Jelly: Reject of The Stars

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I wake up to Mamma crying, one day. I lay in bed and don't move, because I know the crying is bad and I think maybe this is the first day in a while that I' going to wake up and remember the day. I brush my hands over the hairs on my legs and see they have been shaved recently; I haven't been asleep for longer than normal. Mama doesn't remind me to shave on the days I don't remember, and some days I wake up like a werewolf. On the days I don't reember, Mamma puts me in a pink bathrobe and doesn't blow dry my hair. She feeds me soup so I don't choke. Those days are less, now.

On the days I don't remember, I know that the night before's dream is a recurring one. I never remember it, either, other than that there is some black, encroaching, all-consuming thing that I know I came into this world fearing. But on those nights the thing is clear, has a shape and a face that I know so well, that I try not to see but that forms itself from the fear I have of it. The more I will it away, the more I'm sure of what it looks like. And I'm sure that I go through the blank days knowing it, I see that face reflected in mirrors and tiles and it forms itself from vacant light sockets but on the days that I remember, I've forgotten the monster completely. Just the vague knowledge that it exists, the void of it an almost painful vacancy in my skull.

The night before this, I dreamed something beautiful. I dreamed of pink weeping willows, thick tresses of chains of flowers that felt like silk against my skin. I smelled honey, and the petals fell around me like the inside of a snow globe. They piled around my feet, and against the starless sky, something like the northern lights flickered. The lights danced, strobed, growing anxious in their movements as the flower petals reached my knees. It felt not like quicksand, but like packing styrofoam. I was immobilized, protected. It piled over my head, and when Mamma's crying wrenched me awake, I could swear that the breath I exhaled was still scented with sweet honey.

Mamma comes in to wake me up. She has no makeup on and she doesn't look up from what she's doing on her phone. Something in her voice is resentful when she says, "You don't remember her, but Auntie Anja is dead."

"I'm sorry," I say. And I am, and I want so badly to be sad about Auntie Anja's death because she calls her 'Auntie' instead of 'your aunt' so I know at least my mom must have been close to her. I think she's maybe trying to find a picture on her phone, but can't be sure. She looks at me, still resentful, and says, "You never liked school much anyway, did you?"

I shrug. I wish I'd been the kind of girl who like it. I think that I may be dumb. It's disappointing to hear, given all the trophies. I look like I had a bright future. The trophies are bright, at least. The house is small, just one bedroom where I stay and the living room where Mamma sleeps on the pull-out couch. We must be poor, I assume. Maybe that's why I was an overachiever. Maybe that's why I cracked under the pressure.

"Did I?" I ask.

"I wouldn't know," she says. "You never went."

"But when I went," I press. "Did I do okay?"

She says, "This isn't the time for that. You need to pack."

And it hasn't occurred to me to ask where we are. I know America, vaguely remember a flag at the hospital and from what Mamma lets me watch on the television. Somewhere flat, and growing colder by the day. Instead, I just ask where we're going.

"Dusseldorf." She drags a suitcase into my bedroom and says, "Just what you can fit in this."

I ask where Dusseldorf is, snicker a little at how silly a word it is and she frowns at me. She says, "Germany." The word is heavy with connotation, things I suddenly remember from school. They wear silly pants there. I osmoss the concept of 'Nazi' almost instantly, so completely at once that my head spins from the sudden bombardment of information. I remember that I've eaten and disliked sauerkraut.

She says I'll like it there. There's cousins my age there, and the promise of contact with somebody my age is all I need to hear. She says they have amazing chocolate, and the produce is fresher. She says there aren't as many chemicals in the bread.

I ask if I speak German. I try to conjure the ability, but no words appear.

She says they speak English, I don't need to.

"Can I speak any other language?" I ask.

"Get out of bed! Get dressed!" She still won't look up from her phone. The glow lights the underside of her newly-wrinkling face to age her.

From my closet, I pick the bright things; jeans in different colors, shirts with cats and galaxy print. I have ten pairs of leggings with different colored space prints on them. I have ones with gummy bears. I don't take the shirts with band names, none of them ring a bell. I only take one leather skirt; I think it's ugly, but I have so many that they must have been something I was into. I own a lot of make up, already packed in untouched plastic bags. At first I think it's art supplies. I think maybe I was creative, and am crushed to find it's all lipsticks and liners and pigment powders. It looks expensive, so I take that too. With every little bit I find out about myself, I begin to like myself less.