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“Tabitha said he’s fine physically. It’s not a result of his aging.”
“Then why is he acting like this? It’s been weeks!”
Anthony rolled his eyes as he overheard his parents talking about him, again. He closed the book he was reading and slowly sat up on his bed, keeping his ears tuned to whatever argument his mom and dad were having.
It had been three weeks since the comet and they kept having the same conversation, over and over, because they were worried about him. Worried that he had been “moping”, “withdrawn”, “despondent”. Two days ago they had sent his Aunt Tabitha in to talk to him and afterwards he had heard her give them as simple of an explanation as she could.
“Some things about this timeline don’t line up with the life he knows. Imagine one of his favourite memories is the Yankees winning the World Series in 2030. It’s gonna take some time for him to adjust.”
If he was able to be completely honest with his mom and dad then maybe he would tell them they were a little wigged out because he wasn’t exactly the son they had imagined all grown up. Sure, he loved hanging out with the Serpents, tinkering with a motorcycle, and learning about his heritage. But he also liked soccer, and reading, and art.
If he was able to be completely honest with his mom and dad then maybe he would tell them that it was weird living in a room that had been for a baby. He missed his books and his records, and all of his stuff. He missed his friends. He missed his Riverdale.
If he was able to be completely honest with his mom and dad then maybe he would tell them that this timeline sucked because this wasn’t his family.
He had been here for weeks and he hadn’t spoken to, had only seen in passing, one of the most important people in his life.
Cheryl Blossom – his Ma, his Mama – was his favourite person and he missed her.
He loved his mom and dad, of course, but his relationship with his ma was just different. Almost all of his earliest childhood memories involved her. Reading him stories by the fireplace. Chasing him through maple trees. Singing him to sleep. Giving him the best hugs. Teaching him how to paint. While Mom worked hard at school, Mama worked from home and they became the very best of friends, spending their days together. As he grew older, their dynamic changed, but only strengthened and deepened. Mom often joked that he had replaced her as Ma’s partner in crime. The redhead was the one that would help him with his homework and bring halftime treats to his games. The one person that he would go to first for advice and the one that would protect and defend him without question. She could be stern, but she was fair, and always, always on his side.
He was supposed to be thinking about colleges soon, everyone kept bringing it up, and he couldn’t imagine making such a big decision without her.
Every day that passed without her made him feel like a little boy again; all he wanted was to crawl into his mama’s lap and feel her fingers run through his curly hair as she called him her “sweet boy”.
“Anthony! Dinner’s ready!”
He quietly left his bedroom and made his way to the kitchen. Spaghetti was on the table and he took his seat with a smile. “Thanks Mom.”
The three of them ate in silence and Anthony couldn’t stop himself from squirming in discomfort. Meals in his home were not like this. They were filled with laughter, and teasing, and lively discussion.
And this spaghetti was good, but damn he missed his ma’s cooking.
He moved his fork around his plate and awkwardly cleared his throat to make some noise. Any noise. He looked at his dad, and then his mom, and they seemed to be deliberately avoiding each other’s gaze. They always seemed to be like this, walking on eggshells around each other. He didn’t have any memories of his mom and dad’s marriage, he had been just a baby when they had gotten a divorce, and he had always found it hard to picture them together romantically. It was hard to picture his mom with anyone but Cheryl Blossom.
His mothers were affectionate with their words and their touch, not just with him, but with each other. His friends teased him frequently because it was obvious that his moms were so in love. They were never this kind of silent around each other. They didn’t have this distance, this disconnect. The other woman clearly made his mother happier too, so what the hell were they all doing?
“Why haven’t we visited Thornhill?” He finally spoke up.
“What?” His mother questioned in soft surprise at the same time that his father furrowed his brow in annoyance.
He shrugged and tried to wrap his tongue around the foreign first name. “Cheryl saved Riverdale, maybe saved the world, and we haven’t visited her. Is she okay?” He asked quietly. He was staring down at his food and couldn’t bring himself to meet either of his biological parents’ gaze. He had to be careful about what he gave away about his timeline, according to Aunt Tabitha.
“She’s fine,” Dad answered shortly.
“She is okay,” Mom replied with more understanding in her voice. “I called her a few days ago.”
“You did?”
Anthony ignored his dad’s question and said determinedly, “I’d like to visit her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Fangs,” Mom sighed, “come on.”
“What? I don’t,” Dad said firmly.
“Well, I’m going,” he declared stubbornly.
They seemed taken aback by his resolve, and even though they bickered about it for the rest of dinner, he was granted his wish.
Anthony rode to Thornhill and nervously lingered outside the closed gates. He turned around and walked back towards his motorcycle several times before a familiar voice startled him.
“Not so Baby Anthony, you have been lurking outside my gates for the past three days. How may I be of service?”
He gulped as the tall, slender figure emerged from behind a nearby hedge. She was wearing black riding boots and pants, and a red cloak with matching gloves. He opened his mouth to speak but he found himself tongue tied. The person in front of him was almost exactly like the one he knew, but she wasn’t, not really. She looked a little younger, a little more serious. She spoke in the same pattern and cadence but her voice wasn’t as soft. She usually sounded so happy to see him.
The woman standing in front of him, with an old iron gate between them, didn’t have any of the awesome memories that he had. She didn’t know him at all, but he desperately wanted her to.
“Hi, uh,” he finally croaked, “I wanted to visit and see how you are, if that’s okay?” She tilted her head in curiosity, but she didn’t reply. With a push of courage, he stepped forward and lifted the bouquet of flowers in his hand. “And I brought you these?”
“White roses,” she hummed in approval. She paused before she smiled. “White roses can symbolize new beginnings.”
He smiled back, “I know.”
“Anthony, would you like to come in for tea?”
He nodded eagerly and grinned while the older woman moved to open the large gate.
They had tea in the family room and Anthony sank into the large, comfy armchair. He was perfectly at ease, but he could tell that the woman sitting across from him was a little apprehensive.
“So you’re really okay?” He started the conversation softly.
She nodded as she stirred in her sugar. “I am,” she assured with another confident nod. “I was bedridden for several days due to exhaustion,” she elaborated, “and I have this scar to remember it all by, but I am fine.”
His eyes flickered to where she had pushed her right sleeve up, where a long, jagged scar started at her wrist and made its way upwards.
“How are you?”
“Me?” He asked with raised eyebrows.
The redhead nodded. “Yes, how is…?”
She trailed off with an elegant wave of her hand and he finished her thought with a goofy grin. “Not being a baby?”
“Why yes, I suppose.”
“It’s weird,” he chuckled. “Everything around me is different, not really the way it should be. It’s kinda hard to explain,” he shrugged. “Without giving away the secrets of the universe.”
She hummed as she carefully laid her spoon on the silver tray placed on the coffee table between them. “Ah yes, when it comes to the power of omniscience, some things are better off kept to ourselves.”
Something about that statement made her sad. He observed her as she pursed her lips and turned her head to the side, gazing aimlessly across the room. He had seen that pensive, crestfallen expression before.
When he was little, his mom would tell him that “sometimes Mama gets stuck in her memories, and not all of them are nice”. He knew that Ma’s life had been easy in a lot of ways, and unbearable in a lot of others, and because of that she got sad sometimes. When he had finally asked her about it for himself, at the age of 11, she had explained to him that “love is a choice” and she had spent a lot of time loving people that made the choice not to love her back, and she got a little sad when something reminded her of those people.
At the end of that conversation, she had kissed him on the top of head and whispered, “loving you and your mom has been my greatest, most fulfilling choice”.
If she was sad now, he wondered who she was thinking about, who was hurting her.
“But it sucks… not being able to say everything you want to say,” he said tentatively after several minutes of silence.
“Yes,” she agreed with a soft smile. “It does.” With a deep sigh, she placed her cup of tea down and then slowly stood up. “But I find, Young Anthony, when my inner demons are their most persistent, I can always find solace in my library or my painting parlour. Would you care to join me?”
He almost spilled his tea in his excitement to answer and get to his feet. “That sounds great!”
All that he had wished for the past three weeks was to spend time with her, and an afternoon of painting or discussing books was perfect. It was exactly what they would do at home if something was bothering him. She would let him mull over his thoughts as they painted or she would intuitively know how to start the conversation based on what books he wanted to talk about.
For someone who had known such sadness, who had struggled with love, she was awfully good at loving him.
For the next two weeks, every day after school, and almost all day on Sundays, he headed to Thornhill to spend time with the only person that seemed to let him be himself. Dad kept wanting to talk to him about Serpent King stuff, Mom kept breaking out her school guidance counsellor routine on him, and most of his teachers looked at him like he was seconds away from either causing trouble or doing something supernatural. At Thornhill, in his home, he could just… be. Regardless what they were doing.
They reorganized the library. They painted. They walked the grounds. They worked in the greenhouse. They checked in on his Great-Nana Rose. They played board games. They baked. But mostly they talked, and if they weren’t talking, they coexisted in peaceful silence.
When she challenged him to a run, he grinned the entire three miles.
When she allowed him to borrow any books of his choosing, he immediately went for one of their mutual favourites.
When he offered to do some handiwork around the house, he joked that he would only accept payment in the form of homemade cookies.
When he grew bold enough to ask for a parting hug, after his fourth visit, they both laughed freely when he lifted her off her feet.
When she complimented his colour theory, he blinked tears from his eyes when he told her it was because he had “the best teacher”.
Sometimes they got visitors, but he preferred it when it was just the two of them.
It was the happiest he had been in a long time.
And the day his dad showed up and pulled him out by the collar of his jacket was unexpected, and devastating.
When they arrived back at the apartment, he stormed past his mom and went right to his bedroom to slam the door closed behind him. He had clocked the stunned expression on his mother’s face but he was too angry to do anything about it. He couldn’t believe that his dad had acted like that, dragging him out of Thornhill like he was some child throwing a tantrum.
“What is going on?!” He heard his mother question.
“Whatever Cheryl is doing, it stops now.”
“Whatever Cheryl is doing? What is she doing?”
He could hear his mom’s voice rising as he fell back onto his bed.
“I dunno! Maybe she cast a spell on him or something!”
He rolled his eyes and laid on his back.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“As if that’s so ridiculous! Come on, Toni. She’s crazy!”
“Oh shut up, Fangs!”
He rolled over and pressed his face into the pillow with a groan. He had never overheard any adults in his life fight like this before.
The yelling stopped after a few more minutes. He heard harsh, hurried words, the front door slamming, and then soft footsteps down the hallway.
He anticipated the knock on his door.
“Anthony? Can I come in?”
“Whatever, Mom,” he mumbled with his back to the door.
He heard the door creak open and in seconds he felt the weight of his mother on the bed and her hand on his back.
“We need to talk,” she spoke softly, “about all the time you’ve been spending at Thornhill.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I’ve been talking more to Tabitha, about time travel and multiverses, and all that,” she chuckled in disbelief, “so I think I understand what you’re going through a little better. You have all these memories and these things that have shaped you, and they just haven’t happened to us yet, or might not happen at all.” He didn’t need to see her face to know that she was making that expression she made when she found something simultaneously confusing and ridiculous. “She was a little vague on all those details, but anyway, I think what I’ve realized is that Cheryl is important to you and all those memories you have.”
He slowly rolled over and faced his mother with as much openness as he could muster. “Yeah,” he answered simply.
She smiled at him, that smile that always made him feel safe. “I think I knew,” she revealed, “even before you asked if you could visit her.”
“Oh yeah? How?” He challenged.
She laughed as she picked up the book on his nightstand, one he had taken from the Thornhill library, and reverently ran her hand across the front cover. “The books were a big clue. You used a word the other day that I had to Google.” He laughed along with her and moved to sit up. “But I noticed that you do this thing with your tongue when you’re annoyed or frustrated, and choosing what to say next.” She raised her head and looked him right in the eye when she said, “Cheryl does the same exact thing. It’s the kind of thing you only pick up when you spend a lot of time around someone.”
He didn’t have any idea what he should or should not tell her, so he simply exhaled, “Yeah.”
“Can you, uh…” She paused to clear her throat and he could see that she was on the verge of tears. “Can you tell me why she’s so important?”
He took a deep breath. How could he properly explain it all? How could he neatly sum up 17 years of feeling like he had the best life and the best parents? How could he put so many overflowing emotions into words?
He eventually settled on: “She chose me. She didn’t have to love me but she did.”
His mom exhaled shakily, tears falling down her cheeks now. “Okay,” she whispered, “I get it.”
Mom had once told him that “Mama loves with her whole heart and not everyone is brave enough to do that. She’s special.”
“She’s special,” he stated matter-of-factly.
His mom laughed breathlessly, “Yeah, she is. I think we should go talk to her.”
He nodded eagerly, a hopeful smile blossoming on his face. “I think that’s a good idea.”