Pieces of Her

Standing in the middle of my old bedroom, I’m confused.

How did I get here?

This hasn’t been my room since I was ten, and yet it hasn’t changed at all. Pink butterflies still cover one wall, and the soft, silvery-gray carpet is warm and comforting beneath my bare feet.

I smile as I look around.

It feels safe. Familiar.

But something about it doesn’t feel right—like I’ve stepped into a memory that shouldn’t still exist.

My eyes land on the photo collage Mom made for me. I step closer, studying the photographs I haven’t seen in years. Smiling faces stare back at me, frozen in moments of happiness I can barely remember.

I hear a noise behind me.

I spin around.

Mom is standing by my closet, gently searching through my clothes.

“Mom?”

I try to call out, but no sound comes.

She doesn’t seem to hear me, and panic grips my chest.

I try again.

Nothing.

She suddenly stops.

Slowly, she turns toward me and, for one wonderful second, I think she’s finally seen me.

“Katie,” she whispers.

Hearing her say my name feels like coming home.

I run toward her.

But the closer I get, the farther away she seems. No matter how fast I run, I can’t reach her.

“Mom!”

Still no sound.

Her smile begins to change.

It stretches wider and wider until it doesn’t look like her smile anymore. Her face twists into something unfamiliar, something wearing my mother’s face instead of actually being my mother.

A chill races through me.

Then she laughs.

It’s a low, cracked laugh that echoes around the room.

It’s not her.

She isn’t here.

The walls begin to darken. The butterflies curl away from the wallpaper as flames race across it, their bright wings disappearing beneath the fire.

Smoke fills the room.

“Mom!”

I reach for her one last time.

Through the smoke, I see her hand reaching toward me.

I stretch my fingers out, desperate to feel hers.

But before I can reach her, the flames rise between us, swallowing her hand and pulling her away from me.

I wake with a gasp, cold sweat covering my forehead and my heart racing so fast it hurts.

For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am.

Then I look around.

I’m in my bedroom.

My real bedroom.

Not the one from my childhood.

And there is no one here but me.

I sit up slowly, pressing a hand against my chest as I try to steady my breathing.

In...

Out...

In...

Out...

It doesn’t help much.

I’ve been having these dreams all summer. They feel too real, too detailed, and they always involve Mom.

What is wrong with me?

She left when I was eight. It’s been six years without her, so why does she keep coming back now?

And why does it always feel like she’s trying to tell me something...

...or that I’m forgetting something important?

I shake the thought away.

I can’t think about this right now.

Today is the first day of high school, and I need to get ready.

After a quick shower, I stand in front of my closet, letting my fingers drift across my clothes.

I don’t want to stand out too much. No freshman does but I still want to look nice.

I pull out a pair of ripped jeans and a tank top before hesitating.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and notice the tan lines I’ve picked up from last weekend at the beach.

Instead, I swap the tank top for a soft white T-shirt.

Much better.

Once I’m dressed, I brush my thick chestnut-brown hair and braid it over one shoulder. Dad doesn’t usually like me wearing makeup, but I open the little makeup bag Grandma bought me anyway.

I don’t know much about makeup, but after watching a few videos online, I think I’ve figured out which colors suit my skin tone. I add a touch of warm brown to my eyelids and a layer of mascara to make my blue eyes stand out. I stare at the palette of blush wondering what color to pick, maybe Mom could have shown me how to do all this if she were here.

There I go thinking about her again. I push the thought away and carry on.

I pick a coral-pink blush and swipe it across my cheeks. A pinky-nude lip balm finishes it off. I study my reflection. For a moment, I barely recognize myself.

I look older.

Not grown-up exactly.

Just... different.

Satisfied, I grab my backpack and head downstairs, determined to forget about the dream, forget about my lack of a mother, and just have a good day.

Dad is sitting at the kitchen island, reading the newspaper with a mug of coffee beside him.

I stop in the doorway.

For the first time in a long time, I really look at him.

He’s always looked younger than he is. He’s nearly forty-two, but I don’t think anyone would guess it right away. His hair is almost black, thick with a slight wave that gets more noticeable when it’s longer. It’s usually a little messy too, especially when he’s been running his hands through it, which he does whenever he’s stressed.

There are little signs of his age if you look closely, though. A few strands of gray have started appearing near his temples, along with some in the dark stubble that usually covers his jaw. There are faint lines at the corners of his eyes too, deeper when he smiles, and one between his eyebrows that appears whenever he’s worried or annoyed.

His skin stays golden-brown pretty much all year round, getting even darker during the summer, and his eyes are deep brown. They’re probably my favorite thing about his face, although I’d rather die than actually tell him that. They’re warm most of the time, but when he’s annoyed with me, they have this way of narrowing slightly that tells me I’m in trouble before he’s even opened his mouth.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, still in good shape despite constantly complaining that he’s “getting old.”

I can tell he’s already been for a run this morning. His hair is still slightly damp from a post-run shower. Dad has always taken care of himself, even if he likes to pretend exercise is getting harder with every birthday.

I have his coloring. His tan, his dark hair, even some of his expressions, apparently. Grandma says sometimes I pull a face and she sees Dad staring straight back at her.

I don’t see it.

Dad looks like Dad to me.

Familiar. Solid. Safe.

The kind of face I’ve spent my whole life looking for whenever something goes wrong.

My eyes drift toward a photograph on the wall.

It’s of Dad and me when I was about five. His warm smile is exactly the same as it is now.

I remember Mom once telling me he was the most handsome man she’d ever met.

Love at first sight, she’d called it.

I sigh.

If that was true...

...what happened?

I walk into the kitchen.

He looks up and smiles.

“Hey, pumpkin! All set for your big day?”

I roll my eyes.

“It’s not my big day, Dad. It’s just high school.”

His smile fades a little.

“Sorry, sweetie.”

Then he looks me over.

“You look nice.”

Guilt settles in my stomach.

I don’t mean to snap at him.

He’s all I have.

But lately, everything I say seems to come out sharper than I intend, like something inside me is slowly coming apart.

Grandma says it’s because I’m becoming a young woman.

I’m not so sure.

Because it only seems to happen whenever I think about Mom.

Whenever I mention her, Dad freezes. He changes the subject or leaves the room.

It’s like saying her name hurts him.

I quietly thank him for the compliment and make myself breakfast.

While I pour my cereal, my mind drifts back to the last day I saw Mom.

I was only eight.

Some parts are blurry now.

Others are as clear as if they happened yesterday.

I don’t know why I remember some things so vividly and others not at all.

I just know I’ll never forget the way she hugged me.

Six Years Ago

Shouting.

That’s what I remember first.

Loud.

Angry.

“Mikey... please...”

Mom is crying.

I run to AJ’s room because AJ always knows what to do.

He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

He hears it too.

Without saying anything, he pulls me into a hug.

We play Guess Who because it’s my favorite game.

We both pretend we can’t hear the shouting downstairs.

Then Dad bursts into the room.

He looks angry.

No...

Not just angry.

Heartbroken.

He grabs a bag and starts throwing AJ’s clothes into it.

“Dad?” AJ asks quietly. “What’s going on?”

“You’re going on a trip with your mom.”

Why is only AJ going? Why not me? I almost ask, but something inside me tells me not to.

Nothing makes sense.

We follow him into the hallway.

Mom is standing beside a suitcase.

She’s crying so hard she can barely breathe.

The second she sees me, I run into her arms.

She holds me so tightly I can hardly breathe.

I still remember how safe I felt.

Then Dad pulls me away.

“Mikey, please,” Mom begs.

“You have one minute,” Dad says.

One minute.

I don’t know why I still remember those words.

He lets me go.

I throw myself back into Mom’s arms.

She kisses my forehead, and I can feel her tears against my hair.

“You’ll always be my best girl,” she whispers.

“I love you more than anything.”

She promises she’ll come back.

“We won’t be gone long. Me and AJ will be back before you know it.” She smiles through her tears.

She tells me never to forget that she loves me.

Then...

The memories blur.

Crying.

AJ calling my name.

The front door closing.

Silence.

I blink.

Milk is spilling across the counter.

I quickly grab a cloth and wipe it up before sitting down with my cereal.

Dad is already reading his paper again.

I watch him for a moment.

I know he loves me.

I’ve never doubted that.

And I know he loved Mom.

I’ve seen it in the photographs. I’ve heard it in the stories family friends told me growing up, before she stopped being spoken about altogether, like a secret that should never be mentioned.

So if he loved her...

Why did she leave?

Because the strange thing is, I don’t remember Mom leaving.

Not really.

I remember Dad’s anger.

I remember the shouting.

I remember the way Mom cried and begged him.

I remember AJ’s things being packed into a bag.

I remember being told they were going away.

And I remember Mom promising they’d be back.

Me and AJ will be back before you know it.

But they never came back.

Six years later, I’m still waiting.

That’s the part I can’t make sense of.

Because somewhere deep down, I don’t believe Mom just walked away from me. Not after the way she held me that day. Not after she promised she was coming back.

She loved me too much.

At least, I think she did.

So what really happened six years ago?

And why has nobody ever told me?

One way or another...

I’m going to find out.

Because I’m tired of living with questions.

I need the truth.