Helen did not know her children.
They were in the same bodies and they still called her mother, yet they had age in their eyes and walked with the assurance of adults.
Peter had taken up drawing, when they got home. She found one of his sketches, wrinkled up and tossed to the ground. It was him, or a version of him anyway. This Peter was wearing the same schoolboy clothes. But he had a long scar that cut across his eyebrow. There was a burn mark on his hands. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, healed, then broken again. This Peter carried a sword. This Peter wore a crown. There was something sad in his eyes, a look that she only saw in the old soldiers that frequented their neighborhood cafe. Sometimes Helen found Peter there, talking with them. They showed him their battle wounds and he looked upon them not with the jealously or awe of boys his age, but with grief. He drew them, too. In their civilian clothes, worn down by time, but with guns in their hands and determination in their eyes. He recognized them, and they him.
Helen put the drawing away and didn’t speak of it to anyone, unsure of the life her son had lived within it.
Susan had taken up shooting, when they got home. Helen felt some reservations at allowing her young daughter to go to the range alone, but she could see the hunger in Susan’s eyes. Her daughter was no longer the blushing schoolgirl trying to be older than she was. This Susan was assured, capable. Helen could see her daughter suffocating in London under the restrictions placed on a girl her age, and couldn’t bring herself to turn her daughter down. Helen accompanied her, that first day of shooting. It only took Susan a few tries before she was hitting the target with deadly accuracy. The gun seemed an extension of her body. Helen asked her about how it felt. “It feels like cheating.” Her daughter had said, frowning, before she turned back to the target and shot it dead center. When she saw the concerned look in Helen’s eyes she smiled, kissed her mother on the forehead, and murmured a word of thanks.
Helen did not watch her daughter shoot anymore after that, unsure of the sorrow in Susan’s eyes when she held the gun.
Edmund had taken up reading, when they got home. Helen had tried and tried to foster a love of reading in all her children, but he had been the one to resist. Now he voluntarily spent hours on the couch, turning pages with a speed that surprised her. He didn’t speak with his old friends, anymore. Helen was pleased with his new appetite for books, but that soon turned into concern when he delved into worlds like he was trying to escape the one he was in. Once, she picked up a book of his and leafed through it, searching for a clue as to why her son was swallowed whole by it. There was a poem he had underlined. It spoke of regret and grief and the killing of the monsters within. Helen remembered the look on Edmunds face when his friends had come to the door after they first got back, inviting him to join. He politely turned them down, but Helen saw the fear in his eyes. She had loved Edmund before they left and she loved him when they returned, but she could not deny that this boy was different, more than any of them. He had done a lot of growing up in a very short time, it seemed.
Helen did not read through Edmunds books, anymore, unsure and afraid of what exactly he was running from.
Lucy had always sang, her happiest child. She came into the world with a song bursting forth. She still sang, when they got home. But these songs were different. When she sang, the faces of the flowers turned towards her. The grass seemed to grow taller around her bare feet. The world was greener, when Lucy sang. Once, Helen had gone to retrieve her as she stood on their porch during a storm. Lucy was singing a song unlike the others, a sorrowful song for soldiers marching off to war. It was unlike anything Helen had heard, and it seemed the storm felt that way, too. The wind blew harder around Lucy, the rain hit her face as the trees bent towards her, the ancient things trying to bow. Lucy had laughed in delight, throwing her arms wide. That was the first real laugh Helen had heard from any of her children upon their return. When Lucy laughed, it sounded like she was finally taking a breath. The storm kept raging on when she stopped, and Lucy kept smiling until Helen found her voice and asked her to come inside.
Helen did not find her daughter in the storms, anymore, unsure of the way her daughter relished the power of something so dangerous.
When together, Helen felt the most relief. The others seemed to age when Peter spoke, but they didn’t have the sorrow in his eyes and it lessened his. The others seemed more dangerous when Susan touched their shoulders, but she knew they would never be dangerous to each other, and that was all that really mattered. The others were more solemn when Edmund informed them of his readings, but Helen saw how they savored the joy in his eyes when he did so, as if saving it to remember later. The others straightened when Lucy entered the room, as if their youngest daughter was reminding them to keep their heads high. Together, they were more changed than ever.
Helen did not know her children.
