American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,252

peel off.

She sits up. She swings around and puts her feet on the ground. Her multicolored carpet still bears some old stains (she can see where she tried to melt crayons in the second grade), but overall is clean; her shelves are stocked with books, and bedecked with little plastic horse figurines; standing in the corner is her battered old BB gun, which she has cleaned as though it were a rifle. And someone, somewhere, is baking bread.

Mona opens the door and walks down the hallway, rubbing her eyes. As she enters the den, she sees a dull orange blaze as the afternoon sun filters through the glass pendant lamps, and in the corner a stringy pothos that’s in need of some severe trimming, and a fresh bowl of potpourri on the entryway table. And there, in the battered old chair across from the television, is Laura Bright, née Alvarez.

She is in a state Mona has seen her in only once before: she wears the red dress from the can of film Mona found in the attic, and she is immaculate, incredibly perfect, hair curled and lipstick so clean it could have been applied by a surgeon. She is flipping through an issue of Southern Living with a look of slight disinterest. As she licks her fingers, Mona sees her nails are beautifully done in bright red; she cannot ever remember her mother having such excellent nails.

This is wrong. She knows this is wrong. But the dreamy nature of this place makes it very hard for her to really understand why…

“It’ll still be a minute before it’s ready, hon,” her mother says absently as Mona walks in.

Mona stares at her. She takes a few steps forward, and asks, “What will?”

“The bread, silly.” She licks a finger, and turns down a page, perhaps marking a recipe for further study. “The cinnamon bread.”

Mona looks into the kitchen. The light in the oven is on, and something is definitely baking there.

She walks toward her mother. “What’s… what’s happening?” she asks.

Her mother looks up. “What’s happening? What do you mean, what’s happening?”

“This… wasn’t happening just now. I was somewhere else. And you were… you weren’t there at all. I don’t think.”

Her mother smiles. It is such a warm smile. Her eyes are the color of rich toffee. Mexican eyes, like Mona’s. “Well. I did think we needed to have a talk. Why don’t you sit down?” She pats the couch beside her chair.

Mona slowly, reluctantly sits. Something bothers her about the kitchen: the ceiling fan. She remembers when her father installed it, and how he cussed up a storm as he tried to figure out the circuitry, because after that the lights in the den stopped working, and it was because—

“This was a new house,” says Mona.

“What was that, hon?” asks her mother.

A new house. The house they moved into years after Mona’s mother killed herself.

A memory swims up to her: Gene Kelly’s face smiling down at her from the silver screen…

“This never happened, did it,” she says.

“What didn’t?”

“This. This moment.”

“It’s happening now,” says her mother, amused.

“Yeah. But when I lived here… you were already dead.”

“I wasn’t dead then, my dearest. I just wasn’t there, with you.”

“Then this isn’t real. None of it is. And you’re not my momma.”

“Of course I am,” she says, slightly hurt, yet still forgiving. “I’ve always been your mother, Mona. And I know you must feel a little scared right now. You haven’t seen me in so long. And you don’t really know me. But I’m back now. And I want to be here to stay. Are you fighting that? Do you not want me to stay?”

Mona furrows her brow. Something about this place—perhaps something about this time—makes it very hard to think, and remember.

There was a fight. A baby. And she lay in the sun on the roof of a building, watching a mirror…

The mirror.

She opens her eyes.

Things tremble. There is a world behind this world, full of sun and mountains…

Then back. Back to this orange-colored den, and the smiling woman in the chair.

She begins thinking. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Because I want you on my side, dear. That’s where daughters belong, on their mother’s side. I want you to be a good daughter. I want you to be what you are supposed to be.”

“What you wanted me to be.”

“Yes, I suppose,” she says. Her voice is incredibly soft and soothing. “I want you to be here, with me.”

“Why?”

“Because you would be happy here. Happy’s a very