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Grandma grits her teeth. “That’s not what happened and you know—”
“If you can’t accept that, then you should leave.”
Grandma’s chair squeaks against the kitchen tile as she pushes it back and stands. “You’re making a mistake, Toni. You’re too damn stubborn to see it, but I’m sick of fighting you. Don’t expect me and your father to pick up the pieces when things fall apart again.”
“Aren’t you going to at least say goodbye to the kids?” Mom asks incredulously.
Grandma’s crestfallen face looks between me, Omar, and Mom. “What’s the point? You won’t let me be a part of their lives.” She grabs her sweater from the back of the chair and storms off. Omar calls out after her, his cherubic face twisted in confusion. But she doesn’t look back.
A broken sob escapes from Mom’s lips, and she presses her face into her hands as Grandma storms out of the house. I reach out and grab a fistful of her hair, tugging on it and smearing mashed peas in it in the process.
She winces and untangles my hand, kissing it and then my forehead. “Sorry, my angel. You’re still hungry, aren’t you?”
The spoon approaches my mouth again as I watch pain and weariness settle on my mother’s face.
My mouth tastes of peas as I come to consciousness. It takes me a moment to pull out of the dream. I cling to the scene at the dinner table, worried that it will fade the more I try to remember it, as most of my dreams do. But it stays.
What the hell was that dream? It felt more like a memory, but that’s not possible. I was a baby. Growing up, my grandparents only visited us one a year and it usually only lasted for an afternoon. The whole time they were there, Grandma was kind, but distant. Like she didn’t want to get too close to me and Omar. Grandpa rarely interacted with us at all.
Was that all just my unconscious mind trying to make sense of things as I sleep? Because it feels too real and important for that to be the case. I’ve ignored my dreams in the past, but so many times what I saw ended up happening. This doesn’t feel like a random processing of data. So then, what the hell is it?
In the dream, my mother said magic took away my father. But he died in a car accident. And what did Grandma want Mom to do that caused such a rift between them?
The more I think about it, the less sense it makes. It pricks at my mind like a splinter that I can’t ignore but I can’t figure out how to remove.
I dial Mom’s number. It’s early, and the call goes to voicemail. Knowing her, she won’t get back to me for a day or two since she rarely checks her messages. I go through my morning routine, but instead of hopping on the computer to join my first work call, I message my boss telling her I’m sick. Five minutes later, I’m in the car and on the way to get some answers.
* * *
Mom’s skyblue sedan sits in her driveway when I pull up at her door four hours later. Good, that means she’s home. I made decent time, considering I ran into morning commute traffic as I left Moonvale. Still, those hours drug on as I anxiously waited for the long stretch of highway to finally reveal the exit to get to my childhood home.
I tried calling her when I was about an hour away, but it went to voicemail again. One of these days, there’s going to be a real emergency and she’s not going to know until it’s too late because she won’t check her goddamn messages or texts. Shit, you’d think she’d have learned after Dad’s accident. But no, she avoids her phone like the next call is bound to bring terrible news even 28 years later.
I attempt to wipe off the coffee stain on my blouse from when my drink spilled on the way here, but it’s stubborn, so I pull on a crappy hoodie I keep in my trunk. This isn’t exactly how I want my mom to see me for the first time in months, but it’ll have to do.
My hands shake with adrenaline and anticipation as I ring the doorbell. I don’t understand why I’m so on edge, but no amount of breathing or attempts at logical thinking on the drive here helped. I stare at the weathered paint on the sunny yellow door as I wait. A few seconds later, my mother’s footsteps approach and the door swings open.
“Mona?” Mom gapes at me. Her ash blonde hair hangs in loose waves over one shoulder, a few more streaks of gray in it than I remember from the last time I visited. I’m overwhelmed with the need to feel her arms wrap around me and let the soft press of her body and worn sweatshirt remind me of when she held me as a kid after I had a nightmare. She must see that on my face because she extends her arms toward me. “Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I hug her like my life depends on it. Sometimes I forget how much I miss her until I see her again. “I’m okay. No one’s hurt.”
Her tense grip relaxes, and when I let her go, she wipes a tear away. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you. I’m just surprised.” She gestures for me to come inside, and the fresh scent of clean laundry hits me as we head into the kitchen. A half-folded basket of clothes sits on the kitchen island and the low murmur of a home improvement show on the TV fills the silence.
“Sorry, I know it’s weird that I’m here. I don’t even really know how to explain.”
“That’s okay, angel. You hungry? I have leftover casserole from last night that’s pretty darn tasty if I do say so myself. Or I could cook you a grilled cheese. I know those are your favorite.” She’s already rooting around in the fridge, pulling out tupperware. “What can I get you to drink? I stopped drinking soda a few months ago, but I think I’ve got some cans of seltzer out in the garage.”
“Mom.”
She pauses and peeks her head back out from behind the fridge door.
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. I need to talk to you about something. Can you come over here and sit with me?”
She frowns as she shoves the tupperware back into the refrigerator and closes the door. She refills her glass of water and pours one for me, before heading over to sit across the table from me. It’s the same one from my dream, the one she’s kept for almost three decades. I can feel where Omar carved his and his best friend’s initials on the underside. Why she kept this rickety table I’ll never understand. But mom doesn’t like getting rid of anything unless it’s completely broken. That’s how she ended up with so much random garbage in her garage that she has to park her car in the driveway. It’s not hoarders-level bad, but still strange.
“Okay, I’m sitting,” she says, her eyes searching my face for some indication of what the hell is going on with me. I open my mouth to speak but her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, you’re pregnant!”
“What?! No! I’m not pregnant, Mom. Jesus, why is that the first thing you thought of? I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
