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Her voice turns cruel, and I step back in surprise. Mom is usually in a good mood, and if she’s snappy, that means something is going on.
She takes a breath and shakes her head, speaking before I have the chance to. “Sorry, doll. Mommy’s just stressed. I have to re-key the apartments on the 10th too, and cutting keys is a new one for me.”
I eye her key machine. I thought she was joking when she mentioned getting one and adding that to her list of skills, but she’s serious. I’ve seen her down here cutting keys late into the night. It looks like mind numbing work to me, setting each key and cutting it just right so that it fits into a lock. And if she’s rekeying an apartment complex, that’s a bunch of different keys.
“Sorry,” I say, sliding backward. “I can go get dinner started instead.”
Mom scoffs, shaking her head as she turns away. “Cooking, Jo, really? Do you want to only have the skillset of a housewife?”
“I want to be able to eat something decent without ordering in,” I correct her. Mom isn’t exactly the mothering type, and takeout is basically the only way I eat nowadays. She used to do jobs for some of the other moms when I was younger, and they’d pay her in casseroles so she didn’t have to cook for me. That stopped when I was twelve, so until I taught myself to cook it was take-out or bust.
Secretly, that’s something I love about Vinny. He comes from a big Italian family and they all have skills in the kitchen. He cooks so much better than I do, but last summer he taught me some basics. It was fun cooking with him.
Unfortunately, Mom doesn’t eat when I cook. She just doesn’t want to. So whatever I make is really just for me, and she’ll order in or eat snacks and junk food all night. If she didn’t have such a physical job I imagine she would have issues with weight by now but she’s always been thin.
Mom forces a smile, turning off the faucets and crossing to me. “I’m sorry Jo, but a woman’s place isn’t in the kitchen. You could do something more useful with your hands.”
“Cooking is useful, Mom,” I tell her with a sigh.
She steps close, grabbing my face with both hands to squeeze my cheeks. “Oh, my little doll. We need to ensure you know how to work with your hands and do any job you need to. I didn’t raise a wife, I raised a fighter. Don’t go and disappoint me now.”
I frown. Her eyes don’t quite focus on me, and when I try to pull away her fingers dig into my skin. “Mom-”
“I don’t appreciate you taking advantage of what I give you, you little brat,” she goes on. “I work hard so you can too. You need to do something better than cook.”
“You’re being ridiculous-”
She pushes me hard, and I stumble back a few steps from her. Her eyes aren’t unfocused now, but they look sinister as she tilts her chin down and the shadows in the room cover parts of her face. “You look like me, but you aren’t me, little doll. You’ll never be good enough to be me.”
Her words sting, but they are confusing too. “Mom-”
“I gave you my good parts,” she explains, studying me. “My looks and my attitude and even my height. And you do… nothing. You are nothing. What’s left of me inside of you? You aren’t a mirror version of me, you’re nothing.”
I open my mouth to respond, and the room around us changes. It’s no longer the basement in our house but a musty room, and I’m not standing anymore but laying down, bound...
Mom is red, leaning over me. Like an echo or a memory in my head, I hear words on repeat.
Dead girl, dead girl, dead girl -
I scream, sitting up fast enough in bed that it tears me from the nightmare. The room around me is almost shrouded in darkness, but after years of sleeping by my side, Vinny knows to leave the bathroom light on so there’s a pinch of light to one side of the room. My eyes dart around, taking in each detail, and then a hand touches my elbow.
Gasping, I spin and stare at my husband. My breaths come out too hard, too fast, and I can’t seem to stop my mind from racing. He twists and turns on the bedside light too, keeping his hand on my arm as I try to get myself under control.
It wasn’t just a dream, it was a mashup of memories. The day Mom washed some god-awful smelling clothes in her utility sink wasn’t the same day she had a fit about keys, and neither of those days lines up with the last day of her life.
I curl into myself, trying to stop the way my body shakes from thinking about it. I don’t know if my mind is trying to tell me something or if I’m just going mental, but the dream felt far too real.
Vinny slides a hand under my legs, his other shifting from my elbow to pick me up and cradle me in his lap. I curl into him, sinking deeper when he drops a blanket across my shoulders and tucks me protectively against him. There’s a low hum then a glow as he turns on the TV and a random late night show fills the silence.
“Shh,” he tells me, stroking his hand down my back. I’m wearing a nightgown, but I can feel his hand and his touch is grounding. “You’re here with me, Trauma. Exactly where you need to be.”
I nod against him, and the feeling of self hate rolls through me like a wave. This hasn’t happened in years, but the way he jumped into action without having to think is comforting. It’s exactly how he would respond if we were back home in Colorado, and thinking of home just makes me burrow deeper into the crook of his neck.
He doesn’t ask me what the dream was about, because it’s always more of less the same thing. Instead he mutters more calming affirmations to me, stroking my skin and letting me work it out in my own head. I kiss his throat in the quiet, and he shifts beneath me but doesn’t comment.
My husband might be able to handle anything, but when he shares moments like these with me without judgment, it makes me feel seen. He’s not going to try and tell me things are okay when they aren’t, and he knows the dreams are from one of two things: Mom or Alastair. Both of those demons can no longer hurt me, so it’s all about the memories that linger with me.
I’m not sure how long it takes, but when I drift off to sleep again I know I’m safe, tucked into my husband’s broad chest as my breaths even out with his.