Batty 3
20250408
“Ah, well, my family’s local.” Caroline’s tone indicates she’s aware being born “elsewhere” counts against her no matter how long or deep the family roots go. “This was my grandparents’ place. It… it’s a lovely location.”
I manage a wry (fangless, always fangless) smile. “Oh dear. Is it that obvious I’m a local boy?”
“It’s the accent. You well remind me of Grantie.” She pauses, peering at me while absently scratching that beast behind the ears, then asks “Is it impolite to ask your age?”
“I wouldn’t think so.” Though admittedly I’m self-conscious about it. “Uh, let’s see. Eighty-six.”
She blinks, her eyebrows shooting up. “Cripes, you are like Grantie.”
“I know, I know, dreadfully young.” I lift the mug to my lips and discover my body’s forgotten how to drink from a container like this. My instincts clamour to sink my teeth in and lap vigorously, leaving me staring blankly at unyielding porcelain. I lower it again and hope she won’t notice. “Ah, mine was brain cancer. Very low chance of success with the therapies they had then, and I wasn’t ready to go yet, so… hooked up with my local Council Chapter.”
She nods, clearly at a loss for what to say. It’s never an easy topic, unless you spend your nights surrounded by people for whom it was just a normal chapter of their existence which led them to where they are.
I’m fumbling for another topic when she says “This is probably the wrong time to ask, but, um, I’m actually working on a family history project, and if you’ve been in Withshim for most of a century… I don’t suppose you could maybe help me figure out some letters and stuff?”
Huh. It’s funny to hear someone say “most of a century”. I’m used to “less than a century”. It really is a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
I brush that off. “Sounds like fun. What evening’s good for- oh. Er…”
Even with putting the mug down, I can’t reach my phone; the left pocket’s too far and at a weird angle. “Ahh… Could I tell you my number and then we’ll sort it out later?”
“Oh, of course!” She fishes out her phone, ignoring the chirp of complaint from her wicked cat, and I recite my number twice for her.
“Ugh, no update from the blood people. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it wasn’t an emergency.”
I wince. “Ah, sorry, I’m sure this must be-”
“Oh! No no no!” She cringes. “I meant…” She wordlessly waves at the mangled mess her blasted pet left me.
I still swear he looks smug. Perhaps I’m projecting. The memory of those teeth and claws slicing out of the darkness vividly haunts me.
“Ah, er, it’s fine.” It really isn’t, but it’s also not her fault. I cough and lighten my tone. “So, tell me about this family history project.”
She bites her lip and blushes. Ok, now I have to know.