Book Covers

Chapter 26

Charlotte O'Brien

My mother pulled me closer to her body and buried her face in my hair. I was seven years old again, and a book was cradled in my lap, just as I was cradled in my mother's. My room smelled like wax crayons and dandelion weeds, and down the hallway my dad was singing old show tunes in the shower. My mom and I were sitting on my bed, and it was far past bedtime. To my young mind, it must have been three or four o'clock in the morning, but was probably only around 9:30, such was the perception of childhood. My voice was hesitant as I read aloud out of one of my mother's favorite books, a title that was lost in the age of the memory. While my classmates were reading stories about talking cats, sad train engines, and sleeping princesses, my mother was having me read the classics of Oscar Wilde, Mary Shelley, and Jane Austen. Granted, I didn't comprehend most of what I was reading, but regardless she was adamant that I became as cultured as I possibly could.

My fingers and words paused, caught up on yet another word that was not in my insignificant vocabulary. I felt my eyebrows start to furrow and my teeth to start pull at my bottom. "What is it, darling?" My mother whispered, her lips still pressed against my hair. She liked to say that the reason that she made me read my own bedtime stories was because my room was simply too dark to properly read in, but it was part of teaching me independence from a very young age. At least that's what I suspected when looking back in hindsight.

My mouth screwed up in a tight knot, attempting to sound out the ridiculous word, just like my mom had told me a hundred times before. "It doesn't make sense," I finally whispered, exhausted at my efforts. I felt like I disappointed her, like I somehow fell short of her expectations because I couldn't pronounce a word. Looking back, that was ridiculous. I tried my best, and it was such a simple matter: a single word. But that single word caused little me to screw up my face in infantile tears and shove the book off of my lap.

My mother clucked her tongue at me and shook her head; I could feel her chin moving at the back of my head. "No, no, my little Charlotte Brontë. Do not give up. Even if the word is hard, or even if the book is hard, you must read it in the end." Her voice was kind and gentle, but there was a current of firmness running underneath, as if she was talking about far more than just books. She reached around me and took the book in her hands before placing it gingerly in my hands.

"But I can't do it! I don't want to get it wrong!" I was whining now, and the tears were flooding down my cheeks. I wanted to shove the book under my bed, behind sweaty socks and fraying sneakers.

My mother sighed and pulled me closer, clucking her tongue again. "Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte. If only you knew you could never disappoint us."

The dream dissolved with my mother's words still filling my mind, conveying love and sorrow to a daughter who didn't understand at the time, but now took great solace in her mother's faith in her even then. I wanted to stay in that memory, to live in that moment where my mother held me so tightly it was like I was the only thing connecting her to this Earth. But the dream melted away, and all I was left with was the faint lingering scent of dandelions.

I expected to be pulled into another dream, hopefully another memory with my parents, or a memory with Braylynn, or even to be pulled into the reoccurring nightmare of the missed kiss at Ric's house, but nothing happened. I still sitting with my legs crossed, but now I was on a featureless floor. There was no odor or perfume in the air, and it was quiet enough to drive a person crazy. The realization thrilled me, and I grinned wildly into the Darkness.

"Charlotte?" He whispered, his voice as soft as a breath. There was an undercurrent of fear in his voice, as if he was tentative to believe that I was there, that he wasn't alone anymore.