light, spiraling in a flower. People staring in awe, face after face flashing past. A strange world with gleaming towers and robed beings. Wings opening and closing. Someone screaming.
Hunger.
The hunger raged through me, sapping every other emotion. It needed to feed.
Needed
to. It needed —
The man dropped my hand, and I sagged limply against the doorjamb, all strength gone from me. I couldn’t speak; I was panting as if I’d just run a mile. “What are you?” I whispered finally.
He stared at me without speaking, all pretense of friendliness gone. I could feel menace coming off him, but there was fear there, too, curling around it like a snake. Not taking his eyes off me, he wiped his hand off on his shirt. Abruptly, he turned and left, jogging down the front steps. A sleek silver car sat parked beside the curb; he got into it, slammed the door shut, and drove away into the night.
As the sound of his car faded, I could hear the creaking of crickets, the faint drone of traffic from the highway. My thoughts were in chaos. At first I didn’t move, then belated fear rocked through me and I banged the door shut. My hands trembled as I locked it.
I rushed back into the living room. Mom was still sitting in the armchair, still looking absently into space. I stood watching her, hugging myself as I tried not to shake. Wishing so much that she’d look up and say,
Willow, is everything all right? Tell me all about it, sweetie. How can I help?
“Who was that?” asked Aunt Jo, glancing up from the TV.
“No one,” I said faintly. Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, I dropped to my knees in front of my mother, clutching her hands in mine. “Mom? Are you there?” I said in a low voice.
Aunt Jo was gaping at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just . . . talking to Mom.”
She sniffed. “Well, good luck. I don’t think she’s feeling very talkative tonight.”
I didn’t reply as she went into the kitchen. I just kept kneeling in front of my beautiful, broken mother, rubbing her hands between my own. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me?
Please?
”
Briefly, her eyes flickered. “Willow?” she murmured.
“It’s me, Mom. I’m here.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. A lock of hair fell across her face, and I smoothed it away, stroking her brow. Soon the soft smile returned to Mom’s lips, and I knew with a sinking heart that she had left again. She was back in her own world, looking at beautiful, mesmerizing things.
Frustrated, I sank back on my heels, longing for her to really communicate with me. But it would never happen; I would always be the one trying to reach her and never quite succeeding. You’d think I’d be used to it, after so many years. And I was, pretty much — only there were still times like now, when I felt a rush of sorrow and disappointment so strong that it almost knocked me off my feet. Even trying to read her didn’t help, because her mind was so . . . fragmented. Full of rainbows and clouds and snippets of memory. I found it such a depressing experience that I’d only tried it a handful of times.
God, I hated my father, whoever he’d been. I knew from Aunt Jo that before he appeared on the scene, Mom had been normal.
I don’t know what that man did to her, but she was never the same after,
she’d told me once.
The doctors can say catatonic schizophrenia all they want, but I know the truth. He broke Miranda’s spirit. . . . He broke her mind.
One time when I’d tried to read Mom, I’d caught a glimpse of my father in her thoughts, and he’d looked so creepy that the thought of being related to him made me feel sick. At least he’d decided to take off and never be involved with either of us. It was the only good thing he’d ever done, as far as I was concerned.
Aunt Jo came back in, carrying a plate of cookies. “Willow, you must have eaten half the pack last night,” she said crossly. “You know these are my favorites; you
Hunger.
The hunger raged through me, sapping every other emotion. It needed to feed.
Needed
to. It needed —
The man dropped my hand, and I sagged limply against the doorjamb, all strength gone from me. I couldn’t speak; I was panting as if I’d just run a mile. “What are you?” I whispered finally.
He stared at me without speaking, all pretense of friendliness gone. I could feel menace coming off him, but there was fear there, too, curling around it like a snake. Not taking his eyes off me, he wiped his hand off on his shirt. Abruptly, he turned and left, jogging down the front steps. A sleek silver car sat parked beside the curb; he got into it, slammed the door shut, and drove away into the night.
As the sound of his car faded, I could hear the creaking of crickets, the faint drone of traffic from the highway. My thoughts were in chaos. At first I didn’t move, then belated fear rocked through me and I banged the door shut. My hands trembled as I locked it.
I rushed back into the living room. Mom was still sitting in the armchair, still looking absently into space. I stood watching her, hugging myself as I tried not to shake. Wishing so much that she’d look up and say,
Willow, is everything all right? Tell me all about it, sweetie. How can I help?
“Who was that?” asked Aunt Jo, glancing up from the TV.
“No one,” I said faintly. Knowing that it wouldn’t do any good, I dropped to my knees in front of my mother, clutching her hands in mine. “Mom? Are you there?” I said in a low voice.
Aunt Jo was gaping at me like I’d lost my mind. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just . . . talking to Mom.”
She sniffed. “Well, good luck. I don’t think she’s feeling very talkative tonight.”
I didn’t reply as she went into the kitchen. I just kept kneeling in front of my beautiful, broken mother, rubbing her hands between my own. “Mom? Mom, can you hear me?
Please?
”
Briefly, her eyes flickered. “Willow?” she murmured.
“It’s me, Mom. I’m here.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. A lock of hair fell across her face, and I smoothed it away, stroking her brow. Soon the soft smile returned to Mom’s lips, and I knew with a sinking heart that she had left again. She was back in her own world, looking at beautiful, mesmerizing things.
Frustrated, I sank back on my heels, longing for her to really communicate with me. But it would never happen; I would always be the one trying to reach her and never quite succeeding. You’d think I’d be used to it, after so many years. And I was, pretty much — only there were still times like now, when I felt a rush of sorrow and disappointment so strong that it almost knocked me off my feet. Even trying to read her didn’t help, because her mind was so . . . fragmented. Full of rainbows and clouds and snippets of memory. I found it such a depressing experience that I’d only tried it a handful of times.
God, I hated my father, whoever he’d been. I knew from Aunt Jo that before he appeared on the scene, Mom had been normal.
I don’t know what that man did to her, but she was never the same after,
she’d told me once.
The doctors can say catatonic schizophrenia all they want, but I know the truth. He broke Miranda’s spirit. . . . He broke her mind.
One time when I’d tried to read Mom, I’d caught a glimpse of my father in her thoughts, and he’d looked so creepy that the thought of being related to him made me feel sick. At least he’d decided to take off and never be involved with either of us. It was the only good thing he’d ever done, as far as I was concerned.
Aunt Jo came back in, carrying a plate of cookies. “Willow, you must have eaten half the pack last night,” she said crossly. “You know these are my favorites; you
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