With brow knitting, she asked, “So, how do you know that? Did someone tell you?”
“Tell me what?” My coffee mug was pretty. It had a tiger lily on it, my favorite flower. I was studying it in an attempt to keep my eyes off Reyes.
“That this big, bad creature was there when you were born.”
“Um, what?” What the heck was she talking about? Maybe I was unconsciously slipping into unconsciousness after all.
“How did you know it was there the day you were born?”
Oh, right. She didn’t know that part yet either. “I pretty much remember everything from day one.”
“Day one?”
I nodded, noticing for the first time that one petal of the tiger lily brushed the rim of the mug just so.
“Day one of what? The first grade? Desert Storm? Your menstrual cycle?” She hissed in a breath of realization. “That’s it! It all happened when you had your first period. A hormone thing, right? That’s when you figured it all out?”
I grinned. She was funny. “Day one of my life. My existence. My presence on Earth.”
“I’m not following.”
“The day I was born,” I said with a roll of my eyes. Cookie wasn’t usually this slow on the uptake.
She sat in stunned silence after that. It was weird.
“I know. That throws everyone.” After running my finger along the brightest orange petal, I added, “Apparently it’s rather rare for people to remember the day they were born.” The petals opened in an explosion of color, darkest at the center, at its most vulnerable point.
“Rare?” she asked, finding her voice at last. “Seriously? Try nonexistent.”
“Well, that’s just odd.” I traced the next petal. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Not that yesterday isn’t fuzzy.” Then I ran out of petals and my gaze drifted up and locked on to Reyes’s again. The pain and anger in his expression were almost palpable. And the color of his eyes, the rich, deep brown, grew darker as it neared the centers, their most vulnerable points.
“My god, Charley, you remember being born?”
“I remember him.”
“This big, bad guy?”
“The Big Bad. And I remember other things, too, like the doctor cutting the cord and the nurses cleaning me off.”
Cookie sat back in astonishment.
“He said my name. Or what I thought was my name.”
She inhaled a breath of realization. “He called you Dutch.”
“Yes, but how? How could he possibly have known?”
“Hon, I’m still working on the day-you-were-born thing.”
“Right, sorry. But could you hurry up and get over it? I have questions.”
Her expression turned dubious. “Got any other astonishing tidbits to impart?”
With a shrug, I said, “Not really. Unless you count the fact that I’ve known every language ever spoken since that whole day-I-was-born thing. That’s probably worthy of note.”
I was tired, so I couldn’t be completely positive, but I had the distinct feeling Cookie seized.
Chapter Ten
Don’t fear the reaper. Just be very, very aware of her.
—CHARLOTTE JEAN DAVIDSON
“So, I look up and there he is.”
Cookie held a piece of popcorn at her lips as she listened to my tale, her eyes wide with astonishment. Or possibly primal, bone-chilling fear. It was hard to tell at that point. “The Big Bad,” she said.
“Right, but you can call him Bad for short. Anywho, he’s standing there just watching and I’m all na**d and covered in afterbirth—though that didn’t really register at the time. I just remember being mesmerized by him. He seemed to be in a constant state of fluid motion.”
“Like smoke.”
“Like smoke,” I said as I snatched the buttery morsel out of her hand and popped it into my mouth. “You snooze, you lose, chica.”
“Do you remember anything before him?” she asked as she reached for another piece, only to hold it in limbo at her mouth as well. I was trying not to crack up and break the spell.
“Not so much. I mean, I don’t remember being born or anything—thank the gods, ’cause that would just be gross. Just the stuff that came after. And it’s all very peach fuzzy. Except for him. And my mom.”
“Wait,” she said, holding up a finger, “your mom? But, your mom died the day you were born. You remember her?”
A slow smile slid across my face. “She was so beautiful, Cookie. She was my first … um, customer.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. She passed through me. She was light and warmth and unconditional love. I didn’t understand it at the time, but she told me she was happy to give up her life so that I could live. She made me feel calm and cherished, which was a good thing, ’cause Bad was kind of freaking me out.”
Her gaze slid past me as she processed what I’d said. “That’s … that’s…”
“Impossible to believe, I know.”
“Amazing.” She looked at me then.
The relief that flooded my body couldn’t be helped. I should have known she’d believe me. But people I’d grown up with, people I was closest to, never believed the being-born thing.
“So, you kind of got to know your mom in a way, right?”
“I did.” And as I grew older, I realized it was more than a lot of kids got. I would be forever grateful for those few moments we had together.