Shoshanah Albrecht
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Tom stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me to my feet. His hand was damp, crushing my fingers together, but his smile remained fixed. Stomping in and out of the clutter, he took me to the chest and swung it open, releasing a snow globe of dust. I sneezed for effect.
‘M-m-my mother’s,’ he said, carefully watching the contents of the chest. ‘M-mother’s day.’ He pressed his lips together and looked at me. We became serious. I looked into the folds of cream and stained brown that sat at the bottom of the chest. The silk fabric was wet, and growing random patterns of mould like a wild butterfly. I looked back to Tom, confused.
He reached in, pulling out a free bit of fabric. It was a sleeve. He pushed it into my hands. ‘M-mother’s day,’ he repeated.
‘I’m not your mother,’ I said softly. ‘Tom, what is this?’
He didn’t answer, but dragged out the entire lot. Old water, yellow stained and musty, dripped to the floor and sunk between the cracks. The fabric unravelled and expanded powerfully, with purpose, as if with a life of its own. It seemed to fill his arms, fill the room like a genuine bride. His mother’s wedding dress.
‘Tom, I—’
He ushered it towards me, offering the trimmed, princess lace. Its stitched pearls sagged off the neckline. His eyes were wide, fulfilled.
‘No Tom. What would I do with it? You want me to hold it?’ I asked.
He shoved the dress roughly into my arms, wrapping the slack fabric around my neck. It stunk. He pulled it tighter and laughed, seeing my distressed face. ‘No, Tom, that hurts… stop it,’ I protested quietly. He pulled a hanging sleeve down across my chest, wrapping the dress still tighter. I began to struggle and he laughed again, stepping back.
‘Tom please,’ I called out from within the folds of silk. ‘Tom! Really, I can’t breathe!’ I searched and tore around for a loose bit of fabric, to get the pressure off my neck. I began to sweat and fluster. He came forward again and looked at me, a loose smile suspended on his face. Reaching down, he grabbed the slimy fabric and wrapped it around my face, over my eyes. I could hear his muffled laughing through the layers. ‘Tom!’ I cried out from under the damp, heavy dress. ‘Tom, I’m not playing! I’ll get mad and never come back!’
The laughing continued, paying no attention. He gave me a little push. I wobbled, unsteadily. He tittered, overjoyed with his new plaything. I heard him clapping his hands together. Then another push came, harder. I lost my balance and fell with it, landing on my side in a bundle. I began to cry hopelessly, frustrated. I shouted out at him through my tears, ‘Tom! I hate you! I thought we were friends!’ I collapsed miserably in the wet folds.
The laughing stopped short.
‘Tom?’ The silence was suddenly strange and terrifying.
‘Tom?’ I whispered. ‘Are you there?’
I used to fall asleep in the strangest places when I was a little girl. I heard mum say that it was because I was new and I hadn’t settled into the home yet. But she didn’t know I wasn’t really asleep. It was a secret of mine; lying still, for the longest time, letting my eyelids get heavier and heavier, breathing deeper and deeper, but always still awake. Once I lay at the bottom of the stairs for three hours, pretending. You can overhear all sorts of conversations when people think you’re