My Wonderful Disaster

Chapter Two — I Must Be Dreaming [Part Two]

She gave me a look. The look of a mother who was not entirely convinced but was choosing to let it go. She just smiled and took a long sip of her coffee.

I went back to the planner.

...

It took me twenty minutes of packing to realise I had no idea where anything was.

Mom kept asking me things — did you pack your extra trainers, did you remember the thing from the bathroom, where did you put the box with your hangers — and every single time I had to do a very casual reconnaissance mission around my own bedroom pretending I was simply being thorough and not that I was a stranger in my own life.

The hangers were in a box under the bed. I found them by accident.

The extra trainers were in a bag by the door that I walked past four times.

The thing from the bathroom — which turned out to be a very specific brand of shampoo that apparently Mavis used religiously — was exactly where any normal person would keep shampoo except I'd opened four other cabinets first.

"You're so scatty today," Mom laughed, handing me a roll of tape.

"I'm excited," I said. "Excited and scatty. Those two things."

She laughed again. The sound of it was — a lot. I wasn't prepared for how much it was. Mom laughing, easy and genuine, like this was just a thing she did. Like I hadn't spent seventeen years collecting the rare instances of it like they were something precious and endangered.

I turned away and taped a box very aggressively so she wouldn't see my face.

I found the mirror when we were almost done.

It was in the corner of my room, half covered by a jacket I'd apparently draped over it at some point, and when I pulled the jacket off and caught my reflection I just — stopped.

Same face. My face. But — The rash was gone. Really gone, not foundation-gone, actually gone, skin clear and even and warm. My eyes looked different without the shadow of exhaustion permanently underneath them. My shoulders weren't up around my ears. I looked like a person who slept. Who ate. Who existed without it costing her something.

I leaned closer.

"Mavis."

I spun around. Mom was in the doorway, one box balanced on her hip, watching me with an amused expression.

"You've been staring at yourself for like three minutes, baby."

"I —" I straightened up. "I just. I look good."

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "You always look good. Now come on, the car isn't going to pack itself."

She disappeared back down the hallway.

I turned back to the mirror for one more second. Pressed one hand flat against the glass — cool this time, just glass, no warmth, no glitter, just a mirror.

What are you, I thought at it.

The car was packed by noon.

I stood on the pavement outside the house — our house, except tidier than I remembered, with window boxes Mom had apparently planted at some point, little yellow flowers spilling over the edges — and looked at it for a moment.

The life I hadn't lived. Framed acceptance letter on the wall. Three hundred and forty two contacts in my phone. A shelf of trophies my knees had apparently earned without consulting me.

Mom came to stand beside me.

She put her arm around my shoulders, easy and natural, like she did it all the time. Like it was a thing we did. I went very still for a second before I let myself lean into it, just slightly.

"I know you're nervous," she said. "Starting somewhere new, not knowing anyone —"

I don't know anyone here either, I thought. I don't know anyone anywhere, but here we are.

"— but Mavis." She turned to look at me properly, and her eyes were doing the thing again, the thing where they were just — warm. Just completely, quietly warm. "I need you to know how proud I am of you. I have watched you work for this. I have watched you pour everything you have into this and —" she exhaled, shaky, and laughed a little at herself. "Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't cry until we got there."

"Mom —"

"I'm just so proud of you, baby." She squeezed my shoulder. "I cannot wait to watch you become the most incredible accountant this world has ever seen."

I looked at her.

The woman who, in another life — another universe, another yesterday — had stood in a kitchen and told me I was an embarrassment. Who had said I don't even — and stopped herself. Who had known about the bullying for two years and told me to ignore it.

This woman was crying. Happy tears, like she'd promised. Crying because she was proud of me. Because she couldn't wait to watch me become something.

An accountant.

She was crying because she couldn't wait to watch me become an accountant.

"I'm just so proud of you, baby." She squeezed my shoulder. "I cannot wait to watch you become the most incredible accountant this world has ever seen." She paused, eyes glistening. "And your dad — he would have been so proud of you too. He is so proud of you. I know he's looking down at you right now and just —" she pressed a hand to her chest, overwhelmed.

I blinked.

He's looking DOWN at me?

He's DEAD?

I stood very still and did the mental math. In my universe — my real universe, the one with the fruit punch and the rejection letter — Dad was alive. Alive and drinking and gone, but alive. And here he was just — not. Here he was dead and apparently watching me from above become an accountant.

"You okay?" Mom pulled back to look at me.

"Yes," I said immediately. "Totally. Just — yeah. He'd be so proud." I nodded very seriously. "So proud."

She pulled me back into the hug and I went, heart doing something complicated and strange.

Something cracked open in my chest that I didn't have a name for yet.

"Thanks, Mom," I managed.

She pulled me in tighter, and I stood there on the pavement outside a life I didn't remember living and held on longer than I meant to.