Phillipa eyes the metal briefcase. It's sitting on her father's desk, wide open and ready to use. She looks at the comfortable armchair sitting next to it. Checking her watch, she knows that she still had a few hours left until her father and James come back from the hockey game. They had offered to take her with them, but Phillipa had declined, saying she had homework to finish. The lie had felt bitter on her tongue, but necessary.
For years, Phillipa was sure her father had a secret. They were a rich family, very very rich, but her father didn't work. He told her that he and her mother were employed in a job that payed a lot. She was barely old enough to remember his strange year long disappearance following her mother's death. Phillipa hardly remembered her mother anyways. All she had were her father's stories and they were far and few between. He didn't like talking about his dead wife and since all Phillipa could remember of her was a distant woman who once claimed she wasn't real, she didn't push it.
Her father had tried to change Phillipa's perception of her mother, but nothing could change it. When she saw Loving Wife and Mother, carved into her gravestone, Phillipa didn't believe it. She tried not to crush James' image of their mother, which was the opposite of hers. James had been young enough to forget about their mother completely, something Phillipa resented.
Phillipa looked back at the door. It was still open, there was still a chance for her to walk away from the metal briefcase, but something keeps her there. Instead, she closes the door and locks it and sits down on the armchair. Phillipa looks inside the briefcase. She had always been good with machinery, always able to figure them out. She picked up a IV and quickly plunged it into her skin. Then, she put her hand over the large red button in the centre. Phillipa looked back at the door, then hastily pushed it in. Immediately, she began feeling sleepy.
Phillipa sits on the curb of a sidewalk, ice cream in hand. She watches as cars drive by her and pedestrians walk past without even looking at her. She glanced at her watch, 12:42 pm. Almost lunch time. Phillipa makes her way to a small cafe, grabbing a menu and being delighted to find that it was all her favourite foods. She orders a double chocolate cake and a cup of tea. She eats it slowly, it tastes just like how her mother used to make it when she was a kid. Sweet and chocolaty.
"Good afternoon, ma petite." Phillipa looks up to her her mother sitting across from her.
"Maman?" She asks.
Her mother pulls out a fork and takes a bite out of Phillipa's cake. She smiles as she eats it, "It is good, non?"
Phillipa smiles, "Yes, Maman, perfect."
"I'm happy you still love my cooking," her mother says, "We haven't made this together in years."
Phillipa nods, "Too long."
Her mother smiles kindly, "Oh, my Phillipa, you're so grown up now. Where have the years gone?"
"The past, Maman. I couldn't be a kid forever, could I?" She responds.
Her mother sighs and takes another bite of the chocolate cake. Then, she stand up.
Phillipa looks up, worried, "Are you okay, Maman?"
Her mother looks down at her and back away, grabbing a knife off the table, "You are not real."
"Maman?" Phillipa stands up, "Maman what are you talking about?"
Her mother holds the knife against own her throat. If she pushes in, the knife will kill her.
Suddenly, Phillipa is four years old again, "Maman! Maman! Help! Someone, please help!"
No one turns around, no one even notices her yelling. Her mother keeps backing away, knife in hand.
"It's alright, ma chère," her mother soothes, "Once this place is gone, we'll be together again, the real you and me."
"Maman! Please, I am real! Believe me!" Phillipa pleads. No one notices what is going on and Phillipa doesn't know why. Memories flash through her, of her mother holding a knife above her own wrist, her mother looking displeased every time Phillipa enters the room.
Her mother starts to hug her, "Calm down, ma petite. It will be over soon. We'll be in the real world again, with James and your Papa."
Phillipa remembers the endless fights between her father and mother. Her mother going on and on about how it wasn't real and her father insisting it was. Then, he appears, running though the crowded streets.
"Mal, get away from her," Her father orders.
Mal's face dims, "You still believe this is real then, Dom," She grabs Phillipa's face and shows it to her father, "You believe this is real? Our Phillipa need us, Dom."
Her father looks completely heartbroken, but his words are still strong. He trains a gun to Mal's head. Phillipa is crying now.
"Let go of Phillipa, Mal."
"Dom, we can go, together. Escape," Mal is exstatic now, "A train is waiting for us right now."
Her father shakes his head, "No Mal. There is no train. There is no reality to get to, because we are in reality and you have died."
With that one word, the truth comes rushing back to Phillipa. Her mother is dead. She is alive, yet her Maman is holding her hostage against her Papa.
Suddenly, Phillipa hears a distant noise, like a pile of of fifty cars happening continuously and getting closer. She looks to where it is coming from. A train is charging in, straight her her and her mother. Phillipa screams and tries to get away, but her mother's grip hardens.
"Dom, join us. The train will bring us to where we need to go, to the reality," her mother tells him. It is getting louder too, almost to the point where Mal has to scream to be heard.
"Don't do it, Mal! Let our daughter go!" Dom orders, becoming more and more panicked as the train gets closer and closer.
Phillipa is trying to fight back, but her mother's grip is steel, "Maman! Let me go! Please, let me go!"
The train is so close Phillipa can't even hear her own words. She looks and the train is seconds away.
"I'm sorry, ma chère," Her mother says, kissing the top of her head, before Phillipa feels pain like she never felt before.
She bolts awake. She feels where she got hit by the train, but nothing happened. It's all just hair. No blood, no brain, just familiar blond hair. She looks around the room, she is still there, on the armchair, but the door is open now. Phillipa starts crying. She isn't sure what happened, all she knows is that her mother killed her.
"Phillipa?" Her father asks. He stands up and Phillipa can see his teary eyes, "I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."
He hugs her and Phillipa sobs against his shoulder. All she can think of is the train hitting her, her mother killing her.
Finally, her father talks, "Is that how you really remember your mother?"
Phillipa nods. It's true. She doesn't remember the young enigmatic her father often described to James. All she remembers are the displeased glances and the knives near her wrists.
"I'm sorry," He keeps apologizing.
Phillipa eventually falls asleep again, on the armchair, from total exhaustion. When she wakes up, she finds the room has been cleared of the metal briefcase. For a moment, Phillipa is annoyed, then relieved. She doesn't want to be near anything that could make her mother into a murderer.
Her father begins to tell her more stories about his wife, even if Phillipa insists that she doesn't want to hear them. He finds her an old recipe for chocolate cake and insists that they make it together. When she tastes it, it's not quite like the one she had in the cafe, but with a few more tries, they'll perfect it. He tells her about her childhood home, the home they wanted in the city, even about the little spinning top her mother had been so enraptured with. Eventually, he takes her to her gravestone. In it, is carved:
Mallorie Stephanie Cobb
1978-2008
Loving Wife and Mother.
Phillipa finally believes it.