When I was small, we had a turntable in the living room, and I would regard her as she selected a record from the shelf. Tipping the cardboard case upside down, the disc would slide into her open hand, and then carefully she’d place it onto the machine. She pressed a button, it clicked, and the needle would lift and then lower onto the vinyl, like magic. It would begin its melody of scratching before the instruments kicked in.

William, Annabelle, and I would dance with her. Bouncing up and down, bending our knees, swaying from side to side, our mouths wide open in carefree delight. My mother would take our hands, one kid at a time, and twirl us around. We would jump in time with the music, spinning in circles, running around, our toes sinking into the plush carpet with each leap.

I don’t remember when we stopped dancing. I don’t remember when the music shut off. I don’t remember when I noticed her feet hitting the ground, or when her words stopped meaning so much. I don’t remember when that house became a place of sadness instead of joy. When the memories became too painful to bear. I just know that the woman who I was obsessed with, who I spent every moment thinking about, staring at, clinging to, she became something unbelievable for a child: my mother became mortal.

Chapter 86

I stared at my reflection. Below my right eye, at the tip of my cheekbone, was a small circular scar, as if the skin had been dented.

When I was six, I woke to find that a collection of itchy red dots had formed on my stomach. My mother took me to the doctor’s office.

“Hop up.” The doctor patted the examination table, the fresh paper crinkling under his hand. I stepped onto the stool and plopped down, lifting my shirt to show him the marks on my belly.

“That’s chicken pox all right,” the doctor pronounced, turning to look at my mother. “I’m going to prescribe her an antiviral.”

We stopped by the pharmacy on our way home. “Two spoonfuls of this a day and she should be better in no time,” said the pharmacist, handing my mother a white paper bag.

When we arrived home, my mother told me to get in bed. I was miserable. The itching was unbearable, and the pox were starting to spread.

“It’s really important not to scratch, doll,” she explained as she pulled my winter mittens onto my hands. “You’ll get chicken pox scars.”

“But I’m so itchy,” I whined.

“I know.” She poured thick, white liquid from the medicine bottle onto a spoon. “Open up, this will help.”

I opened my mouth and accepted the spoon, swallowing the substance. It was vile, slightly sweet with a hint of artificial banana flavouring. I immediately threw up into the bucket she’d placed beside my bed.

“I need you to try and keep this down,” my mother pleaded, filling the spoon with another dose.