***
“Dessert is in the fridge. Crème brûlée and bananas Foster. I know it’s a bit much for lunch. I hope you don’t mind,” Mom said.
We sat at the immaculate dining room table. The place settings, the food, the entire house looked like a picture ripped from Better Homes and Gardens. I still couldn’t comprehend how one person could have it all together. On the outside, at least.
“I brought my homemade tamales.” Brent placed a brown paper bag on the table, and the smell of spiced meat filled the air. “Do you think it’s enough?”
“For three people?” I asked, holding back a laugh. Was he serious? How much food did he think we could put down?
“I hope so,” Mom replied. “I’ll make some bruschetta, too. Just so we’ll have enough.”
“Mom, please don’t make bruschetta.” I stared at the spread on the table. She’d made it all—turkey sandwiches, made with cucumber and dill, fried potatoes, green beans, quiche cups, cheese wedges, and now she wanted to make bruschetta?
“It won’t take long, sweetheart.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. But if you think we have enough—”
“We do.”
“All right. No bruschetta. I’ll save it for next time.” Mom smiled. She didn’t look a day over thirty. Sometimes we got mistaken for sisters. While my once-bright-ginger hair had darkened to a dullish red-brown, her hair was a soft auburn that fell in silky waves down her back. Her skin was pristine, flawless, not a single freckle. At times, I wondered if we were related. But we did have a few similarities. We were both too stubborn for our own good.
You’d think the teenage years would have been difficult with the two of us in the house, but we hardly fought. She asked me to get my socks off the floor, and I did. I asked her to come to my school plays, and she did. I think we both understood that if we ever got into a real fight, one of us would end up behind bars, or dead.
Brent and Mom kept up most of the conversations during lunch. I nodded or smiled when necessary. To be honest, I felt completely out of place. The intricacies of human communication were something that escaped me.
Brent stood. “Delicious as usual, Kasandra.”
“Thank you,” Mom said, beaming.
“Can I help with the dishes?” Brent asked.
“I won’t let you. Guests aren’t allowed to do dishes.”
I snatched Brent’s plate out of his hands and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll wash them.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Mom said from the dining room.
I ignored her, needing to feel useful. They’d both contributed to the meal. What had I done? I’d forgotten lunch, hadn’t even toasted a piece of bread, and now I felt guilty for it.
I wondered if I’d ever get it together.
Brent wandered into the kitchen looking flawless in his pressed khakis, name-brand polo shirt without a wrinkle, and Italian-leather shoes. I guessed landing a job as one of Houston’s top architects helped you look like that. Feeling inadequate in my clunky Doc Martens and frayed, jean skirt, I glanced away. Brent stood behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and leaned in. “You look hot washing the dishes,” he said.
I groaned inwardly. Feminists would’ve had a heyday with that line.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
I wiped a hand across my cheek, dotting it with suds. “I think you’d be happier dating my mom,” I answered.
“I’m happy enough dating you.”
“Happy enough?”
“I think you’re cute. And you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met—especially when it comes to all that fairy-world stuff you go on about.”
“Faythander,” I corrected.
“That’s what I meant.”
I stared out the window. Gray clouds loomed in the sky in a severe straight line. It seemed as if the clouds were trying to press against the roofs, like they were squeezing all the life out of those mansion homes. I wondered how many people out there felt like me, like they didn’t fit in with their own family.
Bill Clinton suggested I pull it together.
Putting the last dish on the drying rack, I wiped my hands on the towel next to it and looked at Brent, attempting a pleasant smile. It was harder than I’d thought. I couldn’t stop worrying about Jeremiah. If the dark magic continued, he would die. Why couldn’t I talk to Brent, tell him what was going on, let all my feelings gush out? But as I stared at him, I couldn’t say a word.
“Mind scooting over?” he asked. “I’ll put the dishes away.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
Mom walked into the kitchen. Smiling, she motioned me to follow her into the office. I trailed behind her.
She stopped near the double-glass windows that looked over her backyard. With gray mist clinging to the wrought-iron furniture, the oleander bushes, and the mermaid fountain, the view reminded me of something from The Secret Garden.
She’d kept the office the same since my dad’s alleged accident. Pictures of an attractive officer in uniform filled the walls. Army plaques filled the rest of the space. War hero. That was my dad—at least, that was the person my mom was supposed to remember.
My real father was an elf from Faythander. She didn’t remember him. Her memory had been altered so she would be able to be a good mother to me. She thought the man in those pictures, who vaguely resembled my real dad, had been killed at war when I was twelve. He was an honest, brave soldier who had given his life for our country. And he’d left an enormous inheritance.
In truth, she’d had a roll in the hay with an elf. When she returned to Earth, she had no memory of it. A false memory was created, a dragon hoard was cashed in, and here I was.
Mom went to her desk and pulled out a brochure. She showed me the cover.
A picturesque scene stared back. It could have come straight from paradise with its white, sandy beach and well-placed palm trees. A building resembling a Tuscan villa stood near the shore. The title on the front labeled it the Bay Area Mental Hospital and Research Institute.
“Pretty. Why are you showing me this?”
“It’s the new hospital. They’re opening it next month.”
“Okay.”
“You should apply, Olive.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You went to school for how long? I thought you’d like to have something to show for it.”
“I do have something to show for it.”
“But if you worked here, you’d be getting an actual paycheck, sweetheart.”
“I already get paid. I love my job.”
“But look at you. You don’t even look like a real doctor.”
“And what, exactly, does a real doctor look like?”
“Not like you, sweetie.”
I exhaled.
Mom pushed the brochure closer. “Just look at it. You might decide you’d like a change in your life.”
I crossed my arms and didn’t touch it.
“Have you heard a word I said? You could move out of that apartment. You could get a real house, for goodness’s sake. You aren’t getting any younger. What will you do when you get married? Have kids? You really think you can support a family on the money you make now?”
“Kids?” She had to start with that again.
“You’ll have them someday, even if you think you won’t.”
I heard the contempt in Mom’s voice. She’d never wanted me. Even with all these fake memories, she still knew, deep inside, that she’d never wanted me.
It hurt. I felt the pain acutely. To know that my mother didn’t want me was something I’d never dealt with.
I took the brochure and stuffed it in my pocket, knowing where this argument was going.
“Well,” Mom said, “I’ll make some coffee, and we can chat with Brent. He’s so charming. I’m so happy you found him.”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying my best to agree.
Dreamthief Page 7
