Francesca's Kitchen by Peter Pezzelli

struggled against it, she was being borne inexorably to the surface.
    â€œ Come on , Mom . We’re gonna be late! ”
    Facedown in the pillow, clenching the bedsheets beneath her, while a cold rivulet of drool seeped from the corner of her wide-open mouth, Loretta Simmons opened her eyes. She tried to move, but it felt as though she were lying beneath an anvil that was pressing her deeper and deeper into the mattress. She was too tired to even yawn. Wearily, she lifted her head off the pillow, pushed aside the hair hanging over her eyes, and looked into the face of her son, standing at the edge of the bed. Wiping the side of her mouth with the back of her hand, she glanced at the clock. Seven twenty-five. God, she had forgotten to set the alarm again. There was no way the kids would make the bus; she would have to drive them to school again. Dropping her head back onto the pillow, she let out a sorrowful groan and squeezed her eyes shut once more.
    Up to that point, Loretta had been lost in a very pleasant dream, the last remnants of which were now quickly receding from her memory like smoke up a chimney. Desperately, she tried to pull it all back, to piece together the remaining fragments, before it disappeared forever. It was the type of dream she seemed to have with growing regularity lately. Whenever she had it, there was always something oddly familiar about it, like she was acting out the script to a play that had essentially all the same dialog and characters but was constantly being set in someplace new. This time around, she recalled standing on a balcony overlooking a shimmering, moonlit bay. A warm, gentle breeze caressed her face and hair, while from down below, the sound of calypso music rose above the sighing of the gentle surf. She wasn’t alone, of course. Standing there with her on that beautiful balcony was a man. There was always something very familiar about him as well, even though she never could quite make out his face.
    â€œTell me you’ll stay,” she recalls saying to him in the dream.
    â€œOf course I will stay,” he had told her, reaching out for her hand.
    â€œTell me you’ll never leave.”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œTell me you love me.”
    â€œWith all my heart.”
    It was all something right out of a romance novel, but just the same, it all came out so heartfelt, so dramatically real to her. It swept her away. The secret passion, the longing in her heart. It was all ready to burst forth, like the sun emerging from the clouds.
    But then, just at the moment when the man finally took her in his arms and began to bring his lips to hers, that climactic moment when the music swelled and the violins began to play, the voice had come and chased the whole magical scene away. Now, try as she might, there was no way to put herself back into it, no matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut.
    â€œGet up, Mom,” insisted her son, nudging her in the arm. “We’re going to be late for school!”
    â€œGo get dressed, Will,” Loretta grunted. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
    â€œI’m already dressed,” he replied. “When are you going to make breakfast? I’m hungry.”
    â€œYou’re nine years old,” she complained. “Can’t you make your own breakfast? Do I have to do everything? Pour yourself a glass of juice. Have a bowl of cereal. Make yourself some toast.”
    â€œWe have no juice, there’s no clean bowls, and the toaster is broke, remember?” her son impishly reminded her. Then, in a more pleading tone: “Come on, Mom. I’m really hungry.”
    Loretta let out another groan and rolled over onto her back. She rubbed her eyes and stared forlornly at the ceiling. “Is your sister up?” she said.
    â€œIn the bathroom, brushing her hair, where else?”
    â€œOkay,” his mother yawned, dragging herself from beneath the covers. “Go. I’m