You decide to push the suspicions down, burying them beneath the ache of missing Allison. The hospital conversation must have been a dream, a cruel trick of your medicated mind. Your mom is your mom—grieving, like you, for Allison. The similarities you see, the little gestures, the familiar phrases—they’re just your heart clinging to what’s gone. You tell yourself this over and over, willing it to be true.
But the signs keep creeping in, small and insidious. At breakfast, she hums a pop song Allison used to play on repeat, one your mom once called “noise.” She catches herself mid-note, glancing at you nervously before switching to a tune more her style. When she hands you a packed lunch for school, it’s got your favorite energy drink tucked inside—Allison’s brand, not something your mom ever bought. You thank her, but your stomach twists as you slip it into your backpack.
At school, you’re distracted, your mind replaying these moments. Your friends notice your quietness, but you brush it off, blaming the lingering effects of your injuries. Randall, ever loyal, sticks close, filling the silence with stories and jokes. One day, as you’re walking home, he brings up your mother again.
“Dude, your mom’s been weirdly… young,” he says, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. “Like, she was dancing to some TikTok song in the kitchen yesterday. Since when does she do that?”
You force a laugh. “She’s just trying to stay hip, I guess.”
“Yeah, but it’s creepy,” he says, grinning. “It’s like she’s channeling Allison or something.”
His words hit too close, and you change the subject, but they linger. That night, you start watching her more closely, cataloging every detail. The way she hesitates before answering to “Jennifer” when your dad calls her. The way she fumbles with the knitting needles she used to wield so confidently, then laughs it off. The way her eyes linger on you when you talk about school, about Allison, like she’s holding back a flood of words.
You decide to observe her for a week, looking for something concrete, something that can’t be explained away. You feel guilty, almost like you’re betraying her, but you can’t stop. You start noting things in your phone: Monday—used Allison’s slang, “lowkey,” in conversation. Tuesday—made Allison’s cookies again, burned the edges like she used to. Wednesday—stared at Allison’s photo on the fridge for too long. By Friday, the list is long enough to make your heart race, but it’s still not enough. It’s all circumstantial, whispers of a truth you’re afraid to face.
Saturday night, the house is quiet. Your dad’s out to dinner with some guys from work, David’s at a sleepover, and Tabitha’s at a friend’s. You and your mom are alone, watching a movie in the living room. She’s curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her legs, and you’re hyper-aware of her every move. She laughs at a joke in the movie—a rom-com Allison loved, one your mom would’ve scoffed at. You catch her glancing at you, her expression soft, almost yearning.
“Tim,” she says during a quiet moment, her voice barely above a whisper. “Can we talk?”
Your pulse quickens. “Sure, Mom. What’s up?”
She shifts, tucking her legs under her, and for a moment, you see Allison in the way she moves—fluid, youthful, not the practiced grace of your mother. “I… I know things have been hard since the accident. Losing Allison, you being in the hospital…” She trails off, her fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. “I just want you to know I’m here for you. Always.”
Her words are warm, but there’s a tremor in her voice, a crack in the facade. You lean forward, your heart pounding. “Mom, I need to ask you something. And I need the truth.”
Her eyes meet yours, wide and searching, and for a moment, you’re sure she’s going to tell you. You see it—the weight of her secret, the longing to confess. But then she blinks, and the moment shatters. “Of course, honey. What is it?”
You hesitate, the question burning on your tongue: Are you Allison? But the words feel too big, too impossible. Instead, you say, “Are you okay? Really? You’ve been… different.”
She smiles, but it’s strained, her eyes glistening. “I’m fine, Tim. Just… adjusting. We all are.” She reaches out, squeezing your hand, and the touch sends a shiver through you—familiar, electric, not your mother’s.
You nod, letting it go, but the doubt is a living thing now, coiling in your chest. You’re not ready to confront her, not yet. You need more—something undeniable.
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