The Progeny by Tosca Lee

Author:Tosca Lee [Lee, Tosca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical, Fantasy, Young Adult, Adult, Thriller, Mystery, Suspense
Goodreads: 27221614
Publisher: Howard Books
Published: 2016-05-23T16:00:00+00:00

21

* * *

“I am Brother Goran,” he says. His head tilts, hazel eyes rapt. Do I imagine it, or has he sucked in a small breath? “And you . . . are Audra Ellison.”

“Have—have we met?”

“No,” he says strangely. “I have never had the pleasure.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“Because you look like your mother.”

A chill passes down my arms. Just then a door in the outer hallway closes, echoing all the way to the chapel. His glance is sharp. “We can’t speak here,” he says. “Quickly. Come with me.”

My heart drums in my temples as he leads me toward the back of the chapel and down a narrow stair to a subterranean set of rooms. An overhead light flickers to life, illuminating shelves and floor-to-ceiling cabinets—an archive of sorts, complete with a desk and monitor like some underground library.

“How did you know my mother?” I say when he has closed the door behind us.

“That is a story of another life—one I am afraid we do not have time for now,” he says, withdrawing a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking a drawer.

“Is there a short version?” I say. Because at this point, I’ll take anything.

To my relief he pauses, turns to look at me, if sadly. “Poor child.”

I swallow. “Whatever you know about her, I’d really appreciate hearing it.”

He pauses again and seems to consider.

“Your mother was . . . many different things to different people,” he says. “But the things she is remembered for will never fully represent who she was. People have a habit of taking one moment, one facet of a life, and painting an entire portrait based on their own experience. We do it without exception, to everyone. To the world. To God. We assign stories to everyone around us out of our own need to feel that we understand someone or some thing. When the truth is that we don’t—we can’t—know anyone. Because we do not fully know ourselves.” He looks at me.

“We like to think we learn people. We really only learn their stories. So here is one for you: Amerie loved rain. The way it made people huddle together—under umbrellas, beneath awnings. The way it stopped traffic. She loved the smell of it better than sun, and could smell a storm hours before it came. She said she loved that it brought her to the now. Because the moment your plans for anything are ruined, you are forced into the present. And for that one, perfect, ruined moment, she did not worry about the future, and the past was washed away.”

Fat tears roll down my cheeks. He moves toward me, brushes them away with the back of a finger. And though it is the first human portrait I have ever had of my mother, I almost wish I had never heard it. It was far easier to be angry.

“If you want to know Amerie’s story, the short version—which is the only one that matters—it is that she loved you and protected you with her life.

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