Wake the Hollow

Chapter Two

"If ever I should...steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley." 

*****

The ceiling in Bram and Jonathan's bedroom features a yellow, cracked water stain, and the industrial carpet throughout the one-bedroom apartment smells like pot. The window is slightly open to let in fresh air, but instead, all I get are the resounding refrains of a couple arguing a few windows away. Jonathan, who had the good sense to move to a friend's house when Bram texted him that I was coming, keeps his half of the room looking like a war zone. Bram never told me what he and his parents fought over to make him move in with Jonathan, but it had to be pretty bad for him to live in this dump. 

The yelling couple reaches a new crescendo. There's no way I can sleep. 

When I called Bram last month to tell him I was coming back to the Hollow for what could be a week, a month, or more, I threw him for a loop. "Why?" he kept wanting to know, which did nothing for my confidence. I think he was still hurt that I'd turned him down when we were kids and was hoping he wouldn't have to see "the face of rejection" again.

But the more we messaged and exchanged pics, the more comfortable he seemed to be with the idea. "So you finally missed us country bumpkins, huh?" he said one time. 

Not really. Him, maybe. And my mom, of course, but that's it. 

I'm only here to do good by my mother. I need to understand what happened to her, why she sent me that final note, why she didn't join Dad and me in Miami, why she let other things take precedence over her family. And maybe guilt, too, brought me back. I felt, and still feel, terrible for having left her alone. I can't even tell her anymore. Too late for "I'm sorry."

Since her death six weeks ago, I've tortured myself a million times with the question—why did I leave? And so far, this is all I've come up with:

Her research. Tons of it. Late into the night. Also, I needed a mother. Instead, I lived with an obsessed historian. Finally, everyone hated us. Hated my dad for hitting it big in the South American market and getting the hell out of Sleepy Hollow. They hated my mom for her crazy conspiracy claims, weird handmade dolls, you name it. And they hated me, because...well, hate by association. After Dad left, she asked which parent I wanted to live with. My father—responsible, dependable, financially stable—won, hands down. 

My decision didn't mean I didn't love her. She was my mom, for Christ's sake. I thought about her, dreamed about her, even drew charcoal pictures of her until I was fourteen. I waited, thinking she'd eventually move down whenever she was done being selfish. Instead, she only called on birthdays and Christmases for a couple of years, then never again. And even then, I still loved her.

Then, six weeks ago, her note arrived. In the darkness of Bram's smelly room, I pluck the note from my bag, unfold it, and stare at Mami's shaky handwriting:

Lela, please come home. It's urgent.

In keeping with the strange abilities that have plagued me since I was little—sensing things before they happen and hearing voices—I knew how the note would read even before I opened it. I was thrilled that she wrote to me, so I started making travel plans without my dad knowing, since he was in Bogotá on business anyway. But then, three days after the note arrived, Nina gave me the news. "I'm so sorry, Mica," she said, handing me her phone with about as much sincerity as her glitter nails, "but your mom's dead." 

At that moment, I thought my chest would implode. I thought splinters from my ribs would puncture my lungs, and my breath would escape through fissures in my broken heart. I couldn't breathe. Mami—gone.