"How long are you planning on staying?"

For a woman of fifty-five, my mother was striking, with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a face time rarely visited. A scar along the side of her jaw stood out, an angry river cresting the smooth surface of her face. She claimed it was a parting gift from my father. True or not, I had no way of knowing.

She handed me the next dish to dry as she waited for my answer.

"I'll stay for a couple of weeks, Mom," I said.

She closed her eyes and set the sponge on the kitchen sink. "It'll give us a chance to catch up. Plus, you know how lonely it can get in this huge house. Rosalind made it seem less empty. Now, you're my only...."

I caressed her back. "Mom, I know. It's going to be okay."

The lie slipped out easier now, as I'd been reiterating it for days.

An hour before, we had clung to one another. Our crying session had only lasted for about five minutes, but it had felt much longer. When we finished, we agreed on a break from the misery.

Cleaning the dishes was a decent way to pass the time. However, my mother was struggling with our promise against shedding any more tears.

"It's also okay if you need more time to cry," I told her.

She shook her head, grabbing the next dirty dish. "I might feel better after praying." Appealing to me, she asked, "Join me, honey?"

She might've well have asked me to join her on a skydiving expedition.

"Mom, I can't. Don't be mad."

Any mention of religion caused me discomfort. As children, we had never been forced to go to church, and my mother hadn't pressed religious principles onto us. Those who claimed to "speak" with Jesus, read the Bible daily, or have any other relation to the Lord always pulled a frown from me. Prayer was the pinnacle of my discomfort, much to my mother's dismay and Rosalind's amusement.

Thankfully, my mother let me be, this time. "No, no, I'm fine. Let's talk about you. Start catching up right now."

By nature, I was a private person. If I disliked religion, I just liked disclosing personal information more so, even to my own family. My mother knew that, but she also knew I would indulge her.

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, I have so many questions, really. You haven't visited for two years at least." From her words, I knew she felt better because she was trying to push guilt on me.

"I know, Mom. I've just been busy with school and work."

"Are you too busy in Massachusetts to find yourself a boyfriend?"

"Not exactly," I replied.

"What about that last boy you told me about? Thomas, right? The Harvard boy."

Somehow our conversation had transitioned. It was as if things were normal, or could become normal in time. Part of me expected Rosalind to waltz in the kitchen, pick up a wet dish and rag, and commiserate over my latest relationship disaster.

"Mom, he was a few boyfriends back. And Thomas may have been a 'Harvard boy,' but that didn't stop him from being a liar." I had disposed of Thomas, and all the other liars that preceded him.

"Did he cheat on you, dear?"

The look that passed over my face told my mother what she needed to know.

She tsked, drying her hands on a clean dish towel. "Oh, honey, how did you find out?"

Although my mother's curiosity seemed innocent, the conversation took another turn, this time down a dangerous path.

"Um, I just...knew."

My mother's relaxed stance was replaced by a taut stillness.

"You. Just. Knew." She stared into the sink. "Like you always know things about people."

Before she asked the question I had been waiting all night (all my life) to hear, I said, "You know what? I'm really tired. I'm gonna grab a quick run before bed. We can finish the dishes in the morning, yeah?"

She nodded, her pressed lips and crossed arms at odds with the compliance.

Without looking back, I left through the kitchen door. I paused to zip up my jacket, and heard a familiar sound over the running water: my mother was crying.

Her question was inevitable. Once asked, what could I say? There was no easy way to say,

Gee, Mom. I knew Rosalind was gonna die, but I did nothing to stop it.

~*~

Out of habit, I started to run the route that I always had as a teenager.

Although my route hadn't changed, the scenery certainly had. Dense, dark forests had once stood in place where new homes were being constructed. Out with the old, in with the new cement buildings. I wasn't a nature hippie, but the change still saddened me.

As a child, I had always revered the forest as a magical place. Other children had been hesitant to step into the forbidding greenery, but I was safe, welcome. I'd been looking forward to the return of that feeling. Being surrounded by model homes instead of Mother Nature did little to comfort me. The crunching of leaves would do better to distract my thoughts. Crunching of newly laid gravel somehow did the opposite, forcing me to obsess about my mother and our most recent exchange. In thinking about my mother, I couldn't stop thinking about Rosalind. Each footfall brought painful memories.

Rosalind at four years old with chocolate smeared on her face.

Rosalind at nine years old, sticking up for Juliet at school, even though she had been three years younger.

Rosalind at fifteen years old, winking at me over her shoulder as she walked away with her first boyfriend.

Then came something that wasn't a memory, but a vision. It was the last vision of Rosalind that I had been unlucky enough to experience before purchasing my airplane ticket:

A very pregnant Rosalind struggled to shave her legs. Every line through the white foam was a small success.

Suddenly, she seized up, face contorting in pain.  The source of her distress was unclear.

In the next instant, she flailed, reaching in vain for the shower curtain. She collapsed.

Blood pooled in the tub, running pink into the clear water.

Instead of buying a plane ticket, my next move could have been to warn Rosalind with a phone call. I could have at least called my mother, let her in on the secret. Excruciatingly, I decided any plans would be futile. By warning either of them, I would have only exacerbated my sister's death.

I was sure of it, and yet, the crunching of the gravel assured me how wrong I'd been.

Life went on, regardless of how people tried to alter it. We all hung on a big wheel, and it was spinning, never stopping or changing direction.

I paused mid-stride.

One thing running afforded me was the bliss of music to block out errant thoughts. With music, everything fell away, leaving the tedium of the physical, the sound of my feet carrying me further, and the rush of adrenaline that peaked and dispelled.

I regretted rushing out of the house without a portable music device, but I was at the back of the neighborhood, too far to turn back. The cul-de-sac was full of new homes. Empty, dark windows served as sentinels, watching me propel forward. I missed the trees that had once thrived there.

Florida was well-known for its palm trees, but the woods adjacent to the neighborhood were filled with more than that. Intermingled with palm trees were black locusts, stag horn sumacs, and pine trees. Half of the branches were dripping with chunks of Spanish moss. Some trees were split at the trunk, and others boasted winding limbs snaking out to greet or scare a casual observer. Ferns, bushes, and burgeoning palm trees took up the rest of the space of the forest floor. Presently, concrete boxes invaded the vegetation. A few hundred feet behind the houses, the woods still thrived, but not as abundantly as before.

For an instant, I glimpsed nothing but the trees again. Mulch, moss, and dirt replaced the asphalt. Everything transformed from suburbia to the woods I had known as a child. While the trees welcomed me then, darkness permeated them now. I reached out for the nearest leaf, acknowledging the reality of the waxy surface. I blinked, and the woods became houses once again. The malevolent presence was gone as well. It took several blinks of my eyes until I felt normal again.

Besides the episode with Rafe, my visions had never been as odd as what I had just witnessed. Usually, the vision ran like a hazy memory in my head, and I could objectively watch events. Tactile experiences (like the leaf) never factored in. I'd never been anything but an observer. The presence was the oddest addition, because it confirmed I hadn't been alone in the woods.

A/N: An unknown presence. Wonky visions. My oh my, Imogen's not in Kansas anymore.

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