The Realitants were her true friends now. Yes, Frupey the Butler was good to her, kind to her, ready to fulfill any command she spoke, but he was paid to do that. She had her parents, of course . . .
“Sofia?” said a soft voice.
Startled, Sofia whipped around to see her mom standing behind her—as if she’d snuck up on her. Arms crossed, her mom rubbed her shoulders through her fur coat, looking cold and miserable.
“I’m sorry if I scared you,” her mom said. In Italian, of course. How Sofia missed speaking in English with Tick and Paul.
“It’s okay,” Sofia replied, turning back to the railing and her previous position so her mom wouldn’t see the roll of her eyes. Of all the days to come up here. She couldn’t remember the last time either one of her parents had stood on this balcony atop their mansion. And Sofia wasn’t in the mood.
Her mom stepped up beside her and leaned forward just like Sofia, almost mockingly copying her. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something. Ever since you . . . came back. Ever since I realized how close we came to losing you.”
Not this, Sofia thought. Please, not this. “Mom, I’m not quitting the Realitants. I don’t care what you say. It’s too important.”
Her mom stiffened, then relaxed. “I don’t care for that tone, young lady. I’m your mother.”
Sofia was shocked but quickly tried to hide it. Her mom never showed the slightest hint of parenting or discipline. Almost not knowing how to respond, Sofia muttered an apology.
“In any case,” her mom said, “that’s not what this is about. Your father and I recognize that this . . . Realitant thing is something you will do, either with our consent or without it. Which is why I want to make sure you understand something. I think it will show you how much we care about you, despite what you may think.”
Sofia couldn’t help but be intrigued. It’d been years since they’d had such a conversation. “What is it?” She didn’t look at her mom, but kept her eyes on the distant, brightening horizon.
“Well,” her mom started, then hesitated. “It’s hard to know how to say it, so please hear me out. Your father and I never intended for you to be born. I mean, we’d made a decision early on to never have children. We never meant to have you.”
Sofia almost choked on the lump that blossomed in her throat. “That’s what you came up here to tell me?”
“Now, now, I told you to hear me out,” her mom quickly responded, patting Sofia’s arm. “Listen to me—we never intended to have you or any child, but you came anyway. Unexpectedly. And even though it was against all of our plans, even though it hindered your father’s career and made it difficult for us to travel and accomplish the goals we’d set out before getting married . . . Well, I think you can see that despite all that, we accepted it and raised you and have always provided you with whatever you needed. And, above all else, we made sure to love you.”
Sofia shifted her hands so she could grip the edge of the railing, squeezing hard to prevent her arms from shaking. Something terrible formed in her chest, something bulging and hurtful and full of bad things. It seemed to reach through her heart, through her throat, grabbing her mind and soul, begging her to cry. That was it. Every piece of her wanted to bawl her eyes out, sob until she felt nothing.
But she refused. She didn’t understand how she did it, but she refused to let the tears come. There was no way she would let her mom see such a thing and misinterpret it, think that she’d finally bonded with her only child. Mistake her tears for love.
Concentrating with all her might, Sofia forced the heavy feeling away and took control of her emotions. Finally, she relaxed her hands.
“Well?” her mom said after a long few seconds. “Do you understand? Is everything okay now? Better?”
“Yes,” Sofia said, pushing the word out of her mouth, praying it was over and her mom would walk away.
“That’s wonderful.” She patted Sofia’s arm again. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And you love me?”
“Yes, Mom.” That’s all Sofia could manage. Just those two words. She clung to them, hoped they’d be enough to end this conversation.
“And your father?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Great. I’m so glad we had this talk. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Okay, then. Your father and I are going away for a few days. We’ll be leaving tonight. Bye, now.”
And with that, she turned and walked away.
Sofia thought about the fact that they hadn’t even hugged. She knew it should bother her as much as everything else, but it didn’t. Sadly, it didn’t bother her at all.
When she was absolutely sure her mom wasn’t coming back, Sofia finally gave up the internal battle and decided to let the tears flow.
But nothing came.
An hour passed. Maybe more. She couldn’t really tell. She felt like she was in a haze, numb to the world. Eventually the cold got to her, and she went inside, though in some ways, the house felt chillier.
For awhile she wandered the large house, completely ignoring the paintings and vases and tapestries and wood paneling and plush carpet that marked it as a mansion. She wandered, dreading her afternoon lessons with Lolita the private tutor. Sofia longed for the weekend, for two full days of nothing and no one—even though she knew she’d spend it sulking and checking the computer every two minutes for e-mails from Tick or Paul.
She entered the massive kitchen, all marble tile and shiny silver appliances, hoping a snack from the fridge would jump-start her from the doldrums. Frupey—his blond hair slicked back as usual—and the head cook were there, planning meals for the few days Sofia’s parents would be gone. When that was the case—which was often—Frupey and the cook schemed to make dinner a little more tasty for Sofia, a little less healthy. Sometimes they even spoiled her with hot dogs, a secret she’d never dare tell her friends back in America.
“Sofia,” Frupey said when he noticed her. “I was just going to come for you. I’ve received word that you have a friend coming within the hour.”
Sofia felt a tinge of excitement, and the dull blahs inside her vanished. A friend? Her immediate thought was it had to be a Realitant. Maybe Mothball or Rutger.