Every one of them.
I bolt up in bed, a loud, piercing scream filling the room and I realize it’s coming from me. Clamping a hand over my mouth to silence myself, I look around frantically, trying to remember where I am and what woke me up. My heart thunders in my chest as the sun’s bright rays shine through my window and directly onto my bed, warming my chilled body. The remnants of my dream vanish before I can pin any down to remember. Looking down at myself, I realize I’m wearing the same clothes as last night, but they’re now thick with cold sweat and sticking to my body.
As I swing my legs over the side of my bed, my door suddenly opens and my mother stands in the doorway with a worried look on her face. Her hair, once as pitch black as mine, is streaked with grey and pulled back from her face in a low, messy bun. Judging by the pale blue housecoat with tiny pink flowers she wears atop her nightgown that is buttoned all askew, I’m assuming I woke her up with my screams and she hastily threw it on to come to me.
“Ravenna, are you okay? I thought I heard you scream.”
Her soft voice brings tears to my eyes as I gaze across the room at her, looking at me with so much love and concern. As I blink back the tears and swallow the thick lump in my throat, she rushes to the bed and sits down next to me. Her arm wraps around my back and she pulls me against her, using her free hand to gently pull my head down to her shoulder. She rocks us slowly back and forth and right when I start to close my eyes and relax, she begins to hum. After the first verse, the humming changes to the words that go along with the melody.
“The monkey thought ’twas all in fun, pop goes the weasel.”
Her softly sung words fill me with a burst of anger I don’t understand. I clench my hands into fists in my lap, the bite of pain as my nails dig into my palms pushing away the sudden urge to wrap my hands around her neck and squeeze as hard as I can.
What is happening to me? What the hell is happening?
Scrambling away from her, I bolt from my bed and rush to the other side of my room where my dresser is. Refusing to turn around and look at her, I yank open my drawers to grab some clean clothes.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I explain in a rush, clutching my clothes to my chest and hurrying into the small bathroom attached to my room. I scurry around the door, using my back to push it closed behind me. When I’m alone, I let out a relieved breath and drop my clothes onto the tile at my feet. Not wanting to dwell on what just happened in my bedroom, I move across the room and turn on the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away all of the uneasy thoughts and strange feelings coursing through me.
When I emerge from the shower fifteen minutes later, I feel lighter and more at ease as I wrap my towel around me and open the bathroom door. Steam billows out around me as I step off of the bathroom tile and onto the hardwood in my room. I jump in surprise when I see my mother still sitting on the bed where I left her. She turns away from me for a moment and I see her quickly swipe at the tears I noticed on her cheeks when I walked into the room. When she turns back around, she’s all smiles as she pats the bed next to her and holds up the brush she has in the other hand.
“Sit down and I’ll braid your hair.”
My feet move robotically across the room and I clutch the towel tighter to my body as I ease down next to her and give her my back. As she runs the brush through my hair and starts gathering pieces at the top of my head to start the braid, I close my eyes and let the feel of her fingers sliding through my wet hair soothe me. When she’s finished and has the ends secured with a hair band, she pats my shoulder and I feel the bed dip as she gets up. I get up with her and walk over to the mirror above my dresser to stare at my reflection. My mother comes up behind me and rests her hands on my bare shoulders. I hate having my hair pulled back, but I haven’t voiced this to her for some reason. It’s too tight and it makes my head ache, but each morning since I woke up disoriented, my mother has come into my room and insisted this is how I’ve always worn my hair. I do as she says, since everyone tells me I need to get back into my daily routine from before the accident, but I can’t stand the sight in front of me.
“You look beautiful,” she tells me with a smile, as I continue to stare at the girl in the mirror who I barely recognize.
“I hate my hair like this,” I suddenly admit to her with a burst of confidence.
Her smile falters for just a moment before it’s back, bigger and brighter than ever. “Nonsense. You hate having your hair in your face. I’ve braided your hair every morning since you were a little girl. It’s how a proper young woman should look.