Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cierra had seen some of the photos before, like the ones when her parents posed in front of the whale shark tank at the Atlanta aquarium, or when they went to the Grand Canyon wearing matching red and gold 'Grand Canyon' hats. There were others though, that she had not seen, like the candid shot of them looking into each other's eyes on some unknown street, both donned in beanie hats and scarves. Never before had Cierra seen such a look of love or admiration exchanged between two people.

"They must have really loved each other," Cierra said, her voice more emotional than she had intended.

Uncle Trev nodded, "They had already been together a few years before we," he tilted his head to her aunt, "met, but the two of them were inseparable."

"You would expect an artist like your father to call someone he loved so much his muse, but he always said she was his spring, making him feel renewed," her aunt added.

Cierra was quiet a moment before asking, "Have you seen any of his artwork? Did his family leave anything behind?"

Both of them shook their heads.

"But," Her aunt flipped back through the photobook, "You might be able to find an artwork of his in here."

There were more photos in the album than Cierra had thought possible, many of them pre-dating her own existence. Which, she thought to herself, made sense, since they had died shortly after she was born.

"It's important for you to know things about your parents, which is why, in their honor," Her aunt stood up and went to the kitchen counter, "I ordered your mother's favorite."

On the counter sat two brown stapled bags that Cierra hadn't noticed before. Her aunt picked them up and brought them to the table while her uncle got up to grab some plates and silverware.

"You mother loved this Indian place called Maka's Curry," Her aunt said, taking containers out of the bags and setting them around the table, "Her favorite was garlic naan with chicken vindaloo, as spicy as they would let her get it."

Cierra's eyes watered as she saw the spread, "Thank you so much," She sprung up, hugging her aunt and then her uncle. "This really does mean a lot to me."

They ate and talked, laughing at how her aunt couldn't handle the spiciness of the vindaloo, and discussing how her father only ever ordered vegetarian samosas and lamb tikka masala.

"What did Nǎinai and Yéyé think of him?," Cierra asked, wondering if they had approved of the painter.

"Well," Her aunt hesitated, "You know how it is with parents. It took a lot of work for them to trust him with their daughter's future."

Uncle Trev nodded, "You should have seen how they reacted when they saw me!" He laughed it off, but Cierra was no stranger to how alienating her grandparents could be at times, with their comments during certain holidays about how he simply 'wouldn't understand' when it came to things like showing versus telling love and affection.

One year even Cierra had made the mistake of saying 'love you' to her Yéyé as she was leaving.

"We show that we care about someone, don't waste your breath on words," he had said, chastising her.

From then on, she had tried to accept their feeding her as their form of love and spent countless time at their home trying to find ways to serve them in return.

Her father, having come from a Chinese family, must have already understood that, and in many ways, he probably had the upper hand to her uncle in terms of winning over her grandparents.

For a minute Cierra felt bad for asking; she hadn't thought about how her Uncle's experience must have been worse.

"Your grandparents were still very traditional in their thinking back then," her aunt stepped in, "They wanted to know your mother and I would be well taken care of when we got married. They expected a potential husband to have a house, own a car, and be well set-up to provide a good future."

Cierra's jaw dropped; she hadn't realized expected her own family members to have such high expectations.

"Just wait until you start dating," Her aunt joked, "They might even demand a drowry." She looked at Uncle Trev mischievously.

Cierra caught the look, "They did not?," she asked, incredulous.

"They definitely did," It took your mother months to convince them that you father's family was too Americanized for all that."

"It didn't stop them from trying again a few years later with their youngest daughter either," Her uncle added darkly.

Back upstairs in her room, Cierra flipped through the photographs, trying to guess what her parents were thinking at different times. There was one photo where her mom was looking up from a book in a yellow lounge chair, looking mildly annoyed. Cierra tried to guess what her mother would say when she was upset. Would she stay silent and kill with a look like the photo suggested or would she say something fun like, 'Can't you see I'm readin' here?' in a fake New York accent?

As she reached the middle of the album, she came across some photos of her father balancing a paintbrush on his upper lip like a mustache and another where he stood, back turned, looking over a variety of picture frames. Cierra was taken aback by how dependable he looked, as if he would always be there in hard times, ready to press on with a joke on his lips.

Now more than ever she wished she had at least one memory of them.

She turned the page and stopped. There, spread across three photos, were photos of what Cierra could only guess was her father's art studio. In one corner was a small twin-size bed, sheets unmade, and then all around were canvases in various states of completion. For the first time Cierra wished she owned a magnify glass; she wanted more than anything to make out the images her father had spent so much time painting.

What she could make out from the photos was her father seemed to enjoy painting themed landscapes and nature. One combined vines and roses to create a man's face spread across the entire canvas, while another showed nothing but what looked to be pink sky, sun lazing down to a horizon that rippled out, fading to crimson at the edge of the sheet. Others were slashed with color, what looked like figures walking in the distance.

How many hours had he spent toiling away at artwork that may no longer exist?

Her heart ached to think about all these different pieces of her father she would never get to experience. She scanned the art in the three photos again, secretly hoping to see something she recognized, something that would connect them concretely in the present. Finding none, she closed the album, unsure if she wanted to cry or scream.

What had he thought his artwork would turn into? She wondered. Was he hoping to be showcasing in exhibitions? Winning competitions? Did he want to see his work hanging on a stranger's wall one day?

The lost opportunities were endless.

Reluctantly, Cierra put the photo album down on her desk. As much as she was grateful for the photos and the time put into getting them to her, she still had things she had to do tonight.

Who knew if Sekhmet was under attack still by the nightmares or if she had already been taken over and locked away in some prison somewhere to suffer the same fate as Freya. Cierra didn't like the idea of being partially responsible for another being's downfall, especially when it could be prevented by simply taking some form of action.

She wasn't sure she could save Baaqir though if she ran into him while saving Sekhmet. Something told her his fate was already sealed. What had made him tell the nightmares about the West Mountain? Why had he lied to her about it as well? No matter how much Cierra thought about it, his actions didn't make sense.

She wasn't fond of him before, but now she trusted him even less.

After taking a shower and changing, Cierra picked up Cid and laid down in bed.

"Big night tonight," She said scratching the cat behind the ears. Recently it looked as though he had stopped growing, or at least stopped growing in the real world. He stood at about her mid-calf at home, and now easily reached her knees in the dream realms. In a few months he would be bigger than her; passively she wondered if she could ride him like a mount into battle.

It would make traveling the realms that much easier, she thought to herself. Immediately she felt guilty for thinking of how to use him. Cid was his own being, he didn't have to let her use him like a broken in horse.

"Let's hope we don't get in too much trouble this time," She said. She was surprised to find herself excited to get to sleep after the emotional last few hours. Cid meowed, walking to his usual perch on her shoulder.

"Are you excited?," She asked, closing her eyes. He didn't respond.