I work my hand frantically between my legs, my mind filling with images of Dean sweaty and hot behind me. The intense pressure snaps the second I imagine him grabbing my hips and plunging so deep my entire body trembles.
He groans and comes inside me, the flood of semen slick and warm. Explosions fire through my blood, and I bite down on a corner of the pillow as the vibrations peak and surge.
With a gasp, I sink onto my stomach. It’s a few minutes before the images begin to fade, and I become aware that I’m lying half-naked on the bed with my hand still between my legs. I push the T-shirt over my hips to cover myself and stumble to the bathroom.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is a mess and my eyes look too dark, almost haunted, my skin too pale.
I splash water on my face and crawl back into bed, pulling Dean’s pillow against my body. I don’t sleep well, my dreams snarled and chaotic with memories of my childhood and the ever-present longing for my husband.
After I wake from my broken sleep, the dreams fade. I take a shower and let the hot water wash away the lingering threads of unpleasantness as I think about what I’m going to do with the money.
A sudden decision spins through me, diluting the fear and uncertainty of the previous night. I call Allie and ask her to come over before the Happy Booker opens.
I get an old VCR out of our apartment storage closet and hook it up to the TV just before Allie arrives with a bag of croissants. She pours herself a cup of coffee while I get a VHS tape from a box in the closet. I’m both nervous and excited.
“You okay?” Allie takes a sip of coffee and eyes me over the rim of the mug. “You seem a little weird.”
“I want to show you something.” I push the tape into the VCR and hit the play button.
A fuzzy image appears onscreen of a young girl with straight dark hair tied into red ribbons. There’s a Christmas tree in the background. A woman appears in the frame—long, blond hair; fine, elegant features. She adjusts one of the girl’s crooked ribbons, then smiles and waves at the camera.
I can feel Allie looking at me.
“That’s you?” she asks.
“And my mother. That was… that was the Christmas before we left my dad. I was six.”
“Oh.”
The scene shifts to a birthday party, my seventh. I’m wearing a pink party hat and eating cake. My mother is standing beside me, waving at the camera. We would be gone two months later.
“You were a really cute kid,” Allie offers.
I fast-forward to the part of the tape I’d been looking for. A grainy image appears of a cherubic blonde girl sitting at a table with a bowl and spoon, a cereal box prominently displayed beside her. The kitchen is spotless and generic. A male voice booms over the scene.
“For a great start to your child’s day, serve Honey Puffs cereal all the way! These crunchy puffs are packed with vitamins and dipped in honey for a breakfast that’s both nutritious and deeeelicious! Amy, how do you like your Honey Puffs cereal?”
The girl picks up her spoon, takes a bite of cereal, then gives the camera a big smile and a thumbs-up.
Jingly music filters from the speakers along with a chorus of, “Honey Puffs cereal, crispy and sweet, full of vitamins and a tasty treat!”
There’s another shot of Amy enthusiastically eating more cereal as the camera fades into a full-screen image of the Honey Puffs cereal box.
I switch off the TV.
“Honey Puffs cereal?” Allie asks.
“That was my mother, Crystal, when she was five years old.”
“Really?” Allie glances at the TV and back to me again. “That’s pretty cool. She was the Honey Puffs cereal girl?”
“Just for that one commercial.” I toss the remote onto the coffee table. “Apparently they offered to contract her for more, but her mother wanted more money and the producers wouldn’t negotiate. I guess there was a big fight about it, and in the end they withdrew the offer.” I shrug. “So that was the end of her Honey Puffs cereal career.”
“Too bad.” Allie seems a little confused. “So… is she still in show business?”
“No. Rumors about her mother spread… you know, stage mother, difficult to work with. Crystal still auditioned a lot, but didn’t get any other big offers. She was in a lot of local theater productions and beauty pageants, school plays, that kind of thing. Then she got pregnant with me when she was seventeen.”
“Oh.”
“Her parents were furious… their perfect little girl, pregnant. They disowned her, kicked her out, so she had to drop out of high school and move in with her boyfriend.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“Yeah.”
I’ve gone through all this with two therapists, so I understand it—the compliments heaped on my mother as a child, her parents’ high expectations for her to succeed, the constant praise of her beauty and talent. All of that was ripped away when she got pregnant with me.