The Similars (The Similars #1)(92)

*

I’m back at my house in San Francisco. Light streams in through twelve-foot-tall windows. I recognize my room, though it looks different from how it is now. An intricate dollhouse with gables and turrets and period furniture inside sits in the corner. There’s a child-size desk with crayons and construction paper strewn over it. Everything in the room is pink.

I’m in the corner, facing the ornate, wrought-iron bed. A child lies in it, her small frame nearly swallowed by white pillows and a puffy pink comforter. The child’s eyes are closed, her face pale. It’s me as a little girl. I’m witnessing a scene from my past. But this isn’t like earlier, when I watched Gravelle’s memories. That felt like I was observing from afar. This feels different. Immersive. When I reach out to touch the dollhouse, I can feel it. I see its every vivid detail. And I see her in vivid detail too.

The girl’s face—my face—is sickly. The stuffed monkey I used to take with me everywhere is cuddled beside me. My throat catches at the sight of him.

A woman comes and sits gingerly at the edge of the girl’s bed. She places her hand on the girl’s forehead. She’s startlingly thin, with straight brown hair pulled back into a tidy ponytail. I watch as she fusses with the pink comforter and moves the stuffed monkey closer to the girl. The woman is obviously my mother. I know she’s isn’t real—this is virtual reality, after all—but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her like this, full of life and not a photograph. It knocks the wind out of me.

“Mama?” The girl—me—has woken up.

My mother clasps the girl’s hand. She is memorizing every detail of her face.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“I don’t like that place. It smells yucky. I missed my room.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Can I stay here? I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Yes,” says my mother, her words coming out breathy, strained. “Yes, you can stay.”

“I go to sleep now, Mommy. I’m tired.”

“Of course, baby. Sleep tight.”

My mother presses her cheek to the girl’s—to mine—then begins to sing.

“Hush, little Emmaline, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

Just as my breath catches in my throat, I’m transported to Oliver’s room, at his house.

He’s on his bed. He isn’t moving, isn’t breathing.

I stand over Oliver’s body. I’m not just observing a scene; I am the scene. And I know with certainty, I’m about to relive every excruciating moment of what happened. There is no way out of it. I can’t extricate myself from the memory or stop the feed from playing.

“Oliver?” I hesitate, as I lean over him. “Oliver?”

I shake him a little, willing him to wake up.

“Ollie!” I shout. I lean over him, profoundly helpless.

“Emmaline?”

I spin. It’s Jane.

“Oliver! It’s Oliver! He isn’t breathing!”

The look on Jane’s face is one of horror, but also of accusation and blame.

“He told you how he felt about you,” says Jane. “He told you he loved you. You crushed him.”

“That’s not what happened. It wasn’t like that! I loved him! That’s why I couldn’t risk it. Why I could never…”

My words fall on deaf ears, because Jane has turned and walked out the door, urgently calling the paramedics on her plum. I feel my insides twisting, as though a hand grabbed my organs and won’t let go.

Suddenly I’m back in my house again, in the living room this time, watching as my father, dressed in a dark suit, speaks with other somber adults. They mill about, nibbling on tea sandwiches and scones. Their faces are bleak.

“We’re so sorry for your loss,” says one of the men.

“Katharine was…” says the woman next to the man. Her voice breaks. “We’re heartbroken for you and your little girl.”

My father thanks the couple and excuses himself. He walks away, steadying himself on a table. His eyes meet mine. It’s clear what’s written there. Recrimination.

I shake my head. No. This isn’t real. It didn’t happen like this. I was only three when my mother died. I wasn’t in this room. I was sick. Too sick to attend her funeral. Too young to understand.

Breaking my father’s gaze, I sprint to my room. I know I wasn’t there. I find the little girl—me—lying in a hospital bed, not the wrought-iron bed I saw before. Hospital-grade machines surround her, swallowing her up. The girl’s eyes are closed, and she looks thinner than before. The stuffed monkey lies beside her, his fur matted where she—where I—loved him.

A nurse walks briskly into the room and presses a compress to my forehead. Another nurse follows.

“I put in an urgent call to the doctor,” says the first nurse. “I’d give her two days. Three at most before she’s on her way to join her mother.”

My throat tightens.

“I think it was selfish,” says the second nurse as she fiddles with the machines. “Taking her own life because she couldn’t bear to watch her daughter die? Leaving that man to bury his wife and then his child?” The second nurse shakes her head. “Poor man.”