Chapter 41
“I can’t get this open.” Clementine’s face scrunches up with annoyance. She’s picking at a piece of sealing tape, which holds the flaps of the box together. It’s Christmas morning, early, because when you have a seven-year-old the hoopla is over by the time the sun comes up.
Wyatt, Shelby, and I never go overboard on gifts for one another, though we do our best to ensure a tidy pile rests under the tree for Clementine.
You only get so many Christmas mornings as a child.
I distinctly remember the thrill of seeing so many wrapped gifts, covered in sparkly holiday paper with whimsical bows, waiting for me to tear into.
My mother always spoiled me at Christmas.
The box in Clementine’s hands contains a pair of sneakers she’s been asking for.
Self-lacing, with solar-powered multicolored lights and springs that pop out from the soles, allowing the wearer to bounce with each step.
They’re made of mushroom “leather,” and the most expensive pair of shoes I’ve ever bought.
I can’t wait for her to see them—she’s going to lose her mind.
But her progress is slowed by the box’s sealing tape, which remains impenetrable to her picking and pulling. Clementine’s impatience grows by the second, as she’s guessed what’s inside. However, she won’t hand the box over for help.
“I want to do it myself,” she says huffily.
“I’ll get the scissors. That should make it easier.” I shift the contents of my stocking to the couch cushion beside me and head to the kitchen.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. A moment of relief, before the itching begins again. It kept me up for hours last night, as did the anxiety about seeing my mother by the tree. All those moths…
I try to shake it off, focusing instead on getting the scissors for Clementine. Holiday music plays through built-in speakers, and homemade cinnamon buns—a Crewson family Christmas-morning tradition—bake in the oven. The kitchen smells incredible, and my stomach growls. I should eat something.
Scratch, scratch, scratch. I’m going to have to call MotherWise about this itching.
It’s becoming unbearable, relentless, my skin mottling red in a star pattern around the tattoo.
Like a cluster of mosquito bites that won’t heal.
But the office is closed today, and Clementine’s gift opening comes first. I’m reaching for the kitchen shears, resting in a sharp-safe sheath on the side of the refrigerator, when I hear her voice.
“That’s it, my darling,” she says. “You can fix this.”
Whipping around, I look for my mother, but she’s not in the kitchen. However, she continues repeating, “fix this…fix this…fix this,” until I’m frantic and crazed with the intrusion. I can’t think. My arm itches so badly I’m delirious. I start to cry. Desperation fills me.
Then she says, “You have to remove it, Mathilde. It’s hurting you and the baby. You know it is.”
It’s as though I’m under water, everything muted.
My thoughts race on, jumbled and cluttered until suddenly something shifts into sharp focus.
My mind is the clearest it has ever been.
I look at the kitchen shears in my hand and slowly slide my fingers into the handle loops, opening and closing the blades a few times.
I’m calm, my movements precise and controlled.
My mother’s voice returns, and I smile. I feel silly not seeing the solution myself.
“Mother knows best,” she says, then, “Fix this…fix this…fix this…”
I poke the sharp tip of one of the blades against my skin, adding pressure. The skin yields with a burst of pain, leaving a drop of blood when I remove the blade’s tip.
“That’s right, Mathilde. Fix this.”