CHAPTER 2 AN UNKINDNESS OF RAVENS #2
She collects food allergies the way Thanos collects infinity stones.
She’s deathly allergic to shellfish, nuts, and eggs.
She can’t tolerate lactose in any form. If she adds in a gluten allergy, her list of food options will get even smaller.
She loves to cook but rarely partakes in the meals she puts together because there’s always something in it she can’t have.
Most of the time she eats before we all sit together.
She rarely complains but I see her eyeing my pad thai.
It’s sprinkled with peanuts and chunks of fried egg poke out from between the noodles.
I slide my plate as far away from her as I can.
She laughs lightly. “I’m not going to have a reaction just from looking at it, baby.”
She raises her spoon to her mouth as the doorbell rings.
“I got it,” I say.
My dad rests his hand on my shoulder before I can stand up. “You stay here and eat. I’ll go.” He pushes his chair away from the table and goes to the front door.
My mom leans across the table and cups her hand over mine. “Meka, baby. You look really tired. How’d you sleep?”
A heavy silence wraps itself around us. She knows about the dream. I’ve been having it for years but what she doesn’t know is how lately, I’ve been having it almost every night. And then last night . . . it changed. For the first time ever, it was different.
“I had a rough night,” I say.
Mom narrows her gaze at me. “The dream?”
I nod. She sits very still for a moment. It’s like she’s not even breathing and then she sighs and reaches out to touch the back of my hand.
“Baby, we can make another doctor’s appointment,” she says. “Maybe you need a prescription? Something to help you sleep?”
It’s never been so much of an issue that I needed anything like that.
I went to a therapist when I was younger to try and figure it out and she didn’t think meds were necessary.
She said it was probably a combination of stress and environment—meaning living in a funeral home was a huge contributing factor.
She taught me some breathing exercises and reminded me that it was just a dream.
As time went on, I had the dream less and less until it was almost completely out of my mind.
And then, about three months ago it ramped back up and now it’s almost every night.
My dad’s voice carries down the hall and cuts through my thoughts. His tone is raised, and he sounds almost angry, which is out of character for him. I pause. “We’re having dinner,” he says. “Maybe if you’d like to call or use the contact form on the website.”
I lean back in my seat and peer down the hall.
My dad is standing with the front door open, his back to me, his frame rigid as a corpse.
Someone else is in the entryway but I can’t get a good look at whoever it is.
I lean back a little more as my dad shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
I get a glimpse of a tall, redheaded woman with a sharp, angular face, and a man with a shock of messy blond hair.
“It’s urgent,” the woman says.
“These things always are,” my dad says.
The redheaded woman glances at me. I’ve never seen her before but there is a flicker of recognition in her eyes. The corner of her mouth draws up.
“Jonathan?” my mom calls.
“Tomorrow would be better,” my dad says.
The blond man says something I can’t make out.
“Have a good night,” the redhead says as my dad closes the door a little more forcefully than is necessary.
He rejoins us at the table but sits quietly, his hands tented under his chin.
“What was that about?” I ask.
My dad looks down into his plate of rice. “People can’t just show up whenever they feel like it.” He shakes his head. “We have business hours for a reason.”
“It was somebody needing funeral services?” I ask.
“They should use the contact form on the website if they need to get in touch or at least call.” He sighs and runs his hands over his face.
“This is why I keep thinking we need to separate the house from the business. We should have two separate spaces; that way people can’t just show up at our home whenever they feel like it. ”
My mom clears her throat. “You know I don’t want to do that,” she says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea at all. Financially—it’s too much.”
“Are we hurting on money?” I ask, firmly stepping into grown folks business.
Mom and Dad both give me a that’s-not-your-concern look and I immediately let it go.
“Besides,” Mom says, nudging her plate forward like she’s done with it. “Is it really that much of an issue? People only show up unannounced every once in a while. That’s why I put the sign up on the sidewalk. Maybe I can put a sign on the front door?”
My dad shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s not—” He stops and presses his lips together like he’s trying to keep the rest of his words from spilling out. “It’s fine. You’re right. Maybe another sign would help.” He forces a quick smile and picks at his food.
Mom stares at him in silence for a minute and I’m starting to feel awkward, so I clear my throat and eat another mouthful of noodles.
“What about hypnosis?” Mom says suddenly. “We haven’t tried that.”
“What?” my dad asks, confused.
“What?” I echo, equally confused.
“For Meka’s dream,” she says. “Maybe we can try hypnosis.”
“The dream is an issue again?” my dad asks.
“No,” I lie.
“Yes,” my mom says firmly. “She said it changed. That there’s more to it than there was before.”
My dad shovels a spoonful of rice into his mouth and swallows. “I’ve read some things about hypnosis. I’m not sure it could work for bad dreams. Don’t people usually go to hypnotists to uncover lost memories, though?” he asks. “I think I’ve heard of something like that before.”
Mom looks down at her plate. “Maybe. I guess I’m not entirely sure how hypnotism actually works so maybe it’s a bad idea but what I’m trying to say—” She stops short and sighs so heavily her shoulders roll forward. “Meka. I’d do anything to keep you from having that dream.”
My dad gently touches my shoulder. “How about we eat in the front room? Watch a movie. Get our minds on something else.”
“Sounds good to me,” I say, scooping up my plate and heading to the living room as my parents hang back, whispering to each other. I know they’re worried about me.
Lately, the dream—the nightmare—descends on me every time I close my eyes.
The therapist had suggested that I have a subconscious fear of losing my mom, and that fear and anxiety are fueling the dream.
I didn’t agree. The thing that makes me afraid of losing my mom is the dream itself, but what can I do about bad dreams?
I’m seventeen. I’m not a little kid with an overactive imagination.
I feel silly complaining about it. I don’t know how to tell them it’s a big problem and I’m really struggling with it.
I settle into the couch and pick over my food as my parents join me and flip through the channels.
We decide on Young Frankenstein . My dad protests but me and my mom out-vote him.
I’ve seen it before. My film studies class did a monster flicks unit around Halloween and we worked our way through some classic monster movies.
This is one of my favorites, with the Bela Lugosi version of Dracula coming in a strong second.
“Gene Wilder is so good in this,” I say.
“I love him in Willy Wonka ,” my mom says.
“I like the new version,” my dad chimes in. “The one with that boy who looks sick. What’s his name? Tim Chalet?”
I have to slap my hand over my mouth to keep from spitting out my food.
My mom twists around in her seat and stares at him. “I know we’re geriatric millennials but please tell me you’re not talking about Timothée Chalamet?”
My dad shrugs. “Maybe?”
I file that away in my head under “things I’m gonna tell my friends about at school.”
A half hour into the movie, and the TV screen freezes for a moment, then starts up again.
My dad huffs. “Here we go with the signal. Is the weather bad?”
A gust of wind rattles the house like it’s answering his question. The lights flicker.
My mom raises her eyes to the ceiling. My dad looks toward the front door.
Another gust and the lights flicker out.