Wicked Forest (DeBeers 2)

tell herself. It seemed only just and proper that she

take it all with her to the grave.

"I can barely keep my eyes open," I declared,

Mother and I had been talking for hours.

"Me too," my mother admitted, and we put our

dishes in the dishwasher and both went to bed,

hugging in the hallway first.

"I'm so happy you're here," she whispered. "So

am I. Mother. So am I," I told her.

Up until now the word Mother, the very idea of

having one, had been as mythical as a unicorn for me.

I enjoyed saying it so much. I thought I would mutter

"Mother. Mother. Mother" in my sleep forever. When I finally crawled into bed. I felt like I

was still riding in the car. The visions of oncoming

headlights, rain pounding on the windshield, and

globs of fog twirling before me still lingered on the

insides of my eyelids. Overtired. I tossed and turned

for a while before dropping into what was more a

state of unconsciousness than sleep. Then I awoke to

the sound of those footsteps. I was surprised my ears

had been capable of taking in the sounds in the

hallway and delivering them to my groggy brain. I lifted my head from the pillow and, after

realizing where I was, listened keenly. The steps

sounded more like someone shuffling along in shoes

with sandpaper for soles. I heard the hinges of the

front door squeak like impish tattletales. The whish of

the wind rushed into the house, and then I heard the

door close. I glanced at the illuminated face of the

clock on my nightstand and saw it was nearly 3:30

A.M. Who would be walking about at this hour and