Page 95 of Somewhere Without You
I stood beside her, reluctant but understanding.“Where do I go?”I asked, my voice trembling.
Gran turned her gaze toward the farmhouse.“There,”she said, nodding toward it.
I followed her eyes, confused.“I don’t understand—”
But when I turned to question her, she was gone.
No sound, no footsteps—just the lingering scent of patchouli and the shimmer of light dancing where she’d stood, like the moment itself had folded in on its own secret.
Carefully, I stepped onto the porch, the railing smooth beneath my palms. The porch swing, once broken, now hung sturdy and brand new.
The oak door creaked open easily. But the moment I crossed the threshold, everything changed.
I wasn’t in Gran’s farmhouse anymore.
I was standing in the old rental house on Wildwood Loop.
The same faded recliner sagged in the corner, and the familiar sound of Montel Williams drifted from the television.
“Hello?”I called out, shutting the door behind me.
“In here,”a voice answered.
A voice I hadn’t heard in years.
I rounded the corner into the kitchen, stumbling over my own feet as I struggled to take in the sight of my mother.
“Hey kiddo,”she gleamed.
Her auburn hair cascaded down her back in soft waves as she stood at the stove, flipping pancakes.
I sank into a chair at the counter, unable to take my eyes off her as she slid a purple Barney plate in front of me.
“Mom?”I managed, barely able to get the word out.
She didn’t answer me—just smiled softly and turned back to the stove.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the microwave door. My cheeks were round, my hair an unbrushed mess. Even the familiar gap where my tooth hadn’t yet grown back, stood out.
I was six years old again.
“What’s wrong, Emmie?”she asked, glancing over her shoulder.“I thought blueberry was your favorite?”
I gazed down at the stack of steaming pancakes, syrup slowly trickling down the sides, butter melting gently on top.
“They are,”I said quietly, still trying to understand how she could be here, alive and whole.
I picked up the fork, my hands small and clumsy, just like they used to be. I pierced a corner of pancake and lifted it to my mouth. The light, fluffy texture melted over my tongue. I took another bite, and this time, a burst of tangy-sweet blueberry exploded across my taste buds.
Mom turned off the stove and sat across from me, chin resting in her hand as she watched me eat.
“Slow down, honey,”she chuckled.“It’s not a race.”
I nodded, trying to swallow both the food and the lump forming in my throat.
“How are you here?”My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded like that six-year-old version of me—higher and unsteady.
She shrugged, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.“Same way you are.”
