She stood in the mirror, the too big high heels making her shaky. She smiled and tried to twirl like they did in the movies, but her ankle bent and down she went, crashing into the mirror and taking nearby clothes down with her. They popped off their hangers, and she ended up in a little tangled heap. The laughter set in before the fear of repercussion, and even as she knew that her mother would be storming toward the sound, she couldn’t stop the shaking of her shoulders or the giggles that filled the walk-in closet. Her cocoon of silk and cashmere seemed to pull her deeper against the cold hardwood

“Josephine Jane, what in the world are you doing? You’re going to wrinkle that damn dress!” Her mother’s tone felt like the lash of a whip; it always did. It was amazing how she could make the simplest of statements feel like accusations. It was supposed to be a sobering tone, she figured, but at some point, it faded into the background radiation. Her mother didn’t scare her.

“I was playing dress-up!” she explained with an uproarious giggle, as though that much weren’t obvious. “I wanted to dress like you. Do you like my shoes?” She kicked one leg up, but the high heel finally slipped off and bounced. Her mother scooped up the expensive shoe and inspected it. “I didn’t break it.”

“No, but you could have. You know that I like this pair.” She pulled the other shoe off and replaced them on a higher shelf, one just out of the reach of nine-year-olds. As though she couldn’t find a step ladder. “Now, get up off the floor. You look ridiculous, and you’re going to stretch that sleeve.”

She sobered up and began the task of untangling herself from tassels and long sleeves, tears she couldn’t understand starting to brim in her eyes. Playing in the closet was against the rules, she knew, but she just wanted to play. She just wanted to try on the shoes; she didn’t even hurt them! Familiar powerlessness started to bubble up, and she crumpled the dress she had just picked up. Before she knew what she was doing, she threw it down in the space between them, her chin jutting up.

Her mother, who had been inspecting the other shoes and various accessories for any sort of damage, promptly stopped and cast one powerfully withering glance down at the dress between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke, but she could swear she could hear the storm brewing in the closet. Right before the lightning would strike her dead, her mother’s jaw opened. “Pick that up, Josephine. Right now.” It sounded more like the threatening rumble of far-off thunder than a command.

Giving in to the defiance that only young girls can muster, she squared her shoulders and didn’t bother to wipe the tear from the edge of her jaw. She had to play it right, she thought. If she played it right, it would work out. “No. I don’t want to.” Oh, that was certainly bold. That was certainly new territory. Her mother seemed to short-circuit; she had no idea how to react. She could watch the gears trying to turn, and the panic set in. She had certainly not played this right. The bottom was going to fall out, and she had to make her exit before it got bad. Her arms folded in defiance, her shoulders hunkering, and she turned on her heels toward the door. “I’m going to my room, and I’m going to sit in my own closet.” And she would be grounded to her room for a week at the very least, but her own closet had hardwood floors and nice dresses. It didn’t have heels, but some of her shoes were nice. They would be fun to play in.

And it wasn’t like her mother could take away her own damn clothes.

“Oh, Prue, look at you. You’ve got sticks in your hair.” Her mother was trying her damnedest to choke back a smile and a laugh. “How did you manage to do that, honey? Come here.” Any other time, she might have squirmed out of her mother’s grasp, but there was no one else around to be embarrassed in front of. She presented the back of her head to her mother and felt the familiar tugs of detangling. One by one, the sticks and burs she had fallen into were dropped onto the floor beside her in a neat little heap. At some point, her mother had started to hum tunelessly, the sound a quiet comfort.

“Go get me the brush, and I’ll French braid your hair for your game tonight, okay?”

She hated the brush more than anything else in the world, but the prospect of neat and tidy hair that was off the back of her neck was too much to resist. She returned quickly to her mother’s bedroom, paddle-brush and hair ties in hand. She quickly plopped them on the bed and crawled onto the bed in front of her mother. The familiar sensation of hands in her hair lulled her into quiet contentment, and she felt the first step of the hair ritual, where her long blonde hair was divided into two sections. Her mother’s hands were deft and comforting, and before long, the tuneless humming returned. The start of the braid always pulled at her scalp, but it was gentle, the sensation familiar and comforting. For once, she was glad that her siblings were doing their own things, far from their parents’ bedroom. She liked this short time, which was rare in such a large home.

“All of my girls got such beautiful hair,” her mother crooned. “Really, all my babies did.” With practiced quickness, her mother’s hands pulled and weaved her hair into a braid. “I still have no idea how you get it so tangled, though. Do you just roll around in the bushes?”

In the mirror above the dresser, she could see her mother’s reflection, smiling down at her own work. She laughed, wrinkling her nose. “Sometimes. I like to catch the lizards there. They get really big, you know!” She knew she wasn’t supposed to catch lizards, but she couldn’t keep herself from admitting it. For half a second, she stilled as she waited for a reprimand, but her mother only shook her head.

“Do you at least let them go? Or am I going to find a lizard container outside again?” There was no judgement; there was so rarely any judgement. Instinctively, Prue stiffened after the question, her bright eyes widening just a bit. For a second, their gazes met in the mirror as her mother wound the hair tie around the end of one braid. “If there’s a container, tell me it’s at least outside, P. Don’t let me find another one under Teddy’s bed.”

She wrinkled her nose again and squirmed. “It’s not like he sleeps here anymore anyway,” she muttered, but that wasn’t the right thing to say. Her brain struggled to fix it. “But no, no, I let them go now. I promise.” Tension eased from the woman behind her, and the hands started on the next braid.

“I know he doesn’t sleep here, but it’s still his room. It’s still his bed. When he comes to visit, you don’t want him to find you’ve replaced him with a bunch of lizards, right?” Her mother’s voice was quiet, with some adult quality youth had kept from her. It made Prue feel a nameless sort of sadness until she caught sight of a small smile in her mother’s reflection. “That’s a good thing, P. They don’t like being cooped up any more than you do, you know? They have to be free, with their families.” The second braid was done in record time, and she finished the job with a top-of-the-head kiss. “Okay, go play! But stay out of the bushes, at least until after your game.”

As if on cue, she could hear the sounds of play from another room and started off the bed. She stopped, seemed to contemplate something, then threw her arms around her mother’s neck, nearly knocking them both over. “Thank you, Mom,” she managed before the magic broke, and she bolted out of the room, the braids slapping against her back.

Mom, I'll be quiet.
It would be just to sleep at night.
And I'll leave once I figure out
How to pay for my own life too.

“Rowen, this is your last kindness from us, dear.”

The clutch closed so firmly that, had she any energy left, she might have jumped or done more than the slight wince she managed. Oddly, she reflected, this did not feel like a kindness. It didn’t feel like anything at all, or maybe it was that she just couldn’t feel anything else anymore. Everything was dull and grey and covered in gauze. Still, in the most addled state, she could still definitely tell that picking up the bill for child cremation was the least her estranged mother could do to her. A kindness? Nothing at all about this was kind.

“Mo-“

“Don’t. Just don’t, dear. You’ve still some dignity left.” Her mother seemed so profoundly uncomfortable in the dark cremationist’s office, as though someone would find her all the way in New Orleans sitting with her least desirable child. Taking care of that child’s latest “problem.” The whole thing was fucking ridiculous. So very fucking ridiculous, and all she wanted to do was point it out or make it end, something to break the hush of death and smell of ashes. Her mother seemed to have the same desire; she cleared her throat and spoke. “Treat this as a new opportunity. You get to start your adult life over, and do it right, this time.”

So many times her life had felt like wild waves that she just kept walking into. They crashed and broke over her with such ferocity that drowning had become second nature. Still, little could have prepared her to hear her dearly departed son’s death referred to as a “new opportunity.” She rubbed her hands over her face and tried to shake off what was surely a nightmare. She wanted to scream, to make accusations, to feel the vestiges of a righteous anger, but instead, all she could do was nod and wipe the wet corner of her eyes. Her mother’s nod in response was so imperceptible.

The cremationist returned, and her mother returned to the caring façade she had so often slipped into around company. Acting was never her forte, Rowen thought bitterly. He sat back behind his mahogany desk and placed an impossibly tiny urn between them. He cleared his throat, but Rowen couldn’t tear her eyes from her reflection in the brassy surface. From far away, the man behind the desk said, “Ms. Oswald, here are the ashes, if you would like them.”

“Take this, Rowen.”

Her mother didn’t even pick up the metal urn, just pushed it towards her. It was the closest she had ever seen her mother get to holding her own grandson. It was a ridiculous notion; even in death, he had received no comfort from her mother. But then again, she was still alive, and she had never seen her mother soft or comforting. It was never her strong suit, at least not with Rowen. Laughter and tears bubbled up in her, confused and rushing, and before she knew it, they were spilling out like a madman’s dissertation in the small office space.

It was all so perfectly fucking ridiculous.

She lay, outstretched and weeping, on her day bed. A heritage quilt scratched her cheek, and the texture was the only thing that kept her grounded. The whole world was spinning out of control; it was all so stupid. Her quilt was stupid, her hair was stupid, her braces were stupid. Everything. Everything was so fucking stupid! Not that she would ever even think of saying the f word out loud, but the thought was there, bouncing around her skull like a ping pong ball. She didn’t even register the knock at the door or the voice that followed. “Euphemia, honey, I’m going to come in, okay?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“He didn’t ask me to the dance, and it’s stupid. Everything is stupid. Mama, I’m the only girl in the whole school that didn’t get asked.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Besides, honey, that doesn’t matter. No boy needs to ask you; you can just go with your friends.”

“They all have dates. I would be the fifth wheel all night. That’s so much worse than not going at all. What do you want me to do? Go and just lean on the wall all night, like some psycho? You don’t understand at all.” It was veritable social suicide to stride in and act like she could have fun when she would be all alone by the punch bowl all night. It already felt like the end of the world, and she couldn’t fathom making it worse by pretending she actually belonged. God, she didn’t belong anywhere, did she? Not at school, not at home, not anymore. Her life had gotten really hard when her powers came in with the rest of adolescence, and it felt like a trick to pretend she was just some normal girl anymore.

And she was so very tired of pretending. Or trying to listen to little platitudes about life. She just wanted to scream and listen to music that she knew was too loud and too inappropriate.

But her mother didn’t immediately leave. With the practiced patience of a saint, she sat on the edge of the day bed, and her hand hovered over her back before she thought better of it. “This may surprise you, but I was a teenager once, too. It was a different time, but I was young all the same. I remember school dances, and I remember going alone and having a wonderful time.” Her mother sighed and pursed her lips. “Or you don’t have to go at all. You can stay in that night with me. We’ll rent some tapes, pop some popcorn, and have a movie night. How does that sound?”

Was she actually serious? She sat up so quickly that she nearly knocked her mother off the bed. She narrowed her eyes so much that her mother withdrew her hands completely to her lap. “Mama, I love you, but I would rather die than spend the night of my first homecoming dance at home with my mom. I’m already lame enough; you’re trying to literally kill me.”

Her mother took a deep, steadying breath, and Eppie just knew what was coming. It was going to be the “mother” voice, and it was going to make her scream. She stiffened in anticipation. “Don’t use literally when you mean figuratively, honey, you know better than that.”

With great force, she planted back on the bed once more. She put her head into her pillow and screamed, unsure of what else to do.

Mom, am I still young?
Can I dream for a few months more?