“Yeah. Maybe I am.”

She sighs and leans back. She doesn’t think she’s still dreaming, doesn’t think she has ever had a dream this vivid. It just feels too real. The sunlight streaming through the curtains is too bright. The warm weight of his arm on her shoulders is a touch too heavy. The place where his bare skin touches hers tingles a little too much.

He stands, pulling her with him.

“Come on. You go eat. I’ll take care of this.” He gestures towards the stain on the bed.

She moves towards the door, but stops at the feel of his hand on her arm.

“Hey.”

She turns to look at him.

“Good morning.”

He leans in and kisses her softly on the forehead as she instinctively leans in, smiling and closing her eyes.

Her eyes open as he breaks contact and pulls away, the spot his lips had touched on fire. He presses the mug into her hands.

“There’s more hot water in the kettle.”

She smiles softly and looks down at the mug, which has obviously been decorated by a child. She runs her fingertip softly over the messy daisies and sloppily painted words. She hadn’t noticed what the mug said before, she’d been too distracted by the photographs and they realization that she was with Jim, not Roy. Now, taking in the words, she feels a hint of pride, though she can’t explain where it comes from.

World’s Best Mom.

Her smile falters and she remembers that it can’t possibly be her mug.

She would remember if it were.

She walks down the hall towards the stairs, letting herself linger over the photographs hanging on the walls. They depict events she doesn’t remember, things she would have sworn had never happened if the proof that they had wasn’t staring her in the face, covering most of the wall space in the long, narrow hall. There are pictures of birthdays and picnics and first steps. Pictures of children she feels connected to, children she recognizes in a vague sort of way, but doesn’t know.

Tearing her eyes away from the photographs, she turns towards an open door on her right. She peeks cautiously in; afraid she might find someone in it. Thankfully, it’s empty and, with a relieved sigh, she steps in, eager to get an idea of who lives in it, hoping it will provide her with some clue as to what is going on.

She takes in the pale pink walls, the purple bedspread. She notices toys and books overflowing from the shelves against the far wall. There is a teddy bear in a pink tutu sitting on the bed and a picture on the table to the right. She steps over and takes a closer look at the picture. Though she thought she knew what she would see, she's still not prepared for it, and her hands shake as she looks down at the image captured. It is her and the little girl with the curly brown hair and bright green eyes. They are laughing smiling into the camera, making faces at whoever is taking the picture.

Pam is lost in the photograph. She stares into the green eyes of the little girl, so strange to her, yet impossibly familiar.

A sudden thump from the room next door reminds Pam of where she is and what she’s doing. She’s not sure why, but she thinks she needs to play along with whatever is going on. She doesn’t think anyone will give her answers, not sure they could if she asked them.

She hurries out of the room and towards the stairs; sorry that she won’t be able to explore the other rooms she passes on the way.

She wonders if this might be some sort of elaborate prank. She knows Jim would love it, though she’s not sure he would be able to pull off something of this magnitude.

Lost in the possibilities, she doesn’t notice she’s reached the bottom of the stairs until she tries to step down and stumbles, stubbing her toe as she does. She swallows her exclamation, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She’s hoping to find the kitchen without running into anyone.

The kitchen.

She realizes she doesn’t know where the kitchen was. She had been hoping that some innate sense of direction would just magically bring her to the kitchen, without her having to think about where it was or how to get there.

It doesn’t.

She sees that she has three choices. To the right there is a room that appears to be a family room of some sort. There are pictures on the walls, artwork that, as everything is starting to, feels familiar to her, internal, as though she had a hand in creating it. She can hear noises coming from the room. Cartoonish voices and childish giggles. She won’t be going right. She’s afraid to go right, not sure she can handle it. She thinks the people she can hear in that room will be expecting her know them and she knows that she won’t.

In the room to the left, she can see part of a table, some chairs, and a basket of fruit. Sunlight is pouring out of the room and into the hallway where she stands. She thinks this must be the kitchen.

In front of her is the front door. A beautiful, cherry wood door with an ornate glass center. She can see blurry images of the outside through the cut-glass designs. The blobs of green and splotches of blue, red, and beige captivate her and she stares at the door for a second too long.

She thinks about walking to the door, pulling it open, and leaving. Just walking right out of this house and away from all of the confusion it holds.

But she doesn’t have any idea where she is or how she got there. She can’t find her way back to where she was without knowing where she is.

She’s not sure she wants to. She’s confused, scared, and lost but Jim is here and nothing bad has ever happened to her when Jim was there. He wouldn’t let it. And part of her really wants to get to the bottom of what’s going on. She can’t leave.

She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, turning left and going through the door.

A sigh of relief escapes her lips as she realizes she’s chosen the right direction. She’s made it to the kitchen. It’s a small victory and she savors the feeling.

Her eyes pan slowly over the room, taking in every inch of it, hoping it might provide some clue as to how she got here. She sees a cozy nook in the corner, a table and chairs set in front of a large window that overlooks the front yard and the street. There’s a large refrigerator across the room covered in pictures and portraits done in finger paints. She spots the stove in the middle of the wall to her left.

As she crosses the room towards the stove, she notices something familiar sitting on top of it. She picks up the teapot, smiling at the memory of receiving it. It’s been her favorite possession since he gave it to her at that ill-fated Secret Santa. She remembers her delight at each of the ‘bonus gifts’ that had been tucked inside, each one bringing back another memory, something she and Jim shared only with each other.

She pours the hot water into her mug and looks around, realizing that she doesn’t know where the teabags are kept. Her hand moves towards the cabinet above the stove, thinking that if this were her house, they would be there. It’s where she keeps them at home.

She’s rewarded with a box of her favorite tea, staring back at her. She drops a teabag into her mug and pulls open a drawer, grabbing a spoon.

The spoon is already in her mug before she wonders how she knew which drawer would hold the spoons.

Shaking her head, as if to shake the question from her mind, she spots a stack of fluffy-looking pancakes on the counter and heads towards them, grabbing a fork on the way.

She smothers them with syrup, making sure to cover every inch of pancake. The first forkful is halfway to her lips when she freezes, a tiny voice making her blood run cold.

“Can I have some juice?”

Pam whips around, dropping the fork on her way. She is met with the expectant stare of the small girl from the photographs. Looking at the girl, she realizes she never really thought it was a prank. Her features are too similar, her smile too familiar.

“Uh – I – Sure…” She stammers, not knowing what to say.

The little girl stares at her, the bemused look on her face making Pam swallow hard and take a sharp breath. The look is identical to the one she had received from Jim just a few minutes ago.

“Grape, please.”

Of course.

“Oh. O – Okay.”

She heads for the refrigerator, knowing the little girl is expecting her get the juice.

Maddie, she reminds herself. Her name is Maddie.

She reaches for the bottle of grape juice, noticing a slight shake to her hand as she does so, and looks around for a glass.

For the first time she notices how messy the room is. Jim wasn’t kidding when he said they’d destroyed the kitchen. Pancake batter had dripped all over the counter and stovetop. Dirty plates and silverware are scattered over the table and a dusting of flower covers the counter and everything on it.

She sucks in her breathe at the sight, but lets out of sigh of relief when she notices the dish rack next to the sink. It holds several clean, brightly colored plastic cups that are mercifully free of flour and batter. She reaches for the nearest cup.

“No! Not that one. I want the red one.”

The tiny voice startles her. She had almost forgotten that the little girl was there, that she was the one waiting for the juice in her hand.

Pam grabs the red cup and fills it with juice, handing it to the girl.

The little girl takes a sip and turns to leave, calling over her shoulder as she goes.

“Thanks Mommy.”

Pam freezes at this as the girl’s back disappears through the door.

Mommy?

Either this is a very well planned and executed prank, or Pam has somehow landed in some alternate universe.

Or something else.

Setting the juice on the counter, she abandons her pancakes and heads back towards the stairs, determined to find Jim and make him tell her what is going on.