When I wake up, the sun's in my eyes, Midge is still asleep, and I can't move.
The weight of her on top of me is the first sensation I realize when my eyes blink open, and then it's the sun, heavy, golden, bright enough to blind, streaming in through the window, illuminating the tiny dust particles in the air. The television's still on, and for a second, I watch the little DVD logo bounce across the screen, seeing if it will fit perfectly into the corner. It takes about three seconds to get bored of that.
It's quiet save for the obscure songs of birds outside and Midge's slow, rhythmic breath. I crane my neck a little, moving her hair away so I can see her face. Her cheek is smushed against my chest, and I have the strangest, strangest urge to pinch it, but I don't, because I don't want to wake her. Her eyes are shut and her mouth is open and her arms are still tossed around my neck.
I could probably sit here for the rest of my life, watching her sleep. Not in a creepy way. It's just that she looks so peaceful here, so innocent, everything about her still save for the rise and fall of her chest and the intermittent twitching of her eyelids. Part of me wants to shut my own eyes and go back to sleep, but the majority of me is really, really hungry.
What I do the next is the hardest thing I have done in my life.
Well, besides the whole Rocco thing.
By now, you probably know I am not the most graceful person on this earth, not even close. Thus, disentangling myself from Midge takes a good half hour of precarious, infinitesimal movements, until finally I have somehow wriggled myself out from under her without her so much as stirring a few times. I crawl backwards, careful to avoid tripping over anything. On my way out the door, I turn back and whisper to her, "Sweet dreams, shortcake."
She gets annoyed when I call her shortcake when she's awake, because 1) it's the first thing I ever called her when we first met, because the pink hair made me think she looked like, you know, Strawberry Shortcake, and 2) because she's short. But now, since she's very much asleep, she can't attack me.
It's when I slip out into the hall that I first hear the low warble of a voice, which I don't recognize for a second. I'm slightly afraid that there's a squatter here I'm just now discovering, until I cross the expanse of wood flooring between the movie room and Jamie's bedroom and see him, kneeling on the floor. His bedroom door's just barely cracked, and I see him there on his carpet, my recording tape held to his mouth. He's saying: "I know I don't really have an address to send these to, but I'm sure you'll hear them one day, some way or another. I hope you do, Mom. You've missed so much. I've...I've missed so much."
I turn away, towards the direction of the kitchen, not wanting to interrupt him. Suddenly, I'm not sure if introducing him to the tapes was even such a good idea. I, at least, had a place to send them, a sure destination they would reach. Jamie doesn't even know where to start.
Some part of me wants to crash in there and tell him, We'll find her. Some part of me wants to travel every last corner of the Earth until we do.
The other part of me knows that finding his mom means letting him go.
I groan, hiding my face in my hands. I'm not sentimental. I'm not. I'm just—I'm hungry, is all. I am going to find food, and then everything will be fine.
Speaking of finding mothers, anyway, it's just when I've slid a piece of white bread into the toaster that mine calls me.
It's kind of perfect timing, actually, because I was just thinking about calling her. I have to find out if this Anik guy is really telling the truth. And if he is, what it all even means.
YOU ARE READING
Something I Don't Know
Fantasy- sequel to "That's a Good Question" - Twenty-year-old Grey Meesang still has absolutely no idea what he's doing. With a new house, new friends, and a new way of life, demon hybrid Grey is slowly piecing his life back together-as is the mystical cit...
