Her pupils dilate and I feel a wave of emotion crashing out of her and into me so hard that it rocks me back on my heels, but I don’t break contact with her, gripping her hands tightly in mine.
Her voice is soft at first. “I want…” then it sharpens like a blade. “I want the truth.”
A flicker of surprise widens my eyes. This… I was not expecting.
She notices the expression on my face and frowns. “What did you think I would ask for?”
I shrug and deliberately continue holding her hands. I like the way they feel in mine, so small but so fierce. Just like her. “Money,” I tell her finally. “You’d be surprised how many people are willing to trade their souls for a pittance of cash. I guess I just expected… given everything…” I let my words trail off as I glance at the pile of overdue bills stacked neatly in the corner of her kitchen counter.
Her gaze follows mine and her cheeks are set aflame a second time, for less enticing reasons sadly. Shame. And anger. It tastes like vinegar and jalapeños.
I like the anger, the spice, and I want to flame it, to let its fiery scent fill the air, but she pulls her hands out of mine and our connection is severed.
“I probably should have asked for money,” she says with a small sigh that is nearly my undoing. “Lord knows we need it.”
In that split second I feel…uncomfortable at her pain. I don’t like it and I want it to stop, which honestly isn’t like me at all. Natural consequence of my work of course. Causing pain is in my job description after all. And the ones that appear for me? Well, they deserve it.
She… she doesn’t. That’s another occupational hazard; I can assess a person’s soul with a single thought.
She will never end up in my neck of the woods.
She glances at Mandy who’s staring up at both of us. “Honey,” she says, her voice going straight into Mom mode--kind and loving and patient. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed in your warmest clothes. It looks like we’re going on a Christmas adventure!”
I don’t point out that the contract isn’t signed yet. But when the child squeals and runs upstairs so full of joy it smells like the sweet scent of fresh jasmine on a beautiful night, I know I will do whatever I must to make this night happen.
For Mandy.
It has nothing to do with the reaction my body, mind, and soul have when I’m this close to her enchanting mother. Nothing at all.
It’s all for the kids.
Yep. The kids.
Mandy stops at the top of the stairs and turns back. “Don’t you need to know what I want from you?” she asks.
I’m about to answer when Lyla speaks first. “Honey, you put it in your letter. A puppy. But remember, we can’t have dogs here, and I can’t really afford the care of one. Did you want to ask for something else?”
Mandy’s face drops, and before I can tell Lyla that I will make sure she can raise an entire pack of puppies… Mandy rushes off to get ready.
Once the child is out of ear shot, Lyla turns back to me, her words instantly changing from a soft caress to a woman on the edge of a very steep cliff.
“I may regret not asking for money. Especially if we’re evicted and end up homeless.”
Her words send ice through my veins and I know instantly that I will punish whoever tries to hurt this family. She will not go homeless. Neither of them will. I feel it best not to tell her this outright, lest my words fail to have the intended effect. But she will know eventually. Lyla and Mandy will never want for anything as long as I am King of Hell.
Lyla continues, unaware of the dark path my thoughts have journeyed.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be a single parent without enough money to take care of your kid. At least, I don’t think you’ve ever been a single parent.”
I shake my head, fighting the urge to ask if Father of Lies counts as parenting. This isn’t the time for my humor.
She nods, continuing. “To not know how you’ll make the money last to the end of the month. To have to choose whether to pay the electric bill or buy groceries for a week because you can’t afford both. I have endured long lines and the feeling of being a complete failure just to make sure we have enough food to get us to another paycheck. And we have no safety net. If she gets a cavity, or I end up breaking my foot… we are screwed. I can’t afford our life even if everything goes according to plan. And now we’re living through a pandemic, and she hasn’t been able to play with her school friends in nine months. I haven’t had work, and I’ve lost what little social support I had. Do you have any idea how long nine months is? Probably not, you’re older than humanity. But to an eight-year-old? Nine months is a lifetime. And if one of us gets sick and ends up at the hospital, what will I do then?”
Tears are streaming down her cheeks, though I don’t think she realizes that yet. I cannot resist the temptation to use the pad of my thumb to wipe one away. I bring my thumb to my mouth and flick my tongue against the saltiness of her emotion.
Scent carries a lot. A bold flavor of feelings. But tears and blood, they carry the heart and soul of a person. They carry the complex blend of deep, deep pain and love and fear and joy.
I close my eyes, savoring her.
But I am interrupted when she clears her throat. I open my eyes to see her glaring at me. “Would you and my freaking tear drop like to be alone?” Her voice is dripping with venom, her eyes like daggers ripping into me, and I am loving everything about this exciting, bewildering woman.
“Why didn’t you choose money then?” I ask. It flies in the face of self-preservation and caring for her child to give up a chance at wealth. And I know that little girl is the center of Lyla’s universe. I just wish I could have one night alone with Lyla to show her how it feels to be the center of someone else’s universe for a time. She certainly deserves it.
“Because I have to know the truth.”
“The truth about what?” I ask.
“All of it!” She says in such charming exasperation I have to stop myself from doing something we both might regret.
“All of it is a big ask for someone who has existed for all of human history. Care to narrow it down?”
Her eyes widen cartoonishly and I want to suck my words back in. Of course, that information is going to unnerve a human. But… is she entirely human? That’s a really good question.
And what I learned from her teardrop didn’t answer that for me. As much as it did fill me with a bouquet of other answers.
“This. You.” She says. “I just gave up my chance at being independently wealthy. Or famous. Or whatever. So I want answers instead. If you and Santa are real, there must be other things I thought were stories that are real too, right?”
Her words are measured. Almost too much so. She’s being very conscious of how she talks about this. About magic and the realm of the fantastical. But it’s there in her eyes. The wonder of it all. The hope. Not the kind made in childhood in the newness of first life, but a raw, beaten, bruised and bloodied hope. One that has been tested by the cruelty of life over and over and over again. A kind of hope a person earns through pain and trauma and a tenacious grit. That is the kind of hope I see in her eyes right now. That is why she chose to know the truth over financial security. The truth is, in the hierarchy of needs, Maslow got one thing wrong. There is one need that comes before that pyramid base of basic physiological needs. Before even your base survival needs of food and shelter. And that is hope. Hope for the fantastical. Hope for the brighter day. The lighter load. The magic of it all. Without that, humans would not have the will for the rest of it.