Chapter 2

“I love me!” I squeal, looking at my reflection in the mirror the following morning, “I’m so cute and nice and interesting! Who wouldn’t love me?”
Then I frown and close my eyes, realizing that I Haven’t a clue whether anyone would love me or not, as I’ve never met anyone.
I stroke Percy, who is sitting patiently on my lap waiting for me to finish sulking.
“I’m sorry, Percy,” I apologize to him, “sometimes I just wish I were normal.”
He meows at me, and I imagine if he could speak he would be saying something to the effect of, “feed me”.
“Oh, all right, come on, Percy,” I scoop him up in my arms and walk down to the kitchen, “What time is it, Percy? Is it time for breakfast?” I pull a watch out of my pocket, and begrudgingly check the time. 8:01. I’m late.
But oh, my watch is so handsome. The way it keeps time so flawless. I simply want to kiss it. I squeeze my eyes shut as I walk into the kitchen.
“Sorry I’m late for breakfast, mom. I know you hate it when I’m late.”
Mom doesn’t reply.
“Mom I know you’re mad, but I’m really sorry, and I wish you’d at least wish me a good morning.”
And she still remains silent.
“Mom? Are you here?” I open one eye cautiously, careful not to look at any one thing in the room for too long. I open both my eyes, “mom?”
I walk to her room, eyes closed, and push open the door, “Mom? Are you in here?”
Still no reply.
She would tell me if she was to be gone this morning, wouldn’t she have?
“Mom?” I glance carefully around the room and… there she is, lying in bed. She must have overslept.
How strange, I don’t believe she’s ever overslept before.
She looks so sweet and peaceful lying in the bed, like an angel or fairy. And her golden hair almost seems to glow of it’s own accord, it’s so shiny.
“Mom?” I approach her and touch her shoulder, “Wake up, mom.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t open her eyes. Doesn’t breathe.
She doesn’t breathe.
She didn’t breathe.
She isn’t breathing.
She’s… dead.
I stare at her. Her pale face and her limp hands. I wonder what it’s like to be dead. I wonder what it’s like to fall asleep and never wake up.
I squeeze my eyes closed, “Think, Abbey, think” I scold myself. I try to remember something - anything - that might help me.
“If ever something should happen to me, Abbey,” I remember her saying, “You must remember this number, and dial it on the telephone. A man whose name is Troy lives in the house two doors down, and he will come and help you.”
But what was the number?
I frantically start rummaging through the house… a piece of paper… so clean and white, so selfless, so unassuming, so - no - not that, and a phone book, so full of information, and thoughtful, and sweet, and, oh! How lovely a thing! But, no! I have to focus. I have to.
I’ve found that it is vastly difficult to find something if one does not know what one is looking for, as the case currently is. And after a long and unproductive search, I find myself once again in mom’s bedroom, standing next to the bed and staring at her pale face.
“If only it had been me instead,” I whisper, “If only I had died. I am of no consequense. No one loves me. No one needs me. No one even knows my name. The world would not care if I had passed. But you - you were my world, and now I don’t know what to do, and I dearly wish you had not passed.”
“7757.”
The numbers run through my head as clearly as anything I’ve ever known. The phone number. Troy’s phone number.
I frantically race to the phone - the telephone - such a perfect invention - so shapely and shiny and just the right shade of red. I wonder why they say one is “punching in” a number? Does the telephone object to being punched? Does it care? I simply cannot hurt the dear, dear telephone! No, I cannot punch in this number!
But I have to. I have to call Troy. I have to get help.
What will happen if I don’t? I’ll stay here. With a dead woman. And then I’ll die, because I’ll never get food again. And I’ll starve.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wonder if it’d really be so bad to die. Perhaps starvation isn’t the best, but mom has a whole cabinent full of medicines that she took for her nerves, and perhaps if I took a few bottles I would just fall asleep and never wake up again and… no… I cannot.
I punch in the number without opening my eyes and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once… twice…
Perhaps he will not answer? Perhaps he is outside, taking a stroll in the park? Perhaps he, too, is dead?
Three times…
Perhaps he simply doesn’t care for the troubles of a girl he’s never met and her dead mother? Or maybe he’s misplaced his telephone and can’t find it?
Four times…
Or maybe he -
“Hello?”
For a moment I forget to respond. I don’t remember what anyone’s voice sounded like except for mom’s - I suppose I thought everyone sounded like her.
“Hello?” the voice says again.
“Hi,” I say, “Is this Troy?”
“Indeed it is. And who might this be?”
“My name is Abbey.”
“Abbey? Abbey who?”
“Abbey Vicar. I live two doors down from you, in the big yellow house. My mother, Anastasia, said that if ever something were to happen to her, I was to call you?”
“Abbey?” He sounds somewhat stunned.
“Yes.”
“My goodness. I didn’t know that she even kept you,” He seems to be talking more to himself than to me, so I don’t respond. After a few seconds, he continues, “Abbey Vicar, why are you calling me?”
“Are you angry? I’m sorry if you’re angry. It’s just that I-”
“I’m not angry, child. Just astonished, is all.”
“Well… that’s good, I think.”
“Indeed, now why is it you were calling?”
“I need your help. Mom is dead.”
“Excuse me?”
I wonder if he actually intends for me to repeat myself, but I do anyways, just in case, “Mom is dead.”
“Oh my.”
“Yes. I need your help. I don’t know what to do. She said to call you. She said you would help.”
“Why, yes, of course I’ll help. I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” I hear a click, signifying that he’s hung up, so I follow suit.
I make my way back to mom’s bedroom, somehow hoping that maybe I was wrong. Perhaps she isn’t dead, perhaps she’s simply sleeping.
“Sleeping without breathing,” I mutter to myself.
I watch her silently, thinking that perhaps if I’m very, very good, perhaps she will come back. Perhaps God won’t take her yet. Perhaps he would take me instead. I shake my head and close my eyes, willing myself not to cry.
Knock, knock, knock.
I jump in surprise at the sudden noise. What is that?
Knock, knock, knock… Knock, knock, knock.
The door! Someone is knocking on the door. Troy!
I run as fast as I can to answer the door, careful as not to be distracted by anything along the way, and fling open the door.
“Hello,” says the elderly gentleman, “I am Troy. You must be Abbey.”
I nod, entirely entranced by the man. His blue eyes sparkle with kindness and love, and his wrinkled little face is drawn into a small smile.
It’s like everything I’ve ever seen through the windows, and every word I’ve read in every book. It’s like something I once saw through a fog is now ever so clear and standing in front of me.
And I’m in love.
“Abbey, are you alright?” He asks kindly.
“Y-y-yes…” I stutter, “I mean… no?” I slap my hand over my eyes, “I don’t know what I mean.”
“Where is your mother?”
“In her bedroom. Follow me,” I keep my eyes closed as I lead him to mom’s room, then allow myself to carefully watch, without focusing on any one thing too much, as he checks her pulse and her breathing.
Finally, he turns to look at me (and I close my eyes, naturally), “Well, Abbey, you’re right. She is dead. Why don’t you come to my house, I’ll need to make some phone calls.”
I cautitiously open my eyes, “To who?”
“To people who can help. We’ll have to have a funeral arranged, and -” He suddenly looks at me and I jerk my gaze to the floor - the handsome, sturdy floor, with all of it’s handsomeness and - I snap my eyes shut, and Troy continues, “What to do with you?”
“What do you mean, what to do with me?”
“Well, you can’t stay here alone,” the old man sighs unhappily, “pack your things. You’ll stay with me for now. And hurry. I do have things to do, so don’t take all day.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
It’s a good thing it’s impossible to see change - because I think I hate it.