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“Didn’t you hear about the accident?” My mother’s voice calls.
This statement has me pausing from my plan to sneak away. I try not to look completely shocked. My mother just said something that sounded like concern for my well-being.
“What accident?” I ask as I tentatively walk towards her. I didn’t see anything on my way home. I think I was wheezing too hard to hear anything, either.
My mother rolls her eyes before looking away from her screen. “It’s all over the news. For the love of God, Vivian, you have a phone. Use it.” She’s waving her tablet in my face, open to her social media feed.
My mom is one of the few successful “business owners,” which is totally not code for a pyramid scheme subscriber.
She sells shampoos and other body care products and religiously stays on top of all social networking, recruiting other young women who want to make the big bucks working from home.
My mother is a parasite.
And from what I gather, she’s a very pissed-off parasite.
“I’ve already had a ton of people messaging me to ask if you’re okay, and they want to know if you saw the accident happen. And what could I say to them? Oh, I don’t know, how about, ‘Sorry, I don’t know where my ungrateful daughter is right now.’ That will go over so well for the reposts.”
There it is – the actual reason she’s upset.
My mother and I have a strained but peaceful coexistence on the best of days. She’s mostly come to terms with the fact that a mini-me bleached-blonde clone didn’t climb out of her vagina.
We’re about as opposites as you can get. She has platinum hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a cheerleader physique honed from a death grip on her glory days. The stereotypical cheerleader attitude has stuck hard, too.
According to her, I inherited my father’s looks. Dark auburn hair, a splash of freckles and dark blue eyes. She isn’t being complimentary when she says it, either. She’s been pushing her company’s foundation on me since I wasseven. To her horror, I also have a predisposition for curves and none of the coordination necessary to ‘work them off.’
I can’t remember how old I was when the calorie counting started.
Maybe that’s where this mental break stemmed from. When in doubt – blame your childhood. Am I right?
She’s still waving the tablet in my face and looking at me like I’m an imbecile, but it’s moving too quickly for me to read anything.
“Sorry, what happened?” I frown, trying to figure out whether I’ve just sucked myself into a longer conversation than needed. I think I’m getting motion sickness from trying to read the moving screen.
My mother slams the tablet back down. Thank goodness for strong technology cases.
“Drunk driver.” She rolls her eyes as she says it. “Honestly, the state they’re letting this town go to. I knew those less expensive houses up the road were inviting trouble. Just wait. It’s not going to be the end of this stuff. They’ll be letting all kinds of trash into our town now.”
I grit my teeth together, reminding myself that talking back is futile. I’m not looking for pain today.
My mother continues, oblivious to the damage I’m undoubtedly causing my teeth. “Your aunt shared the post. The guy lost control of his car and crashed into a tree. Right on the path you take home. How did you not see it? It happened like ten minutes ago. Emergency services are probably still there.”
I peek at the post she scrolled to, and my breath catches in my throat. The car is completely wrapped around a huge oak tree. There’s a mailbox next to it, and I can see the edge of the soccer field in the distance. That’s the exact path I usually take.
The one I didn’t take today.
My mother sees my complexion pale and is temporarily appeased. “Exactly. Can you see how this makesmelook? My friends know you’ve been walking down Regin Street to get home. And then to have a major accident there and not be able to account for the whereabouts of my daughter? People will start to talk,” she finishes with a hiss.
“Sorry, Mom,” I repeat. “I didn’t see the accident. Uhm, the soccer fields were flooded, and I fell in a puddle. So, I decided to take the main sidewalks home.”
The lie comes quickly enough. Before my mother can work herself into a frenzy about what people must be saying if they saw me soaking wet, I slip out of the kitchen and quickly head upstairs.
The aftershocks of this afternoon hit once I’m in dry clothes and am wrapped in a cozy blanket.
The timing of the ghost appearing is sketchy. Isn’t this a plot for some fated death movie? The main character avoids their natural death through supernatural means, only to be hunted by death itself. I shudder at thethought and make a mental note not to watch any more scary movies. They are clearly getting to my head.
Hopefully, this was my first and last brush with supernatural activity.
Chapter 2
