IMOGEN
For six seconds my eyes have been open, and I already process the rain sliding in silver rivers down the glass outside my fourth-story apartment windows, refracting the streetlamp’s glow in hundreds of trembling droplets. And I can feel it, the sweat curling around the crest of my hairline, the hum of Seattle’s quieted nightlife vibrating beneath my ribs, and I know I’m okay.
Still. None of it calms me when the sweat turns cold against my raised flesh, and I remember it was only The Nightmare. Tears brim behind my eyelashes as fear pins me to the bed in the darkness—save for that petite sliver of streetlamp shine, casting its faint glow into my bedroom. I beg it to comfort me, to trick my subconscious into believing the waking world is gentler than the one I dream of.
But The Nightmare slides back in, thrusting into memory like an unwelcome lover, all hard and fast, keeping me breathless and cursing its constancy.
A crash of glass.
Mom screaming my name.
The boy’s bloodied face.
Like sick clockwork, I dreamt of it again. The same confounding spectacle that has plagued me sporadically since childhood.
“It’s over. You’re awake,” I whisper soothingly, swiping my wet forehead.
I push my lips into a hollow O and breathe out, forcing back the nausea, searching manically for a sudden distraction. Then I hear the low hum of boats on the Puget Sound only blocks away, preparing to dock with plentiful seafood deliveries as dawn rises. And I know that, in a few hours, Alaskan salmon and halibut from said boats will be thrown across Pike Place Market by bearded men in rubber fishing bibs—who will loudly echo the fish’s name with each brawny toss—to entertain the tourists, and I picture it.
Halibut!
Halibuuut!
A twitch pulls at the corner of my lip when I visualize the tourists laughing and pointing their phones at the handsome men repeating their silly act for the hundredth time that day, shoveling samples of mac and cheese and clam chowder into their mouths, hungry, too, for the show.
I take a deep breath, gently shoving the duvet off my heated skin and propping myself on my palms, scanning my small bedroom for intruders. Because The Nightmare always makes me feel like I’m being haunted.
No ghosts.
I roll over and kneel, my posture mocking prayer, and face the wall behind my headboard. With a tug, the curtain spills open to reveal brick buildings and windswept trees, their outlines bleary in the dimness. Andthereare the trusty streetlamps, illuminating the sidewalks for no one, as it’s too early for anyone other than the fishermen. I can’t even hear the twitter of birds yet.
I unlatch the windowpane, desperate for a misted breath of night, to feel the outside world on my skin, like an embrace from my neighborhood. Instead, it steals any air I still had. I suddenly remember that I live in a haunted house of my own. One that ensures I’m constantly tormented during my waking hours.
My mother is dead.
1
IMOGEN
I drive through pea-soup fog and horizontal rain on my way out of Seattle. The highway’s traffic is light for a Wednesday afternoon, empowering me to speed past those on the slightly clogged lane beside me, full of people driving back from work in the city. Many locals who live in my picturesque hometown make their money in Seattle and end their day in a place that feels far more removed than a forty-five-minute commute. That’s something Mom always loved about living on Lake Blair: being immersed in nature but close to excitement if she ever chose to seek it.
Terribly exhausted from interrupted sleep, I sip coffee as I drive and pretend it didn’t take the sun coming up at 7:00 to comfort me back to a short snooze, stretching slumber into late morning.
Earlier, as I lay atop my duvet in the throes of grief, eyes swollen with warm tears, I could practically feel Mom’s fingernails tidying my honeyed locks, soothing me to sleep as she did when I awoke fromthe same nightmare as a child. Impossible to pinpoint the source of terror, as the dream’s details disappear upon waking. I only ever remember violence, some unknown scandal lurking in the depths of my subconscious. But the storyline never mattered, so long as Mom heard my whimpers from the neighboring room and came in, soft fingertips and steadying comfort at the ready.
The giant evergreen firs engulf the road, leaving a strip of charcoal skies overhead, matching my mood. My hands grip the cold steering wheel as wind twirls the left side of my hair like a twister. I find myself mesmerized by the blustering soundtrack it creates—if only for a short spell. It’s the third day of autumn, and the weather report boasts sunless skies and light rain for the rest of the week, but I don’t mind. Breathing in the crisp Pacific Northwest air, I hug the trickling river beyond the guardrail and the bright, moss-covered trees lined up along it. The wiper blades on my car work tirelessly to keep droplets out of view as I stare blankly out the windshield. As I pull off the highway toward Lake Blair, I somewhat come to life when I recognize the pungent aroma of grand fir trees, their tantalizing notes of citrus reminiscent of a freshly peeled tangerine.
That juicy familiarity sours as I begin to pass landmarks of my childhood, an inexplicable uneasiness replacing all feeling.
I fled this place nearly as soon as I reached adulthood, keeping in consistent communication with Mom over weekly phone calls, or texts every couple of days about her burning the weekly batch of cookies again, or we’d send each other smiling selfies wherever we were. After I moved into the city years ago, I didn’t let myself come back to Blair for a long time. I almost had to force myself to return for holidays, or lake events Mom put on, as something about being in this town never felt right to me, like there are ghosts all over the place. I just can’t see them.
A stickiness settles in my gut as I spy my favorite video store that stubbornly still resides on the same street corner it’s inhabited my entire life. Shortly past it: my middle school. Then the authentic Italian sandwich shop I’d visit nearly every day after class with Amelia.
My twin sister drove separately so neither of us would be stranded out here without a car, already anticipating the desire to flee at any given moment if it all becomes too much. It’s an idea that would’ve never materialized years ago, when we were still interwoven as fraternal twins, inseparable for every movement and chapter. Unexpected forces picked our sisterhood apart thread by thread, with the norm becoming canceled plans on account of her boyfriends, or her job, or her friends. Amelia’s to-do list, for a while now, is always full and purposeful. Absent of any space for her sister, Imogen, making the idea of being under the same roof again, in a word, comforting. In another, nostalgic. Until I remember why we’re doing it.
I stop my car at the bottom of the driveway, and I don’t even remember how I got here. I look to my right and see what used to be the Turners’ house, a sweet older couple who made jam out of their kitchen and sold it at the local farmers market every Sunday. They had lived in that house since I was a baby. But both died over the past few years, Mom told me. Now the plaque on their mailbox reads THEWICKERS.
To my left, just before our house, it appears the Holloways still reside in the pastel-green lakefront manor at the end of the cul-de-sac, as I recognize their son Rory’s old motorcycle behind the gate.
