The Renovation Complication

27. The Last Time I Saw Her

"I'm not going!" My voice is at least four thousand decibels louder than I ever thought possible. Every word sounds like a dagger directed at one person in particular.

"This will not be negotiated, Victoria!" She shouts back at me from the kitchen area, rage laced in her tone. We've rented a temporary apartment at a sloppy two star hostel until mom has secured the position at a real estate agency in town. For a little while, at least. It never lasts long.

There isn't much of a choice in décor with our budget, but she has managed to get a room near the top story, the hotel pool almost directly below us.

I never really noticed that the swimming pool is so close to the building that you have to walk through the area to reach our room. I guess architects in Chicago aren't the brightest bunch.

"Why can't I stay here?" I ask stubbornly through the wall. We moved in about two weeks ago, and I've already started attending school, made some friends just like everywhere else.

Is it funny that I don't even remember their names now?

What can I say? I was a teenager who longed to spend a summer where she wanted, how she wanted.

"Because your father wants you in Annandale." The woman emerges from behind a moulded wall, arms crossed, unimpressed. I swear it is even more of a threat when she is quiet. It's a sign that she will not have another warning from tenants due to arguments that get out of hand.

She'd had enough of that from neighbours when she was married to my dad.

My mother isn't a particularly beautiful woman, nor is she anything opposite. She is an average, plain looking brunette that no one would remember after she walked past. The only thing that anyone ever talks about are her cheekbones, the ones I inherited.

She's the type of person that doesn't matter until she smiles at you. Which she definitely isn't doing now.

"It's the same every year, Tori, you should be used to it."

Oh, but I'm not. A few months ago I turned a wonderful sixteen years of age, reminding me that I am meant to be a woman, making my own decisions. And that means that I am done letting my mother make them for me.

"They treat me like another species there, mom. I want to stay here, with Shannon and Kaitlyn."

Ahh, those were their names.

After this we continue bickering, saying Oh, Shannon and Kaitlyn are just Chicago's version of Tracy and Ella and I'm sixteen, I will do what I want and Don't you dare speak to me like that, young woman.

"Where are you going?" She screeches as I pull my coat off the rack. There is no way I'm sticking around to be ordered around like a waitress. When I turn around at the door, I notice the sad faraway look in her eyes that she gets whenever things don't go like she's planned.

It's like she's disappointed with herself for failing once again at something she can't control. It's the look she gets whenever she talks about my dad or my family or even me.

It hurts to see it, but I've been so ignited with hormonal rage at not getting my own way that I ignore it. I pretend not to feel the gnawing at my gut that tells me to back off, to apologise, to realise that my mother is dealing with far bigger issues than my summer vacation. Issues that are inside of her.

"Out." I snap, knowing that this won't satisfy her at all. We've only been here two weeks; I'm dreaming if I think my mother would let me roam the city alone.

I'm taken aback when she doesn't scream or yell or demand that I do my homework in the classes she knows I'm already failing. Instead her tone is soft, defeated and everything but angry. "I wish you weren't so much like me, Victoria." She whispers.

I wish I could go back to that moment.

I wish I could take it all back and apologise again and again and again.

"Well, I wish you were dead." And I slam the door to our gray apartment. Everything else turns gray for long time after that, too. 

That was the last time I ever saw my mother. With a beating heart, anyway.

* * * *

There are tears sliding down my face that I can't stem. No matter how hard I squeeze them shut, oceans and rivers and thunderstorms are streaming down my cheeks. They will not have any of this it's okay or stop crying, it was just a dream.

But it wasn't, was it?

People say that our dreams come from our imaginations, from the things on our minds that day. They're wrong. Because every day I force thoughts of daisies and rainbows and smiles that are almost believable into my head and every night they disappear.

Haunt me. Drive me mad. I see the words etched into my head.

I don't have nightmares about her every night. Not that I'd call them nightmares. I wouldn't even call them memories.

I call them What Ifs.

Sometimes they're what's happened, and other times it's the reality that I wish could have happened and sometimes they're just blank. I prefer those ones, the ones where I get a rest from being restless.

Usually, I think that the dreams that pretend that everything is alright are the worst because in those my mother is making me breakfast and smiling at me from across the table and we're living in a gorgeous house filled with bright colours. They're just too fake.

Even if things had gone better, that had never been our life. Never was and never will be.

Haunt me.

I sit up in my bed, choking sobs with my fist. That one had been real. I wish I could say otherwise.

Drive me mad.

"Shut up," I plead, stoking my own hair in mock comfort. "Stop crying, just be quiet."

This bed is too stuffy, too humid with hot tears. Sweat is sticking to my duvet and sorrow is sticking to my cheeks. I need to get out of this. 

Dragging a spare pillow and cover from the mattress, I crawl down from the frame and toward the only sense of freedom I can find. The window. There's a cabinet positioned so that if I lean against it, I can only just make out the stars above the rooftops.

My cheeks are still wet no matter my attempt to wipe away my slumber, stubborn raindrops falling from the cloud inside my head. I can't tell the difference between the sniffles caused by crying and the ones reminding me of the illness I've just gotten over.

I can taste the chilly night air blowing in from outside, rustling treetops and bouncing off the sleeping homes.

A strangled sob jumps out of my chest, followed by an army of others. This time I don't cover them, I don't try to silence the truth.

The truth is I blame myself. So much wrong with my life and everyone else's life is my fault.

Haunt me haunt me haunt me haunt me

Suddenly, a dim light steals the stars from the sky and I duck my head.

"Tori?" A familiar, deep voice croaks, dripping with drowsiness. "Is that you?"

I fight to scramble under the concealment of the windowsill as quietly as possible. This can't be happening. Why didn't I close the window? Was I sobbing that loudly?

But... Mason's meant to be a heavy sleeper.

There's a pause and I clamp a hand tightly over my mouth. I'm hyperventilating and praying that he doesn't hear.

A confused sigh sounds through the wall, in another house and I don't move a muscle until I'm positive that the springs in his bed have creaked in protest to his bodyweight. 

I will not be sleeping tonight. But I also will not be crying.

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