To Be One.
"Booker? Sweetie, what's wrong?" Whaley had been finishing up the dishes from that night's dinner when her little girl - a spitting image of herself, aside from the eyes; the eyes were her father's - had shuffled in, sniffling and clinging to the doorframe. She kneeled in front of Booker and smoothed down the soft shock of platinum resting on her daughter's head, mussed from tossing and turning.
The moment Whaley touched her, Booker broke, flinging herself at her mother and wrapping her long, bony arms around Whaley's slender neck.
"Don't go away. Please, Mommy," Booker wailed, pressing her wet face into her mother's collar.
Whaley sighed. She had been afraid of this. Afraid of the sight her daughter had been born with. Afraid of the trauma her visions would enforce upon her. Whaley had not been born with this gift, but her great-grandmother had and had talked Whaley through key points when Whaley was so young. She hadn't understood at the time - had thought Meemaw was just ranting senilities. It wasn't until Booker could articulate what she was seeing when she would lose focus and stare off in the distance that Meemaw's lectures clicked. She had seen that her daughter would be born with the same gift, and she'd frantically scoured her brain to remember every detail of her time with Meemaw.
Giving Booker a long, tight squeeze, Whaley loosened her daughter's grip. "Sweetie, you know if you have a vision repeatedly for at least a year, it is more a prophecy than something that can be changed. I'm so sorry, Sweetie. I know that it's going to happen soon, but you also know that I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, and you are going to do great things with your life. Now come on; let's get you to bed." With this, Whaley lifted Booker in her arms and, turning off lights as she went, walked to her bedroom. Whaley sat Booker down on her bed, kissing her head with a soft 'stay put,' and turning to rummage through her dresser.
Booker sniffed and crawled up her mother's bed to position her pillows into a soft support to lean against, taking comfort in the sounds of her mother's rummaging and whispered frustrations at knowing it was 'just right here the other - aha!' Turning and leaning against the pillows, Booker watched her mother walk to the bed with a frayed, worn something in her hands.
"This," Whaley started, depositing in her lap as she sat next to Booker a matted, faded brown hat with what looked like were possibly bear ears at one point - one had been ripped off, leaving a good-sized hole with a few stray threads, and the other had stuffing poking out of a small opening along the seam, "is my worry hat. My best friend gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday. She said to me, 'anytime you're feeling worried, or upset about anything at all, just put this on, and you'll feel better.' I'd like you to have it."
Booker looked down at the worn old hat and reached a tentative hand to take it and place it neatly on her head. It was too big for her, falling down over her eyes and dwarfing her head. Whaley smiled as Booker raised the front of the hat to stare back at her mother. Slowly, a smile spread across Booker's face, melting the stress and worry from every muscle in her face.
Whaley sighed with relief as she leaned down to kiss Booker's forehead and wrapped her arms around the tiny form, cuddling her close, humming softly, and rocking gently until she felt her little bundle go slack with sleep. She squeezed only slightly tighter, holding her daughter to her chest as if she wanted to absorb her, take her inside of her and keep her safe from everything. Her shoulders shook slightly as tears escaped her eyes, streaking thin, silvery tracks down both cheeks and landing silently onto her daughter's covered head.
Slowly, the tears ebbed, and she gently lifted Booker off the bed and silently carried her back to her own bed, laying her down and covering her with her thick quilt. Instead of leaving, Whaley sat next to the bed, leaning her head against the mattress, watching her sweet girl's face, memorizing every line, every curve. She sat for hours, staring, allowing the vision to seep into her heart, keeping it there, locked away tight, until she heard glass breaking from the living room. Quickly, Whaley lifted herself from the floor and hurried to the door. Turning the lock, she allowed herself one last glance at her beautiful girl before closing the door with a firm click. As she walked cautiously to the living room, she sent a prayer to whatever god was listening that her angel would stay safe.