Page 37 of In All My Dreams

“You two behave. I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” Mrs. Foster tells us with another sad smile on her lips. Probably realizing there are supposed to be three of us, but now there are only two.

I sit on the end of my bed. Ian follows me and sits next to me as we stare out the big window in my bedroom that overlooks the lake.

“I miss her,” I whisper.

Ian puts his arm around me. “I bet she misses you, too.”

“I wish my dad was here. He always makes me happy face pancakes for my birthday,” I say, looking down at the yellow petals of the sunflower.

“I can’t make pancakes, but I know what might make you feel better. Come on!” Ian jumps off the bed and holds his hand out. I grab it and follow him into the hallway.

Ian looks around nervously before pulling me with him farther into the hall until we are standing in front of my mother’s office. The room I was never allowed to enter. “When I’m sad and miss Irene, I like to just go sit in her room and think about her. Maybe you can do that here in your mom’s office,” he says quietly before opening the door.

We both walk into the office, my heart pounding hard as I take in the room.

It’s nothing but a small office. On one wall, there is a giant window that faces toward the side of the house. On another wall, her desk sits. Untouched. Full of papers and notes that she probably thought she’d get to eventually. The third wall has an orange couch that turns into a bed. I remember my mom sleeping in here a few times when she was mad at my dad. She doesn’t know that I knew about this, and I guess now she never will.

I walk over to her desk and sit on the navy blue chair. It still smells like her. The whole room still smells like her perfume.

My lip trembles, and I start crying.

“Oh, Georgie. You’re not supposed to cry on your birthday,” Ian says sadly. “I shouldn’t have brought you in here. I thought it would help like Irene’s room helps me sometimes.”

I sniffle loudly. “It does help. It just makes me miss her more.”

“Well, when you miss her a lot, just come sit in here, and it could help you feel better.”

I smile at him, wiping at the tears that are on my cheeks. “Thanks, Ian. Maybe I’ll do that.”

Later that night, I beg Mrs. Foster to let Ian have a sleepover with me.

“He could sleep in the guest room!” I protest when she mutters something about boys and girls not sleeping together. “Please? It’s my birthday, and my dad forgot about it.” I pout, hoping that the small tremble of my lip will convince her. “Irene used to have a sleepover for every birthday.”

Mrs. Foster’s eyes close, and she pinches her nose like she’s in pain before she lets out a long breath. “Okay, but just this once! And Ian, you will sleep in the guest room, or you can both sleep on the couches in the living room. Separate couches! Deal?” she asks.

Ian and I flash smiles at each other. “Deal!”

We spend the rest of the night in the living room watching scary movies and eating way too much cake and banana muffins.

My father enters the living room stiffly. “Bedtime, both of you,” he says gruffly before turning and heading back into the kitchen. We hear the back door slam shut loudly.

I look over at Ian, who is busy cleaning up the small mess we made. “He forgot my birthday. How could he forget my birthday?”

“Maybe he has something big and wants to surprise you later?” Ian suggests.

I shake my head in defeat as we both walk up the stairs. “He doesn’t love me the way he loved me when Mom was alive,” I say sadly. “I think I’m going to go hang out in her office for a little while before I go to bed. Thanks for spending my birthday with me, Ian.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, Georgie,” Ian says, then he shuts the guest bedroom door behind him, leaving me alone in the hall.

My heart feels heavy in my chest as I stop in front of my mother’s office. I reach out and open the door slowly and gasp loudly when I see my mother standing there. She’s staring out the window, her white dress torn at the hem and stained.

“Mama?” I whisper, my breathing coming out in excited pants. “Mom, is that really you?” I step closer, needing to touch her.

I reach out and touch her shoulder, but my hand goes right through her. I let out a blood-curdling scream when she finally turns to face me.

This can’t be her. This can’t be my mother. This is a monster disguised as her.

Her hair is a tangled mess—vines and branches weave into and out of her dark locks. Her eyes are a milky white, looking at nothing yet seeing right through me at the same time. Her nose is dripping blood, her mouth oozing out the same white foam that choked the life out of her six months ago.

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