Daddy hasn’t been the same since he died. Momma says this is to be expected. “He’ll be good as new, Baby Girl. Give him a few days; you’ll see.” She checks his test results and smiles.
I fear Momma may be batshit crazy. But then I thought dead was dead—no backsies—and Momma’s proved that wrong. Least partway. Dead-Daddy can move his eyes, twitch two fingers. Groan some. I see something in his eyes though—a sharpness that makes me move Momma’s scalpels, hide all the knives.
This is why Daddy wanted to be cremated, ‘cause you can’t trust Momma once she gets experimenting. Daddy used to say she’s a few theories short of cohesive. But I give her a few days. I miss Daddy, too. Maybe more now that he’s back.
Seven days later, Dead-Daddy can get out of bed, almost stand. He makes guttural sounds Momma translates into words. “Waaah.”
“You want water? Here’s your sippy cup.” Momma cries, says how much she loves him.
I’m not convinced the daddy she’s brought back is my daddy.
I buy matches, soak rags in gasoline. Momma teaches Daddy to walk, dress himself.
This won’t end well. It can’t.
Momma catches me trying to burn her lab up. She extinguishes the flames and locks me in my room. “I saved you,” she says. “Now let me save him.”
So I give her time. I wait.
When Daddy’s better, I’ll show him where I put the scalpels.
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