Keeping it Real by Annie Dalton

Author:Annie Dalton [Dalton, Annie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lazy Chair Press
Published: 2013-07-01T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

I‘d seen this sitting room so many times in my dreams. Not the bad dreams - my sad, homesick dreams.

In my dreams my mum was always asleep on the sofa, just like now, and, like in my dreams, I didn’t feel able to go over to her straight away.

I softly prowled around my mum’s flat, trying to make myself believe that I was really here. It felt almost like there were three Melanies in the room - the human girl I used to be, the dream Melanie in her PJs and the angel girl in her borrowed parka. But gradually it sank in that this visit wasn’t a dream or just a memory, but for real.

That vibe - that warm, sweet, homey vibe - was just the same.

There were hyacinths in a bowl on a small table. There’s something about the smell of hyacinths that always gives me a sad-happy ache inside. Mum had forgotten to take the price sticker off the bowl: special offer, PS2.99.

You usually don’t smell flowers in a dream, you probably don’t notice price stickers and you definitely don’t see your little sister’s half-finished dress hanging off your mum’s sewing machine, with all the tacking threads dangling down.

My mum had fallen asleep in a really awkward position; she was going to get a crick in her neck if she didn’t wake up quick-smart. She’d probably been waiting up for my step-dad. Des fixes pumps: those totally massive pumps they use in power stations and sewage plants. I’m telling you, if one of those breaks down, you’d better hope Des gets to you fast!

I was gradually tiptoeing closer to my mum. Finally I dared to crouch down beside her. As an angel, I normally love watching humans sleep. Their daytime disguises fall away and you actually see who they really are; but this time, for the first time I felt like I was intruding.

There was something in my mum’s face that I felt like I wasn’t supposed to see; a sadness so deep, it had marked her for ever. Even when she was really old it would still be there.

Next to the TV was a picture of me in a heavy silver frame. I’d seen this photo in my dreams, plenty of times, but until now I’d never seen it in real life. Des had taken it on my thirteenth birthday just hours before I died.

“Weird,” I whispered.

Without realising it, I had started stroking my mum’s face, softly smoothing out her new worry lines. For the first time I noticed silver hairs glinting among her trendy new highlights and I felt this terrible pang. She was my mum. Mums are supposed to stay the same for ever.

Our old satellite box was madly flashing zeros. Mum and Des never could get the hang of that Sky box.

Then eighteen months of tears suddenly welled up, and I put my head down on the sofa and howled. “Oh, Mum I’ve missed you—”

Then I gave up even trying to put so much pain into words, and just cried and cried.

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