Ch.5: Mommy's Here

The door on the screen opens again, pushing a slice of hallway light across the Persian rug.

A shadow falls over the couple by the fireplace. Aris pulls back from Isabella, his expression shifting instantly from lover to father. He smooths his jacket, stepping between the woman wearing my face and the door.

A small hand grips the brass doorframe.

My breath catches in a throat that feels like it’s filled with razor blades.

Lily.

She is wearing her favorite pajamas—the ones with the glow-in-the-dark stars. Her hair is messy, a tangle of blonde curls sticking up on one side where she slept on it. She is clutching 'Mr. Hoot,' the ragged, one-eyed owl I stitched back together three times.

She rubs her eyes with a fist, blinking against the brightness of the chandelier.

"Daddy?" she mumbles. Her voice is soft, thick with sleep. "I had a bad dream."

The sound of her voice tears through me like a bullet.

*Lily. Baby. I’m here. Mommy’s here.*

I try to lunge. I try to throw myself against the restraints. I try to scream her name until the walls crack.

But I am a corpse.

My body remains perfectly, terrifyingly still. The only thing that moves is the red line on the monitor behind me.

*Beep... Beep... BEEP.*

*59 BPM.*

The warning light on the sedation pump flashes yellow. One more beat—one single beat over the limit—and the machine will drag me back into the black void. I will miss seeing her. I will miss the only glimpse of my daughter I might ever get again.

*Stop it.*

I scream the command inside my head. *Stop feeling. Stop loving her. If you love her, you die.*

I force myself to look away from her face. I stare at the corner of the rug on the screen. I focus on the tassels. I count them. *One. Two. Three. Four.*

I imagine I am floating in a frozen lake. The water is filling my lungs. It is cold. Numb. Dead.

The rhythm slows. *Beep... beep... beep.*

*56 BPM.*

I look back.

Aris crosses the room in two strides. He kneels in front of her, blocking her view of Isabella.

"It’s okay, bug," he says, his voice dripping with that smooth, reassuring honey he uses on his patients. "It was just a nightmare. Go back to bed."

"I want Mommy," Lily whimpers. She tries to look around him. "You said Mommy was coming home today."

"Mommy is... different, Lily," Aris says. He stays low, keeping himself as a barrier. "She was in a heavy accident. She has bandages. She might look scary."

"I don't care," she says, stomping a small, starry foot. "I want her."

Aris looks back at Isabella.

Isabella is standing by the fireplace, frozen. Her hand—*her* hand, not mine—hovers near her throat. She looks terrified. Not because she loves the child, but because she doesn't know the lines. She is an actress who hasn't rehearsed this scene.

"Aris," she hisses, the audio picking up the sharp intake of breath. "I can't. Not yet."

"You have to," he mouths back.

He stands up and steps aside.

The reveal is slow, agonizing. It feels like watching a car crash in super-slow motion.

Lily freezes. Her eyes go wide. She drops Mr. Hoot. The stuffed owl lands on the hardwood floor with a soft thud.

She stares at the woman in the emerald robe.

She stares at the swollen purple bruising, the black sutures zigzagging into the hairline, the waxy, tight sheen of the skin. It is a grotesque mask of her mother. It is something from a horror movie.

*Run, Lily,* I beg her silently. *Run away. Scream. Tell them it’s not me. See the truth.*

My heart hammers against the paralysis. *58 BPM.*

I bite the inside of my cheek—or I try to, but I have no control over the jaw. I settle for visualizing the pain. *Ice. Ice. Ice.*

Lily takes a step forward.

She tilts her head to the side, studying the face. She is looking for the markers. The things a child knows.

Isabella doesn't move. She stands stiffly, arms at her sides. She doesn't reach out. She doesn't drop to her knees and open her arms the way I would. She stands there like a statue of a mother.

"Mommy?" Lily whispers.

Isabella wets her lips. My lips.

"Hi, sweetie," she croaks.

The voice is wrong. It is raspy, deeper, damaged by the smoke inhalation from the tunnel crash. It sounds nothing like my soprano.

*See it, Lily. Hear it. It’s a trick.*

Lily frowns. She steps closer, hesitating. She looks at Aris, then back at the woman.

"Your voice hurts," Lily says.

"Yes," Aris interjects quickly. "Her throat is sore. From the medicine."

Lily nods. That logic works for a four-year-old. Medicine makes things taste bad; medicine makes things hurt.

She walks right up to Isabella. She reaches out a tiny hand and touches the silk of the robe.

Isabella flinches.

I see it. A micro-movement. A recoil. She doesn't want to be touched.

But then she remembers her role. She forces herself to relax. She looks at Aris for cue cards. He nods encouragingly.

Isabella slowly raises her hand and places it on top of Lily's head. Her fingers are stiff. She pats the curls awkwardly, like she’s petting a stray dog she’s afraid might bite.

"Did you... did you miss me?" Isabella asks. The words are clumsy, forced.

Lily looks up. She stares directly into the eyes that used to be mine. But they aren't mine. The eyes are the window to the soul, and these eyes are brown contacts over damaged irises. They are flat. Empty.

But Lily doesn't see the emptiness. She sees the shape. She sees the mole on the cheek. She sees the geometry of the face she has kissed goodnight every day of her life.

The recognition breaks across her face like a sunrise.

"Mommy!"

She launches herself.

She wraps her arms around Isabella's legs, burying her face in the emerald silk. She squeezes tight, holding on as if she's drowning.

"I missed you, I missed you, I missed you," Lily sobs, her voice muffled by the fabric.

I shatter.

Inside the cage of my skull, something vital and structural snaps.

*No. No, baby, that’s not me. That’s the woman who stole me. Get away from her. She’s cold. She’s poison.*

But Isabella doesn't push her away. Slowly, hesitantly, she kneels down.

The movement is stiff, pained. The skin graft is tight, pulling at the neck. But she gets down to Lily's level.

She wraps her arms around my daughter.

She pulls my child into her chest. She rests her chin—my chin—on the top of Lily's head.

And then, she smiles.

It isn't a warm smile. It isn't a mother's smile. It is a smile of triumph. She looks over Lily's shoulder, staring directly into the camera lens. Staring directly at me.

She knows I’m watching.

She tightens her grip on Lily, pulling her possessively close. Her fingers dig into the fabric of Lily’s pajamas.

"I'm here now, baby," Isabella whispers, her raspy voice dropping an octave. "I'm never going away again."

Lily pulls back just an inch. She reaches up and touches the bruised cheek again. She kisses the purple skin.

"I'll make it better," Lily says softly. "I'll kiss the boo-boo."

*59 BPM.*

The monitor is screaming a silent warning. The machine is vibrating.

I can't breathe. I can't think.

My daughter is kissing the monster. She is loving the thief.

Aris walks over and places a hand on both of their shoulders. The perfect family tableau. The surgeon, the survivor, and the child.

"Let's go to bed, girls," he says gently. "Mommy needs her rest. She has a big day of healing tomorrow."

"Can I sleep with you?" Lily asks, looking at Isabella. "Please? To keep the bad dreams away?"

I wait for Isabella to say no. I wait for Aris to intervene. Lily kicks in her sleep. She steals the covers. Aris hates it.

"Of course," Isabella says. She stands up, wincing, and takes Lily's hand. "You can sleep right next to me."

She leads my daughter toward the stairs. She walks out of the frame, hand in hand with the only thing in the world that matters to me.

Aris lingers for a second. He looks at the camera. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a remote.

The screen goes black.

I am plunged back into the grey, buzzing silence of the basement.

The image is burned into my retinas. Lily holding her hand. Lily calling her Mommy.

I tried to save her. I tried to stay calm. I tried to be the anchor.

But the grief is too heavy. It is a tidal wave I cannot hold back.

*Beep... Beep... BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.*

*62 BPM.*

The hiss of the machine is the last thing I hear.

The sedative hits my heart like a hammer. The world dissolves into grey sludge.

My last thought, before the darkness swallows me whole, is a realization sharper than the scalpel.

She didn't know.

My daughter didn't know her mother was the monster in the basement.