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Jay hears her footsteps descend the stairs, hurry into the kitchen; water roars in the sink and plates clatter; she’s doing the dishes. He turns around, sees Lucy on the bed, her eyes large and alarmed. "Holy shit," he and says, "That’s—she’s never . . . " He touches Lucy’s naked arm as he trails off, and she covers herself with the blanket, recoiling. Downstairs, a dish shatters. and "It’s okay," he tells Lucy, getting himself together, wondering with a strange thrill if he should go downstairs, confront his mother. "It’s okay, Luce . . . calm down, and it’s . . . ." But his mind is not on Lucy, not entirely. He is remembering how he used to go through that door some nights as a little boy, scared of nightmares, and lie in his mother’s arms; and he is also wondering now for the first time what his mother dreams about at night. © Nick Antosca 2003 This story may not be archived, reproduced or distributed further without the author's express permission.
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