I touch the small single stud in my left ear. The “other” Mariella’s ears hold many more piercings—dainty, feminine jewelry, some pieces spotted with tiny diamonds.
She’s holding a black flask, and her gaze is focused on something outside the perimeter of light.
A man steps through the wall of white and I jolt.
Parker.
He runs a hand through his messy hair, shorter at the sides and longer on top to give the appearance of a model who’s just rolled out of bed. Butterflies swirl in my stomach as he prowls toward this dream version of myself, yet she steps away in a slow, tentative dance.
She extends the flask toward him, flashing him a flirtatious smile. “Did Nickol kick you out again?” she asks, her tone light and taunting.
Parker reaches toward her and his hand wraps around her wrist, making her pause. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to be alone with you?” he murmurs, holding her gaze.
He moves closer still. One more step and his body will touch hers. They stare at each other, breaths mingling in the cool air, fingers threading together. His gaze flickers to her lips, and I shudder.
My palm tingles from the graze of his fingertips, the warmth of his touch transferring to my skin. Is it her knees shaking? Her heart pounding? Or my own? He lowers his head, and my breath quickens as he brings his mouth to hers. Brushing my tingling lips, I close my eyes and it’s as if Parker’s soft lips are pressed to mine. His hands move to my waist, pulling my body against his, and his tongue slides into my mouth.
Erratic, warm energy flares inside my chest, and I stumble backward with a startled breath. The heat intensifies, spreading through my body. I clutch my hands over my racing heart and my body begins to shake, a light tremble that strengthens until every cell in my body is vibrating.
Doubling over, I gasp for breath, but it feels as if the air entering and exiting my lungs is pulsating. Pressure builds within my chest, and I cry out as the energy explodes.
I jerk awake in Anna’s spare bedroom with electricity flooding my body. The blood drains from my face at the too-familiar sensation. One I haven’t experienced for seven months.My medication. I didn’t take it last night.
Waves of residual current race down my arms, the energy dissipating through my fingertips in miniature, heated zaps. I flick my hands to will it away, and the old injury in my wrist protests in sharp stabs of pain. I need to get more medication from Dr Williams.Today.
My dreams of Parker and my mother replay in my mind. They seemed so real, almost like memories. And my mother—she was well. Lucid. Nothing like a woman contemplating suicide. Nothing like the woman I remember. No signs of her demons, hiding beneath the surface.
“I’d never leave you, Mari. Never. You’re the light of my life.”
My mother loved me.
The realization leaves me breathless. Guilt bubbles up through my chest. How had I forgotten?
Another surge of current races through my fingers and I flick it away. My mother knew about my dreams and my symptoms. She told me to ignore them. Is that what she did with her own demons? Suppressed them until they consumed her? The dream replays in my mind. I remember the day well—my eighth birthday. She’d been healthy. Adamant she would return home. And yet she died three months later. How had her mind failed her in only three months? Were there warning signs?
My attention snaps to the metal box beside my feet and I leap off the bed, knees sinking into the plush sage rug. I pull the journals out, arrange them in chronological order, and devour the first from front to back. There’s a brief mention of my nightmares, but the rest of my mother’s journal is—mundane. She writes of daily activities and general life stressors.
By the time I reach the third journal, I’m skipping pages, skimming my mother’s neat, curling scrawl. I turn through page after page, searching for signs of poor health or paranoid thoughts, but my mother’s life seemed…good. Healthy. She’d enjoyed being a mother.
I grab the last journal, flicking to the back, and a crinkled piece of paper flutters into my lap. The frail paper wavers in my hand, the folded seam crackling when opened to reveal an intricate drawing of a bizarre clock. I trace its outline with a trembling finger: a large circle with a rippled edge on one side. At the center, it has not two but six unique hands, and above and below the clock are long vertical lines of varying length, some broken.What does it mean?
I pick up the journal and turn to the last page, which contains only one sentence:Let the current carry you.My fingers find their way to the charm on my necklace, and my thumb brushes the same worn inscription on its back. My mother’s necklace. The one she fastened around my younger self’s neck in my dream.
I read the sentence again. Her last entry. Written on—
I lurch forward, scrutinizing the date from ten years past.December 25.
The dayaftermy mother died.
8Mariella
I jump to my feet and drag my fingers through my tangled hair. I need to—I don’t know what I need to do. My mother’s diary must be wrong. No length of time or medication could suppress my memory of the day she died. It was Christmas Eve and I was sitting at Mrs Bensen’s dining table. Meager red and green tinsel was draped around the room, and the tips of my shoes barely kissed the dark wooden floorboards.
People think children live in their own heads, oblivious to the world around them. But when Mrs Bensen lowered the phone, her mouth settling into a firm line, brows rounded and eyes dim,I knew.
The crushing sensation in my chest had begun even before she’d eased to the floor on stiff knees and taken my hands in hers.
“Mari, your mother is gone.”
