Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

thoughts come into your head you will push them out, you won’t think about those people ever again.
    In the kitchen she picked up the knife, saw the chicken was already carved, laid the knife back on the counter. A flush reddened her cheeks. Her hands trembled when she removed three foil-wrapped potatoes from the carryout bag, stripped off the foil, and placed them in the microwave for reheating.
    After punching in the timer setting, she turned to me with a tight little smile. “Well. I was asking how you spent your day.”
    “I went to the Library of Congress.”
    Her eyebrows lifted and she half-laughed. “Really? Why?”
    Slowly I pulled the two sheets of paper from my pocket. I unfolded them and placed them on the counter. Seeing the words and pictures out in the open, in the bright light of our everyday life, I felt as if I’d stepped into space and was floating free, with nothing to hold on to.
    Mother came closer, curious. Her eyes widened, her face went white and a gasp strangled in her throat. She swayed and caught the edge of the counter for support.
    “Did you really think I’d never find out?” My tongue felt swollen in my mouth, my voice sounded slow and thick. “Did you think you could control my memory forever?”
    She raised her eyes to mine. I told myself she couldn’t get inside my mind anymore, I didn’t have to fear her. But I backed away until I hit the refrigerator door.
    “Who am I?” I said. “Who is Michelle? She’s not your daughter any more than I am.”
    Her voice was a ragged croak. “Don’t say that, don’t.”
    She stepped toward me, gaze locked on mine. A gush of pure terror made me wrench my head to the side. You’re fucking with her mind, you goddamn witch.
    “What have you done to us?” I choked out the words. “I remember—I remember—”
    She seized me by the shoulders. I struggled to get free, but her fingers dug in, pinning me against the refrigerator.
    “You don’t remember anything,” she said. “You can’t.”
    “I do! I always have—” Memories floated like bubbles to the surface of my mind, distinct and perfectly formed before they burst and dissolved. A house, white with black shutters. A woman calling from a doorway. Time to come in, girls.
    “Listen to me,” Mother said. “Look at me, Rachel. Look at me.”
    She gripped my chin and tried to force my face forward, but I twisted free, stumbled away from her, put the island counter between us. I heard my breath rasping in my throat. 
    The microwave timer went off, a long shrill note. I glanced wildly around the kitchen, at the neat chicken slices on the serving plate, the salad in the sparkling bowl, the shining counters and rich oak cabinets. All of it was unreal, it was an illusion and the woman’s voice in my head was reality. Kathy, Stephanie, time for dinner.
    “Stephanie?” I whispered. “Kathy?” I felt time flowing around me like a physical thing, relentless.
    Mother’s hand shot across the island and seized my wrist. “Stop it,” she said. “Don’t do this, Rachel.”
    Stephanie, Kathy, time for dinner. I was Kathy, Michelle was Stephanie. Our mother was calling us. Our real mother.
    “Rachel.” Mother’s fingers tightened, sending a shock of pain through my hand. “Just calm down, calm down, relax, that’s what you need to do, relax. Let’s go sit down, we’ll talk—”
    I jerked my arm free, making her fall forward and splay her hands on the counter for balance.
    “Stephanie,” I whispered. I stood still and for a moment forgot where I was. I saw my little sister in the rain, heard her crying, Mommy, mommy, where are you? and me hugging her tight, crooning, She’ll come, she’ll be here in a minute, don’t be scared.
    “Stephie—Michelle—She was crying, she was afraid of the storm. I told her it’d be all right, but I was scared too—”
    A long wail tore from Mother, an animal sound that began as a deep moan and rose to a scream. She clutched her arms about her and doubled over.
    I watched her as if from a great distance, and I was untouched by her agony. “You drove up in a car,” I said. “You told us our mother sent you to get us, and we got in your car—”
    “Oh, God,” Mother moaned, “Rachel, please don’t. Please stop.”
    I remembered the way her car had smelled, like new leather. I remembered rain pounding the roof, streaming down the windows, closing us off from the world. I’d been alarmed at first, but I was lulled by this