The Mother in Me - Part 5

One pull on that ugly wishbone device, and this would all be over. Back to... normal.

"What's the rush, sweetheart?" Inner Mom's voice was gentle, filled with a soothing, maternal patience, "I mean, really. Your father's gone for five more days. It's spring break. We have... all the time in the world. Who are we in a hurry for?"

"She's happy,” Inner Mom continued, “She gets a vacation from... well, from me. From the bills, the endless errands, and the pressure to keep everything running. And you, James... you get a vacation from you. We're both safe, we're both comfortable. Why cut short a teaching moment? It's just... an experiment. Between mother and son. A safe space to learn. What's the harm?”

"But... what would we even do for five days?" I thought.

"Oh, honey," she cooed, the sound both a caress and a clamp, "We have my entire life to play with. We have my entire wardrobe for starters, and all the beautiful things you never let yourself touch. We have my books, my friends, my garden, my mornings in the sunroom with tea and the New York Times. We have my phone, my Facebook, my credit cards. There's so much to learn, James."

I could feel her seeping into me, filling the cracks and hollows. I tried to keep walking, to shake her loose, but my limbs felt weak, heavy. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was back in the kitchen, uncertain how I'd moved.

“What?” I uttered, disoriented.

I was dressed in a powder blue wrap dress with deep cleavage. My legs were shaved. My toenails were painted. I blinked, horror spreading slow.

One moment I was a boy in a woman's body, trapped but defiant, still clinging to shreds of masculine autopilot, still hoping to ride out the nightmare in the neutral zone of unisex pajamas and averted eyes. The next, I was—she was—sculpted, styled, presented.

“James?” Mom in my body looked at me, confused, “Why are you dressed like that? Did you get the device?”

I looked down at myself, at the dress. My brain scrambled for a reasonable explanation. I’d left the kitchen in yoga pants and a tunic; I’d only meant to go fetch the artifact. But somewhere on the stairs, I’d… what? Lost time?

“It just—felt right,” I said, lamely, one hand smoothing the skirt across my thigh, “I dunno.”

Why couldn’t I tell her the truth? About Inner Mom?

Mom, wearing my slouchy band shirt and hunched sixteen-year-old posture, stared, “Can you just bring it here? The device? If we both touch it we can… go back.”

I nodded, but as I turned, the gesture felt like it belonged to someone else—my head bowing with a composure I didn’t recognize, the corners of my lips tightening into an approving, maternal smile. It was as if the last 10% of my every move was being fine-tuned by Inner Mom.

“Don’t do it,” Inner Mom begged.

But I had to. I needed to end this, however much it hurt. I didn't bother answering Inner Mom. I pressed up the stairs, skipping every other step.

I slid into my parents’ bedroom—our bedroom, as Inner Mom now insisted on calling it—and bee-lined for the place on the dresser where the wishbone had been left last night.

It was gone.

My mouth went dry.

“I couldn’t let you do it, son,” came the voice, “I couldn’t let you kill me.”