And it’s because she just asked me the most ridiculous question in the history of ridiculous questions, and she’s looking at me with big blue-grey eyes that don’t blink. Owlish and expressive and I swear they see into my soul, and she wants to know about mud pies.
“What?” Because how does one even respond to such an absurd question.
She rolls her eyes and just like all the girls in those shows she is obsessed with, she flicks her long blond hair over her shoulder. One little hand rests across her hips and she taps a foot impatiently.
“Mud pie,” she says slowly. “Mama said we were making mud pie today but let’s be real, that woman could mean mudor chocolate pudding.” She’s absolutely annoyed she even has to explain this to me.
Valid.
It also sparks a warmth in my chest I don’t have time to name.
She storms past me with more arrogance than her little body should hold. But she does it, long hair swinging as she stomps inside.
I know this moment.
I lived it.
Maybe I was twelve. Thirteen.
Frowning, I look down at my hands. Small, like an older kid on the edge of puberty.
But I don’t feel like a preteen.
No, I remember staring at a man and swearing at him.
What was I swearing?
“Ash?” the child yells.
What was her name? Sabina?
Oh.Oh. Sabina.
I’m dreaming. Awake inside of a dream. A dream that’s a memory.
What fresh Fae hell is this?
“Seriously, Ash.” Her head pokes out the back door. We are at our grandma’s. “It’s chocolate mousse. And it’s Grandma making it. Not Mom.”
She’s gone in the next breath, not waiting for me. Just as she didn’t when this moment actually existed. Long ago.
This is the first memory I ever had of Sabina. The first one I remember that is. And knowing that while living the memory again and standing here in my child’s body…
I don’t like it very much.
Turning around, I look at Grandma’s yard as it was.
Tomato plants along the back wall. A swing set. A pool far too big for the yard it’s in.
And that damn cherry tree that dropped all the cherries into said pool.
It’s all as it was. And for a moment…
I can’tbreathe.
It’s an odd visceral reaction living in this memory. This moment. Knowing what I do now of my life.
That I’m not human. I’m a changeling.
