Her mother peeled at wallpaper and revealed underneath flesh-colored wood, dark waters, piles of spare change. After her third dream about the dolls, Laura got dressed and came downstairs for a cup of coffee or maybe orange juice if they had it. She found her mother renovating the living room. With its brick fireplace, and the harmonium next to it, keys yellowed and crackling with age, change was a long time coming. But Laura still worried that it was a coping symptom of grief. A wound left to bubble up and fester.
“Laura,” her mother said, pulling at a strip of wallpaper above the fireplace. “Grief can prove to be quite the motivational speaker.”
“So I’ve heard,” Laura said, though she hadn’t. There was no wall between their living room and the kitchen. She walked past the table where her father died and made her way to the refrigerator. No orange juice. She looked for the coffee grounds instead, and found them in a plastic bag, on top of the new marble counter.
“Mother,” she called out. “Where’s the— wait, never mind.” She grabbed the French press from where it sat upside-down in the sink.
“Is this clean,” Laura asked. Her mother turned to her and squinted. Her hands were covered in a thin coat of plaster and dust. She wore sun-yellow gloves with her sleeves pushed up to her elbows. In the early morning light, Laura looked at her mother and saw a stranger, unfamiliar and fragile.
“It’s the French press,” Laura told her.
“Oh,” her mother said. “Yes, I rinsed it out last night. It’s the fourth one we’ve bought, you know, your brothers keep breaking them.”
“Sounds like them,” Laura said. She began the process of making coffee. She turned the faucet and put her hand under the water. It usually took a while to warm up but Laura liked the sound and the cool sensation of running water against her palm. Her dreams started to fade into the back of her mind, and the dolls, who had just hours ago seemed so dangerous and lifelike, reverted to something distant and unreal.
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