I stuck my good ear to Mom’s door before knocking. It was quiet on the other side.
Knock knock.
I waited.
And waited.
Mom didn’t answer. My heart played an ugly beat. No sobbing was good, but no sound at all? That’d equaled a trip to the emergency room last time. The sense of déjà vu was so strong that it messed with gravity for a second, forcing me to grab for the wall. Once, before all this, Mom had told me that when I experienced déjà vu, I should do something totally out of character to break the spell. Otherwise, I’d be stuck in an infinite loop, living that same sliver of time on repeat. She’d pulled out her ears and puffed her cheeks to demonstrate what sort of behavior would suffice. I’d giggled so hard.
I wasn’t laughing now.
Even though it felt like swallowing concrete, I opened her bedroom door. Opened it quick, too.
Better to get this done and over with.
CHAPTER 4
The line of her body was visible beneath the covers, motionless. Not even the soft lift of breath. She usually styled her curls and makeup even on her worst days, but the shock of dark hair peeking above the blanket was wild. I darted forward, terrified to discover her cold and solid.
“Mom!” I yelled, shaking her, my legs gone numb.
She grunted, shoved my hands away, and sat up slowly, eyes bleary. “What is it, Heather? What’s wrong?”
The relief was sudden and overwhelming. It took a moment for feeling to return, and with it hot, pent-up blood filled my ears with the pound of surf. I forced my voice to calm. If she heard the slightest tremble in it now that she was awake, she’d attack.
“Nothing, Mom. Sorry.” I thought fast. “I just wanted to tell you that me and Junie are back from practice.”
She reached for the pack of Kools on the bedstand, brushing her tangled hair away from her face. In the shadowed room, the lighter’s flare outlined the sharpness of her skull. As always, her face made me swell with pride. It didn’t matter that she was too thin, her bones jutting beneath her pale skin. Her eyes were enormous and blue-violet, her nose a soft scoop, her lips lush pillows.
She was exquisite.
And other than her black hair to Junie’s red, the two of them could be twins.
Me, I was almost a different species. Drummer ganglititus, maybe. Or Girl uglican. Too tall, with bony knees and elbows and a long Dorothy Hamill haircut that was desperately out of style yet hid my burned-off ear. But looking at Mom, I forgot my own appearance. That’s how beautiful she was. It made me frantic to throw up the shades, to let the late-afternoon sun hit her face, to see her.
I knew better.
“How was it?” she asked around a mouth moist with smoke.
It took me a second to remember what we’d been talking about. “Practice was good,” I said, screwing up my forehead. “Really good. We’re going to play the county fair this weekend. Our first real show.”
I hadn’t meant to tell her the last bit. Sometimes Mom was fine taking in that much information. But then there were the other times. I could see her tumblers working. Her face had gone slack. The back of my neck grew cold waiting to see which version was going to erupt.
But finally, happily, the correct words dropped into place, and out rolled a perfectly normal sentence. “Wonderful! Your dad and I will come see you girls play.”
Did she know she was lying? Didn’t matter. I’d gotten away without upsetting her. Today was a good day. I noticed I was rubbing my good ear, massaging it between my pointer finger and thumb. I dropped my hand.
“You don’t have to, Mom. We’re just the opening band. We’ll play fifteen minutes, tops. It’s going to be smelly and noisy at the fair. You’re better off staying home.”
“Nonsense,” she said. She patted her hair into place exactly like she used to do when her and Dad were stepping out the door for a dinner party. Her gaze grew foggy, and I wondered if she was remembering the same thing.
“Of course we’ll be there,” she mumbled. “Of course.”
Then her eyes focused suddenly. I’d let down my guard too quickly.
“You’d be so pretty with a touch of mascara and some rouge,” she said.
I sucked in my breath. She was sharpening her knives. I’d learned years ago to recognize the first whisk of the blade so I could leave before she drew blood.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, backing toward the door. “Spaghetti and meatballs okay for supper?”
“We had that two nights ago,” she hissed, eyes narrowing, watching me retreat. She hated to be denied a fight.