This is a reprint of one of my stories that appeared previously at Mash Stories. You’ll also find it in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

What is that thrum? Nothing appears out of place. No. Wait. Are the curtains stirring?

—

A pulsating thrum woke Trula. She stared into the darkness. “Is that you, Starr?” The thrum diminished. She threw off her blankets and groped for the touch lamp. A soft glow illuminated the room. Nothing appeared out of place: her clothing for tomorrow laid out on a chair, her wedding photo poking out of the wastebasket, thyroid medication on the dresser —

No. Wait. Were the curtains stirring?

“Starr, I’m not kidding around.”

A little girl peeked out, cherry cheeks damp with tears. “I can’t sleep, Mommy. When’s Daddy coming home?”

“We’ve talked about that already, Monkey. Daddy has his own place now. You can visit him this weekend.” How am I supposed to explain to a five-year-old that Veryl’s lab and ridiculous temporal theories are more important to him than his family?

“Can I sleep with you, Mommy?”

“Hop up.” Trula cuddled her. “Were you playing with your SynthOhSyzer?”

The thrum resumed and increased in volume. It became a crescendo that vibrated the box of tissues off the dresser and onto the floor. Omigosh. It wasn’t her Synth. She pulled Starr tight to her chest.

The noise faded.

Starr whimpered. “Mommy, I’m scared.”

“It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Mommy will take care of it.”

Trula searched about for a weapon. The only object within reach was a heavy, dog-eared copy of Veryl’s latest book, Einstein’s Error: Relativity Debunked. She picked it up. “You stay here, Monkey. I’m going to see what’s making the weird noise.”

Sparks of static popped from the carpet as she sidled toward the door. She eased it open, hesitated, and then looked back at the bed. Starr stared at her, wide-eyed, embracing a pillow. Trula squeezed through the partially open door, closed it with a gentle click, and crept toward the undulating light emanating from the kitchen. Is this another one of Veryl’s stupid attempts to get me back? It’s too late. All the cajoling and pleading in the world won’t make me change my mind.

She inched closer. Closer. The light surrounded her …

It was her wedding day. She was standing before the altar in St. Paul’s Cathedral, with Veryl at her side, her tiny baby bump concealed by an empire waist. The wisp of a memory tickled at her brain: something important, but she couldn’t quite access it.

Veryl took her in his arms and kissed her. Thoughts of their approaching honeymoon crowded out any efforts to find that elusive memory. Her body responded with fire to the lips of her new husband.

He whispered in her ear. “I meant every word of our nuptial vows, and I promise to throw away all my research. I’ve learned my lesson. You and Starr are more important to me than relativity, thought transference, and time travel.”

She frowned. Who’s Starr?

—

You’ll find more short fiction like this in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

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