A Nightmare's Fate

Thanksgiving

            When he's done, his eyes meet mine. "I think you need to take a cooking class," he says with the most sarcastic tone he probably has. A laugh from my mother, he continues, "Literally, you're mother has told me what a terrible cook you are and from what I see . . . I have to agree with her."

            Rolling my eyes, I cross my arms and say, "You've got to be kidding me?"

            She continues to chuckle, the smile I haven't seen in a very long time appears and my mind is set on it. It's kind of weird that she storms into my own home and judges me, then she becomes nice, and now she's a completely different person than I remember six years ago.

She wasn't all mean; as I grew up with her, she was one of the best mom's anyone could ask for. But once my father left when I was seventeen, all she was was a judgmental freak and a mean person who blamed me for everything. And I left her in hoping it would change her as well as getting away from her tedious ways, but she was the same person when she came back to me to tell me that she was marrying Lipchits, but when our day came to bond, I suppose that something between us just connected and we both were re-united with the past.

            Interrupting my thoughts, Lipchits puts an arm on my shoulder. "I said that as I showed you how to cook, you couldn't even make pancakes because they were so terrible. So we gave up on that idea and I just did all the cooking," my mother remarks. "You know what, I'm starving. Instead of arguing on how she cannot make food, I say we get Chinese take-out," she adds. I can see her point, how I'm not good at cooking since Freddy always told me how bad of a cook I am, and then Errik popped in and said that I shouldn't do it and took me out to McJack’s.

            Nodding my head, I say, "I'll clean this up later. But instead of take-out, we should eat there. Do you know of any good restaurants?"

            My mother stares at me blankly since she is clueless to get around New York, but Lipchits smiles. "I know of a place; it's a few blocks away from here though, so come on. We'll take my mustang," he replies, pushing me out of the kitchen area.

*~*~*~*~*

On Thanksgiving morning, I'm greeted with the smell of turkey in the oven. I rush down the stairs as if I was a child on Christmas day, excited to open presents. When I reach the kitchen, my mother is humming to a tune I haven't heard since I was eleven. She's singing Don't You Forget About Me by Simple Minds, from the movie Breakfast Club. She's in her old pink nightgown I remember her wearing since I was seven. I'm still surprised she's maintained the same weight and size ever since then; she seems a bit bigger than I remember her being, though, but I suppose it's all in memory and how small I used to be. Her brown hair is wet as it sticks to her back, and her feet are bare as they touch the tile floor.

            Leaning against the counter, I admire her appearance and remember how I used to tell myself that I wanted to look like her, to act like her, to be her. I'd steal her perfume and makeup and clothes and feign to be the beautiful mother I was raised by. I remember having tea with her and dressing up as twins; those were the days that I wish never ended; to be with my family once again, with her and my father happy like nothing ever happened.

            She turns with a bit of a surprised facial expression and a smile curved on the edges of her lips. "Good morning, sweetheart," she says, going over to the faucet and turning on the water, rinsing off her hands.

            Yawning, I say, "Good morning." When the sink is turned off, she places her palms on the edge of the counter-top, biting her upper lip as she glances around, everywhere but my face.