Ever since I met Rebecca, I vowed to never separate ourselves. To be entwined with her. But to be inextricable to the one you love can be seen as unhealthy, Mother said. So I found times where I’d be away from her. Brief pockets of time.

And yet, even when I was away, I found myself thinking of her. I remember the first moment I first saw her. I was walking down Main Street, and I caught a glimpse of her through the window of the dress shop. I had no excuse to go into a dress shop naturally, but I remember fumbling around and telling Penelope, the dressmaker, something about my mother’s upcoming birthday. I had muttered something about wanting to surprise her with a dress, but the whole time, my eyes were on Rebecca.

She didn’t even look like she belonged there. Her gaze haunted me, and I suppose Penelope noticed the way I stared, my eyes lingering over Rebecca. She chuckled a bit, and then acknowledged my brazen desperation, my lascivious desire. “That’s Rebecca,” Penelope told me at the time, “bring her home if you’d like.” Shaking her head, she added, “The girls these days think wooden mannequins like Rebecca are outdated.”

Mannequin?

What an ugly word for my queen.

I ignored the jab and bought my mother’s dress, the pretense under which I came to see my newfound partner. Once purchased, I scurried out and hastened home.

Of course, Mother turned up her nose at Rebecca. Mother has always been a snob. I supposed Rebecca wasn’t haute couture enough for her, in her simple tea-length dress, but I found her stunning.

Mother and I still lived together, but she often stifled me, tutting at my choice in books or television. Sometimes, turning up her nose in the food I brought home from the grocer.

But now, Rebecca.

I put my foot down. I told her I loved her and I loved Rebecca. That she had to respect our love.

She scoffed but did not reply.

Finally, I heard her mutter something about wooden mannequins under her breath.

There was that ugly word again. Mannequin. Rebecca and I retired to bed early that evening.

I touched her tenderly as we lay in bed. On her back, she stiffened as I murmured, “I noticed you didn’t touch your dinner.”

Reproached by her silence, I kissed her cheek and said good night.

The next morning, I helped Rebecca out of bed. It was cold outside, so neither of us felt like getting up, but we knew we needed to. I brought her tea, but she didn’t drink it. I offered her coffee, but she wouldn’t speak.

Finally, as the three of us sat at the table, Mother suggested I get groceries before the snow started coming down worse.

I looked toward Rebecca, hoping she would join me – or at the very least, acknowledge me going into the snow storm. She punished me with silence. I hugged her tightly before I left.

I whispered to her, “I love you.”

The ensuing silence stung and as I reached the door, I wiped the tears from my eyes as she stared at me blankly. It was as though she had no emotions toward me whatsoever, but I knew that couldn’t be the case.

We’d shared such a connection.

“I’ll be home soon,” I assured her.

Mother rolled her eyes.

***

As I unpacked the brown paper bags from the back of our station wagon, I smelled the smoke. Mother must have found some firewood around back and made a fire.

A part of me was relieved. The warmth would be nice.

I placed the bags on the Formica counters in the kitchen and began to organize the groceries, inhaling the deep woodsy smell as I did. Jars of pickles and blocks of cheese. Deli meat. Loaves of bread. Eggs. Cartons of milk. Everything I could think of.

I didn’t remember anyone dropping off firewood yet this year, it occurred to me, as I was putting the deli meats in the refrigerator. Then, I grabbed a jar of pickles, ready to pack them away until we needed them when I thought to check on my mother and Rebecca. That’s when the thought occurred to me.

The ugly thought.

The one I kept telling myself not to think.

How Penelope told me and my mother told me and how everyone laughed at me because Rebecca was a wooden mannequin.

And in that moment, I remembered without a shadow of a doubt we didn’t have firewood.

But we had an ax and my girlfriend whom my mother despised.

The only thing left when I got to the fireplace was my mother prodding Rebecca’s head deeper into the fire. My beloved’s eyes twinkled from the flames as my mother giggled with glee.

“Turns out,” my mother said, laughing, “your girlfriend is good for something.”

Isabelle Palerma