Comfortably Numb

Hello, hello

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me

Is there anyone at home?

Just relax, relax

I need some information first

Just the basic facts

Can you show me where it hurts?

There is no pain, you are receding

A distant ship sails on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves

Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying

I have become comfortably numb

When I was a child, I caught a fever

My hands swelled up like two balloons

Now I've got that feeling once again

I can't explain, you would not understand

This is not how I am

I have become comfortably numb

Okay, Okay

Just a little pinprick

There'll be no more "Ahhhhhh"

But you may feel a little sick

Can you relax, relax?

I do believe it's working, good

That'll keep you going for the show

C'mon it's time to go

There is no pain you are receding

A distant ship's smoke on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves

Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying

I have become comfortably numb

When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse

Out of the corner of my eye

I turned to look but it was gone

I cannot put my finger on it now

The child is gone, the dream is gone

I have become comfortably numb

- "Comfortably Numb", Pink Floyd, The Wall

Southern California, June 2011

1

I was on the shore of the lake of fire again, hungry flames licking at the shore line. The heat from the hot tendrils raised a layer of sweat on my body, but I paid it no heed. Strong hands held me like manacles. I strained with all my might, desperate to reach the young man at the center of the ring of flames. I screamed, the brogue still thick in my youthful voice, and was rewarded by harsh, low laughter. I kicked and flailed, but it was no use. Other voices in the distance called out to me to stop, I couldn't help him, but I was reduced to primal urgency by the sight of skin that had been pearlescent in the full moon light turning ashy grey and pale hair slowly changing to thick, wet maroon. More than one pair of hands now restrained me. The boy turned his face to me and finally I stilled. His lips struggled to form the words, but I could still make them out-

Tap. Tap.

That wasn't right. Normally what came next were screams of rage and grief, overridden by high pitched laughter. What was this tapping? I tried to focus on the dying boy.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I came awake forcefully, early sunlight flooding my eyes as I sat up, gasping, in my king-sized bed with the sheets tangled around my perspiration covered body. I pushed sticky tendrils out of my eyes and scanned my bedroom, looking for the source of the infernal tapping.

Tap. Tap.

There, at the window. An owl, at least, and not a raven, although after that particular nightmare a harbinger of death was almost welcome. I stared at the owl a moment. It tapped even more insistently, and seeing no help for it, I wrapped the sheet around me and reluctantly got out of bed. I walked slowly to the window, still trying to clear my head of the remnants of dream.

I took the thick packet from the owl, who nipped lightly at my hand. "Sorry, brother," I said. "I've nothing for you." Owl treats were a rare commodity in my house, having no owl of my own. In the past twelve years I'd had a total of three letters sent to me by owl post. All of them went unanswered. Looking peeved, the owl let out a loud screech, flapped its wings at me and soared away, riding the wind in a high arc in the clear blue San Diego sky. I stuck my tongue out at its retreating form and padded back to bed with the letter in my hand.

When I saw who the letter was addressed to my hand began to shake. Knowing full well who had sent it, I flipped the envelope over. The distinctive red wax seal confirmed all my worst suspicions. I let the letter flutter to the floor and lowered my head to my hands.

How had they found us?

2

An hour later I was showered and dressed and nearly regained of my perspective. I was setting out a breakfast of frozen Eggo waffles and fruit salad when my son wandered into the kitchen. The letter was on the table, as well.

"Morning, Jason," I said, forcing myself to sound cheerful. The carefully modulated, accentless voice, so different from the Scots-inflected speech of my nightmare, was second nature to me.

"Morning, Mom." He was giving me a suspicious look. After living alone together for eleven years, he was very good at reading my moods. "Are you okay?" He sat down and grabbed three waffles, dumping entirely too much syrup on them, in my opinion.

"Fruit, too, buddy," I said, looking pointedly at the bowl of salad. After he dumped a heaping spoonful on his plate, I answered, "I'm fine, Jason." I steeled myself, my inner voice telling me not to be a coward. "A letter came for you." I pointed to it.

Around a mouthful of waffle, Jason said, "You're nuts, Mom. Mail doesn't come until after noon."

"Well, this came early." I wasn't even about to tell him how it came.

He still wore his patented my-mother-is-a-lunatic look, but he picked up the envelope, marking it with a sticky syrup thumbprint. Inspecting the spidery green writing, he said, "Whoever sent this got my last name wrong. See?" He pointed indignantly to the front of the envelope, again eyeing me suspiciously. "Are you messing with me, Mom?"

"No," I bit out more sharply than I intended. "Why don't you just open it, hon?"

"But, Mom..."

He was killing me, drawing it out like this. "That was your father's name. You know that. The people who sent you that... they just didn't realize." I took a deep breath. "Open it, Jason. Please."

Nope. He rolled his eyes instead. "But, Mom, you never married my dad before he died, so my name is Black, just like yours. Not Malfoy. Duh."

Each flippant word was a dagger to my heart. Jason couldn't know that, though, because for him having no father was the status quo, perfectly normal. I forced myself to be calm, but was unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "Jason, the point is, it's your letter. Do you think you could just open it and read it without any more complaints?"

"Okay, okay." He flipped over the envelope, shooting me an aggrieved look. "Chill out, Mom." He broke the seal and pulled out the sheet of parchment. His grey eyes widened as he read the letter. Then he started laughing. "Oh, Mom, it was just a joke. You're so weird."

"No, it's not, honey. What does it say?" I knew the conversation was about to take a turn into difficult territory, knowing very well what any letter, delivered by owl and addressed to my eleven year old son, would have to say.

He narrowed his eyes, wearing a sneering expression that made normally sunny face look rather pointy. From his coloring, to his bloody facial expressions, he had nothing of me. I felt an unexpected burst of anger and felt immediately foolish. He had my presence. It was enough.

"It says I've been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I didn't even know you put my name down." His sarcasm shook me. "C'mon, Mom, that's totally ridiculous! It goes on about cauldrons and wands. Did you really think I was silly enough to believe this?" He threw the parchment down in disgust.

"It's real, Jason." I looked him directly in the eyes, willing him to believe me, knowing that if he didn't I had only myself to blame. "You know how sometimes when you're angry or scared, strange things would happen?"

There had been the time a rock thrown by a bully had mysteriously rebounded on the thrower. Or the time when Jason was surfing, and someone cut in on his wave; the other surfer had found his feet were now really fins. During thunderstorms, sunlight filled his bedroom. And so on. Hundreds of tiny little incidents, all of them scary and confusing to my young son.

"So suddenly I'm a wizard?" He looked angry and incredulous, and surprisingly hurt. "It's not cool to make fun of me like this!"

"Oh, Jason, honey, I'm not making fun." Unbidden, tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't allow them to fall. On with the truth, then. "I went to that school. So did your father. You are a wizard."

I had never seen my son's face turn such an alarming shade of red before. It was a stark contrast to his sun-bleached hair. He exploded. "And you never told me?! How could you keep this a secret from me?!"

I desperately needed him to understand. "Jason, when your father died, I left all of that behind! I cut it out of my life. I haven't written or talked to anyone back home. It was too painful- it made me remember all the time. I don't even know how they found us. They shouldn't have even known about you at all!"

My impassioned speech got a reaction, all right, but not the desired one. In a dangerously low voice, Jason answered me. "Didn't I deserve to know?" He was furious.

"So many times I thought about telling you, but I just didn't know how." I was pleading with him. In the back of my mind I knew that I was the adult and should have to humble my self to him, but Jason and I had never been as hierarchical as that. I had violated his trust, and I felt I owed him an explanation. "I'm sorry, baby."

"So why tell me now? Why not just tear up the letter and keep your little secret?" The bitterness in his voice ate at my heart.

"Because you did deserve to know. And because you also deserve to make your own choice." The tears that had been threatening finally overflowed out of my eyes. My son had hatred in his eyes, directed at me, and all because I was a bloody coward. When had my bravery left me?

"Oh. So now I'm supposed to go to freaking Scotland and wave some stupid stick around?" Jason sneered. Oh, he was a Malfoy, whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not.

"If you want to," I whispered.

Jason stood up, pushing away from the table angrily, looking utterly disgusted. Without another word he strode from the kitchen. A few moments later I heard the front door slam. For the second time that morning, I lowered my head and sobbed.

3

My name is Catriona Maire MacKenzie Black. I am a witch. I've always known I was a witch, which perhaps make my actions regarding my son look even worse. I grew up in a sort of unique situation, though. See, I didn't even got to Hogwarts myself until I was fifteen years old.

My father was one of the most famous convicted felons in the magical world. He was said to have killed twelve people with a single curse. He was innocent- my mother always believed that and so did I. I was not even born yet when he was sent to Azkaban, which is max-security wizard prison, without a trial. That was a dark and chaotic time in the magical community, and most people weren't even aware that Sirius Black had gotten married. Those that did know died, or forgot.

My Mam and I were pretty isolated, up in the Scottish Highlands. No-one bothered us, and Mam decided it was better to keep hidden. She had little hope that anyone would believe in my father's innocence, and no-one did. She felt it was better that the world was unaware of his daughter, born one month after he went to prison. My mother, a Muggle-born witch, had never been formally schooled because her parents had disapproved and disowned her. She learned magic from a village witch who took her in and taught her all that she knew. So when my Hogwarts letter came, she sent back a black border, and schooled me herself, at home.

Then, when I was twelve, something incredible happened. My father escaped from prison, something no-one had ever done in the history of Azkaban. When he came by our cottage, stunned to find my mother still living there, my mother begged him to stay and hide with us. He refused, saying he needed to clear his name, and didn't want to endanger me and my mother. It took three long years. During that interval, my mother got very sick. I was never sure what she had, because she refused to go to the village doctor, and there were no medi-witches or wizards nearby. My father came to visit occasionally, never staying long. He was concerned by my mother's illness, but had to stay on the run. Finally, when I was fifteen, the wizard who had framed Da was caught. He came home to stay, bringing his god-son Harry with him, but it was too late. My mother died a month later, in July of 1996.

Da didn't know what to do with a teenage witch. Hell, he didn't even really know what to do with himself. Harry attended Hogwarts like most mages my age, so Da decided I should go with him. In August he took me to meet Albus Dumbledore, the head-master at the time. Dumbledore said it was an unprecedented action, but given the extenuating circumstances he would make an exception. He allowed me to enter Hogwarts as a fifth year student.

I really wish he hadn't.

4

Jason was gone until sundown. I know most mothers would probably be worried by their young son staying out on his own all day, but for Jason, in the summer, this was perfectly normal. Maybe my lack of concern makes me a bad mother, I don't know. I was barely eighteen when I had Jason, and almost completely alone. Raising him has been a sort of by the seat of the pants affair. We live in Point Loma, about one mile outside of Ocean Beach in San Diego. Jason had grown up a total beach-baby, swimming before he could walk. A few years ago our neighbor, Ken Jenson, taught Jason to surf. After that it became impossible to keep him out of the water. During the summer months Jason just about lived on the beach, and spent a good deal of time there during the school year as well. I was okay with that. OB is a very mellow, laid-back community, populated mostly by old and noveau hippies, surfers, and college kids. Often, if my work was done for the day, I would walk or bike down Newport Avenue and meet up with my kid for lunch or an ice cream and a walk down the pier. It was a nice, easy life.

Today I worked all day long, mostly to distract myself from the argument Jason and I had at breakfast, but also because Ganner Abbot had called, and I could hear the tinge of desperation in his voice when he asked, "So how's the new book coming?" I write grisly thrillers for a living; Ganner is my agent. My latest manuscript was just about overdue. It's hard to sit in front of the computer all day when the warm California sun is slanting through your window, beckoning you outdoors. On this day, however, I had managed to get over a hundred pages written, and just needed to put a few finishing touches on the story before it was ready to go to the editor. Ganner would be pleased with me, at least, if no-one else was.

When Jason walked into my study, I smelled rather than heard him. It was a typical Jason-in-the-summer smell, all sun and sweat and salt water. I inhaled deeply, savoring this unique son-smell, before I turned around. I met his steady gaze cautiously, not knowing what sort of mood to expect after our parting note this morning. I drank him in for a moment before speaking. Although it was only June, Jason already had a deep golden tan. He was slender and not very tall yet, but extremely sturdy from activities like surfing, skating, and biking. His hair was bleached white by the sun, standing up in salt-crusted spikes atop his head. I thought he was singularly beautiful. Sometimes I still can't believe he came from me. I wonder if all mothers feel this deep wonder when they look upon their children. I've known Jason for eleven years, and he still takes my breath away. "What's up?" I asked, wondering if he had reached a decision yet.

"What's for dinner?" As if to back up the importance of this question, his stomach rumbled loudly.

I didn't know whether I should burst out laughing or cry from relief. Wisely, I refrained from either. "Whatever you want."

"Mexican," he said definitely.

"No problem. Give me half an hour or so?" I smiled at him.

He nodded, giving me faint smile back. "I need to go wash up."

"All right. Meet you in the kitchen," I answered, shutting off the computer.

Jason ran off up the stairs, while I headed into the kitchen. By the time he came back down, freshly showered and changed, I had fajitas sizzling in a skillet on the stove, warm tortillas, guacamole, cheese and salsa on the table, and the delicious smell of carne asada and grilled chicken filled our airy kitchen. His stomach rumbled loudly again as he grabbed his usual seat at the table and poured himself a glass of Pepsi.

"Yum, Mom. That smells so good!" he remarked enthusiastically.

I deposited the still sizzling meat in the center of the table. "Glad it meets with your approval."

We dined in silence for a few minutes, while Jason shoved as many meat-filled tortillas into his mouth as was humanly possible. When his raging hunger had apparently been at least partially satiated, he said hesitantly, "Hey, Mom?"

I swallowed the bite I had taken, and said just as hesitantly, "Yeah, honey?"

"Um, you know what we talked about this morning?"

"I think I vaguely recall it, yes."

He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, so I was thinking about it, like, all day, and I wanted to say I was sorry. You know, for smart-mouthing you." I lifted an eyebrow, but let him continue. "It's just, well, that was a pretty bizzaro thing to just drop on somebody."

I sighed. "I know, Jas, and I'm sorry, too. I should have told you a long time ago."

He looked away now, and I could tell he was trying to work up his nerve to tell me something. I wanted to shout at him to just spit it out, but I was admirably able to restrain myself and wait for him to get his thoughts together. Finally he looked back at me. "What if I want to go?"

I swallowed convulsively. "I told you it was your choice, and I meant that." I drew a steadying breath. "Do you want to go?"

He also drew a deep breath. "Yeah, Mom, I really sort of do."

"You understand that this means that you'll be in Great Britain most of the year? That you'll live away from home?"

He nodded. "Yes, and I know it's going to totally suck to be so far from the beach, but... if you went, and my dad went, well, then I want to go, too."

I smiled weakly. "Well, in that case I suppose I'd better start looking into booking a trip to Great Britain."

Jason jumped up and ran around to my side of the table, throwing his arms around me in a fierce hug. "Thanks, Mom," he whispered. I wrapped my arms around my child, and wondered what we were getting ourselves into.