking back up at the house. “Tara doesn’t even know, although I’m sure she suspects. When she decided to get pregnant, my father made sure he got everything he wanted. I always kind of thought that’s why he went for twins.” He laughed bitterly. “So he’d have an extra, like a replacement for the kid he should have had, when he got stuck with me instead.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“Yeah. He does.”

“So your mom… She was a Faither?”

“No!” he said hotly. “Not all believers are Faithers. Just the crazy ones.”

“Yeah, but how do you tell the difference?” I muttered.

It just slipped out.

Auden glared. “It’s not crazy to believe in something.”

“My father says—” I stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Lia.” His expression hadn’t changed, but there was something new in his eyes. Something fierce. “What?”

I sighed. “My father says that believing in something without any proof is, at best, sloppy thinking and, at worst, clinically delusional.”

“Well, my mother said that in the end, all we have is belief,” he countered. “That you can’t know what’s out there, or who. And that denying the possibility of something bigger just means you’ve got a small mind, and you’re choosing to live a small life.”

“So I’ve got a small mind?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, your mother did,” I snapped.

His face was red. “Well, I guess if she were here, you could ask her yourself. Too bad she’s not!”

There was a long, angry pause.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. And I was, although I wasn’t sure for what.

“This is why she wasn’t a Faither,” he said, his voice quiet. “She didn’t think it was her business to tell other people what to believe. She was just happy believing herself. She said it made her feel like…” He looked down. “Like she was never alone.”

I was almost jealous.

“Do you?”

“What? Feel like I’m never alone?” He barked out a laugh. “Not quite.”

“No. I mean, believe.”

He shrugged, still looking away. “I don’t know. I used to try. When I was a kid, you know? I wanted to be like her. But… I guess you can’t make yourself believe in something. Sometimes I think I do, I think I can feel it deep down, that certainty… but then it just disappears. That never happened to her. She was so sure. ” Auden shook his head. “I’ve never been that sure of anything.”

“Maybe she wasn’t either,” I suggested, “and she just made it seem that way. Maybe that’s what believing is—pretending to be sure, even when you’re not. Ignoring your doubt until it disappears.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Too bad I can’t just ask her, right?” He tried to laugh again. It didn’t work.

“You miss her.”

His answer was more of a sigh than a word. “Yeah.”

And maybe I could understand a little, after all. I’d never lost a parent—but I’d lost plenty. I knew about missing things.

“Auden, can I—can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“All that stuff your mother believed in, about tampering with God’s will and… all that. You don’t… I mean, everything they did to me, you don’t think…?”

“No!” He shook his head, hard. “I know that was—I mean, I know she wasn’t…” He pressed his lips together. He doesn’t want to insult her , I thought. Even now. Like he thought she could still hear him.

But maybe I got it wrong. Because that really would be crazy.

“I don’t agree with her,” he said finally. Firmly. “I think it’s incredible, what they can do. And what they did. For you. But…” He rubbed the rim of his glasses. “You want to hear something weird?”

I smiled. “Always.”

“You know how I wear glasses?”

“Yes, Auden, I’ve noticed that you wear glasses,” I said, hoping to tease him out of the mood.

“Ever wonder why?”

“I just figured…” I didn’t want to tell him I’d figured he was a pretentious loser trying to look cool. “That you liked old things. All that stuff you’re always talking about. The way things used to be.”

“That’s part of it, I guess. I do like that stuff.”

“Because of your mother?”

“Well, sort of. But also because—I don’t know. It was all different back then. There was more… room.”

“More room?” I echoed. “Are you kidding? I thought you were supposed to be good at history. No one had any room back then, when they thought they had to live all crammed into the same place, all those people stuck in the cities….” I shuddered. It freaked me out just thinking about it. Made me feel like the walls were closing in.