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“What should I call you?” Copia asked, feeling like every word was a shard of glass.
Sister Imperator looked up from her desk, her eyebrows raised. Her elbows were resting on its surface, and not for the first time, Copia wondered why he’d asked such a question here—in the sterile mundanity of her office, where a desk and computer and three pen pots sat between them. But where else was more appropriate? His bedroom, when she dropped by? Dinner, if they happened to share it alone? Copia wondered if he’d be able to eat, if he planned to ask it there. Maybe he should have suggested they go on a walk. Knowing himself, he might have spent the whole walk rambling about everything and nothing, then ended it without having asked the question, and spent the rest of the day cursing his awkwardness around his own—
“Hm?” Sister Imperator asked. “What was that?”
“I, uh…”
He cleared his throat around some kind of lump in it. He hadn’t planned to ask again. Once was bad enough—twice made him wonder if he might be sick.
“W-what should I… should I call you?”
Looking over her glasses, Sister asked, “Call me?”
“As in—” he took a deep breath. “Well, now that I know what—who you are, I figured…”
Maybe he’d puke on the desk to save the rug.
“Oh,” Sister said, saving both Copia’s heart and her own pen pots. “I see.”
To stop the world from spinning, he clenched his gloved hands together. The leather squeak gave him away. Sister didn’t react; she was more than used to Copia’s fidgeting, and treated his stutters and nervous twitches like background noise. As if she’d known it for Copia’s whole life.
“It’s whatever you’re comfortable with,” she added, with a slight smile. “I really don’t mind.”
He searched her face and her words for anything that lay beneath the surface—any indication that perhaps, despite her outward indifference, she did have a preference. But Copia had never been very good at that.
“I am not too sure what to do about it,” he said, chuckling. He pressed his hands into his lap. “It is not like you will call me any different.”
“No.”
It was that word, and Sister’s clipped, certain tone, that made him realise why she would never call him Papa. He had thought he’d known the answer—it would be odd for her to refer to anyone with the same title she called her lover. A longtime colleague, or even a friend, would make it weird enough.
Her son was another matter entirely.
Sister interrupted his roiling thoughts, sighing as she clicked her pen. “It’s whatever you want, C.” Her smile, this time, was wider. “Truly. I’ll answer to anything.”
“Okay,” he said. He felt as if the word wasn’t his. “Cool beans.”
And with that, Copia changed the subject.
There was only one option, at the end of the day. His mother tongue was the only thing suited to his mother, he mused, when he’d gathered the strength to think about it. Maybe it would feel more natural than the English alternatives. It had been a long time since he’d used that language for anything significant; it might, in an ironic kind of way, serve as a method to detach himself, until he was comfortable enough with the word that it became his own. English felt too close; too present. And at the same time, it was part of a world that hadn’t always been his own.
His mother had always been that. Even when he didn’t know it.
She helped him pack boxes when he moved out of his room, after the long-overdue renovations had been finished. No more sleeping on the floor, she’d told him; he’d have a bedroom fit for his status, at long last. Copia smiled along and wondered how to tell her that boxes made him feel lost.
But above that strange unsettlement, the packing was casual and calm. They moved around each other with surprising ease. Sister organsied what went where, and Copia shifted his belongings around, telling her to take a break whenever she’d helped for a while. Her stamina seemed depleted, nowadays. A fraction of what it once was. Maybe Copia was used to her clicking heels and steadfast leadership, and saw a veneer of invulnerable strength, when really, hefting moving boxes would take it out of anyone. He was sweating under his T-shirt; it was normal for his mother to need a breather.
From the instance he made the decision, Copia’s face was flushed. Cardboard and bubble wrap blurred into a mess of brown and grey. He would have shed a layer if he had any besides his T-shirt left. Rip the plaster off, he told himself, with a sharp breath that didn’t help. If he thought about it too long, his voice would fail him before he could speak.
He chose a moment when Sister was folding clothes, and he had just filled a box of books. They were both busy and preoccupied. The question would be natural. Nothing out of place; nothing unexpected. If only his tone would match it.
His ears were ringing and his throat was thick. It came out of his mouth all at once; sudden, dreamlike.
“Mamma?”
His chest lurched as if he’d fallen off a cliff, and his heart thumped like he was clawing his way back. Cardboard swam beneath him. His hands trembled as he pushed the sides closed, and he wondered if he would hear her response, over the pounding of his heart.
Sister was silent. She put a folded pair of trousers in a duffel bag, on top of a faded hoodie. She turned back to the drawer she was emptying; the one Copia shoved things into at random, without a fold in sight. He watched with a sickening lurch, hands frozen on the box. As she turned, Sister noticed him standing still, and with a slight double take, met his eye.
“C?” she said. “Alright?”
Maybe she would put his blush down to the exertion. But Copia needn’t have worried; as soon as she’d asked the question, Sister turned back to the drawer.
“I—” he said, then swallowed. “I, uh—I need… where did you leave the tape?”
Casual as anything, Sister glanced around. She spotted the roll of tape on top of the dresser, where Copia had known it was from the start.
“Ah. Here.” She picked it up and held it out. “I was hogging it.”
“No, no,” Copia muttered. “Thank you.”
He took the tape with a shaking hand, and its weight felt like defeat.
On the second attempt, Copia took a different approach. A casual, busy setting wouldn’t work if Sister might not hear him. He had to commit, and do it when it meant something. He couldn’t hide behind the rustle of a cardboard box and the distraction of a drawer to be packed.
Be brave, he told himself, in the early hours of the morning, when his new room was making him restless. It was too big, with too much empty space, but his sleeplessness meant he had plenty of time to give himself a pep talk, eyes wide open in the cold moonlight.
His courage held on until the morning. He woke to a sharp knock, rubbing his eyes as the door swung open, and Sister’s footsteps announced her.
“Good morning,” she said, whilst Copia pushed himself up on one elbow. “Sleep well?”
He made some sort of grumbling noise, running a hand through his unruly hair. Sister didn’t wait to find out what the grumbling meant.
“I should hope you did,” she continued, crossing over to his bedside, “if this is the time you’re waking up.”
Through bleary eyes, Copia saw the steaming mug in her hands. She stopped at his nightstand and moved a cup of water, filling its spot on a coaster with the mug. She turned it so the handle faced him.
And Copia, gazing into the still-swirling tea, waited a beat too long.
“Thank you, Mamma.”
She was already striding across the room, making for his curtains. She chatted as she pulled each one back, and Copia shielded his eyes from the morning glare, wondering whether she’d heard him.
“Look at that, C—it’s almost midday. Nice for some. I know it’s a Saturday, but you really should be getting up before the sun goes down.”
She didn’t stay linger to hear his voice, or notice how he covered his eyes for too long. In that fragile daze of first thing in the morning, Copia swallowed a burn in his throat, and feigned that he was still brushing away sleep.
“Come on, sport.” She made for the door. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
Was it theatre that they shared? Or desperate, grasping hands? Perhaps they didn’t share it at all—maybe Sister was content with this shallow imitation, and Copia was the one reaching through it, though never with enough strength to break to the other side. Papa Emeritus looked for courage in his own sermons, listening to the words as they fell from his painted lips. The congregation blurred and faded until he stood at the pulpit alone.
He left the chancel one cloying night, taking careful steps into the vestry. He put his mitre on the stand before anything else. His hair would be a state, but he didn’t bother to smooth it; he picked up the water that had been left for him, and let his vision loose focus whilst he drank.
“Good job,” her voice said, over the squeak of the vestry door.
Copia looked up. Sister shut the door behind her, turning to give him a smile. Copia met her eye, and after a moment to study him, Sister frowned; she crossed the vestry with her head tilted, brow furrowed, a word on her lips that Copia didn’t dare interrupt.
“Tired?” she asked when she reached him.
She rested her hand on his shoulder, her gaze flickering across his face. Copia nodded and put the water down.
“A little.”
“Mm.” Her mouth pinched. “That was a long one.”
Her touch faltered, and Copia took his chance like a cat by the tail. He leaned into his mother, wrapping one arm around her back—her palm shifted, patting him on the other shoulder, and Copia lifted his other arm with his heart in his throat. The embrace was loose on both ends. Sister patted his back without a pause. Her shoulder was tense under Copia’s chin, but rigid posture did not disguise her frailty, and Copia wondered whether she had the strength to hug him, even if she wanted to.
“There, there,” she said, her words short, her tone light. “Bedtime in no time.”
Sister leaned back, and her palm finally stilled.
With a smile, she said, “You were a trooper.”
Copia chased with his words what he couldn’t with his body.
“Can I call you Mamma?” he asked.
Sister’s next breath was slow, and her smile, though it hadn’t faded, looked strained. She patted his back again and added a little rub, as if a circle of her palm would give him an answer. As if that answer would soothe him.
“It’s whatever you’re comfortable with,” she said again.