by Kate Moseman
“If you were going to ruin our friendship over a man, I guess you would hope it turned out well,” said Erin, with a tone almost as bitter as the coffee in her cup.
“I deserved that,” said Genevieve, holding her hands up in a stop-don’t-shoot gesture. “Third—there’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Erin nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “You’re what?”
“I’m pregnant, Erin.”
Erin felt like she’d dodged a bullet. After what she’d learned about Mark’s character, she was relieved he would never be the father of her children. Erin took a sip of her coffee to cover a small smile as she recalled her mother pointing out Genevieve getting “chubby.” Joyce would never stop crowing about her observation once she found out this news. “Why are you telling me?”
“I don’t know. It seemed right, somehow. Even if I did everything else wrong, I could at least be the first to tell you. I didn’t want you to hear it secondhand.” Genevieve rested her hand on her belly. “And that brings me to the last thing.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that Mark and I are going to get married.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Word gets around,” said Erin.
Genevieve gave her a long, speculative look. “Okay. Here’s the thing. I know Mark tried to get you to stop coming to church. But I don’t agree with him—it would be wrong to chase you away just to save us discomfort, when you didn’t even do anything wrong. And maybe you don’t have any interest in coming to church anymore—that’s your business—but I don’t want to be the one to drive you off.” She took a deep breath. “On top of that, our wedding is going to be at the church, and you are invited to come.”
“Wow,” said Erin, setting down her mug. “I’m invited to come to the wedding of my cheating ex-husband and my ex-best friend. This is one for the books.”
Genevieve winced. “Don’t take it that way.” She looked down at the table. “I’m probably not saying any of this right.”
Erin caught herself about to make a comforting remark, the kind you make in casual conversation to smooth over the rough patches. The impulse took her by surprise.
“I’m not saying I made good choices. But I’m going to have to live with them. And I don’t want my choices to affect you any more than they already have.” She looked up at Erin. “You’re destined for something better.”
Genevieve’s words sent a ripple of pity through Erin. Who would want to be married to Mark, anyway?
The realization shattered the last remaining chains she hadn’t even known she’d been wearing.
“Well, this has been most interesting,” said Erin. “Thank you for what you said. I am glad I heard it from you. And thank you for the invitation. Don’t think this means I forgive you—I don’t—but I think you might be right about one thing. I am destined for better things.” She stood up. “In fact, I need to see a girl about a crystal. Goodbye, Genevieve.” She left Genevieve alone at the table and strode to the exit, feeling the swing of her hips as she walked with purpose and momentum out the door.
The storm clouds above swirled and broke, revealing patches of blue sky.
The drive to the magic shop seemed quicker than the first time. Erin parked under the old oak tree and jogged up the steps to the door. She pushed it open and peered inside. “Hello?”
Thumping footsteps echoed through the wooden floor. The card-reading girl, now wearing a different bohemian dress, bounded into the front room. “You’re back! Did you like all the stuff?”
“Hi, there. Yes, I’m back. And I did like it. So much so that I’ve come back for more.”
“Hot dog,” said the girl. “You want a wand now?” She practically bounced up and down in her eagerness to help.
“I’m honestly not sure what I need. Is your mommy around?”
“Nope. She’s upstairs working with clients. But I can help you!”
Erin glanced up the stairs before deciding to push onward. “I need something more to help with dreaming.”
“Dreaming? Are you having bad dreams?”
“Not exactly. More like—I want to be able to control my dreams.”
“Oh! My sister does that. You should talk to her.”
“Your sister? Does she work here?” asked Erin.
The girl laughed. “Work here! That’s a good one.” She peeked behind a short bookcase that formed a small nook next to a window. “You don’t work at all, do you?”
Erin looked over the bookcase.
An even smaller girl sat on the floor behind the bookcase, curled up with a large pile of picture books. She wore an oversized sequined gown, a feather boa shot through with tinsel, a rhinestone crown, and socks with high heels. “I do so!” She stood up from her little nook and put her hands on her hips.
“Then help this lady out, will you? She needs some dreaming equipment.”
“Can you help me?” said Erin, somewhat dubious.
The tiny girl eyed Erin critically. She tossed her hair, clip-clopped over to the cash register, and picked up a shopping basket without saying a word. She stamped briskly through the shop, tossing in items seemingly at random, until she came to a stop in front of Erin. She pushed the basket into Erin’s hands with a shy smile, then spun on her heel and returned to her reading nook.
“That’s my sister,” said the older girl cheerfully. She held the basket up for Erin’s inspection. “Lucid Dreaming for Beginners. Amethyst, moonstone, Herkimer diamond, and moldavite. And a dream diary to write everything down.”
“You think this will work?”
The girl shrugged. “Works for her. She has the best dreams.”
Erin accepted the basket, and with it, the guidance of a pair of precocious children who appeared to run a magic shop all by themselves.
20
Erin curled up with Nancy Drew and a hot mug of tea to re-read Lucid Dreaming for Beginners one more time from cover to cover as the day faded into night. A pile of colorful sticky note pads sat close at hand. Occasionally, she’d peel off another sticky note and stick it on a pertinent page. She’d been jotting down notes in the dream diary for days, filling page after page with a teacher’s neat handwriting.
The most fascinating section of Lucid Dreaming for Beginners, other than the practical part about how to start dreaming lucidly, was the part about how to tell if you were in a dream or reality. Erin amused herself with repetitions of the finger test, in which she pressed one finger into the palm of her other hand to try to make her finger pass through her palm. Of course, it wouldn’t work in reality—but by creating the habit during her waking hours, she would remember to do it while dreaming. The finger test would serve to make her aware of being in a dream state.
Once in a while, she’d change it up and attempt a different reality check, like glancing at the clock twice to see if the time drastically changed between each glance, or placing one hand on the wall to check its solidity. The seemingly nonsensical actions were just silly enough to lift her spirits.
Picking up on Erin’s mood, Nancy Drew playfully nudged Erin, her book, and anything else within Nancy’s nearsighted range of vision.
“You’re a good dog, Nancy,” said Erin, ruffling the dog’s silky ears. “We’ll get the hang of this.”
Tonight she would attempt to channel her newfound skills into a dream about Andy.
She prepared for bed by following sleep hygiene practices: skipping caffeine and alcohol, leaving the television off, and winding down with a warm bath. Later, when she began to yawn, she placed her new crystals and dream diary within easy reach on her nightstand.
When at last her eyelids became heavy with the need for rest, she slipped under the comforter and rested her head on the pillow. One at a time, she held each crystal a
gainst her forehead and concentrated on her intention before setting the crystal carefully back on the nightstand. She would practice her reality checks, seek insight on Andy’s whereabouts, and—most importantly—remember her dreams. After consideration, she kept the quartz crystal necklace in place around her neck.
As she lay in bed with her eyes closed, she allowed herself to relax while gently holding on to the awareness of being awake. Images formed and dissolved behind her eyelids as her consciousness teetered back and forth between the state of wakefulness and the state of sleep.
Then there was nothing, and a sense of time passing.
She found herself in the coffee shop again. Erin looked around. She was supposed to meet Genevieve. She started toward the counter to order coffee, then noticed she already had a mug in her hands. Why was she here again? Hadn’t she already done this?
Her gaze traveled over the coffee shop. Moments ago, it had been full of people. Now it was empty. Disorientation shuddered through her. She looked down, and the coffee mug she’d been holding in her hands seconds before was gone.
Slowly, she pressed one finger into the palm of her other hand. When her hand stretched like taffy, painlessly but with a uniquely discomforting sensation, her excitement nearly popped the dream like a floating soap bubble. She managed to calm herself just in time to maintain the dream state.
As she spun around to look for the door, the coffee shop disappeared entirely, to be replaced by her own living room. Her intentions faded under a haze that settled heavily on her thoughts. She was home. What was she doing at home? Where was Nancy Drew?
The house remained silent, lacking even the sound of Nancy’s skittering paws. Erin realized all over again that she was still dreaming. Holding that thought firmly, Erin walked through the house. Andy’s posters, which she had taken down days ago, hung throughout the house. The groceries he had purchased lay on the counters, untouched, while the full meal he had cooked from those groceries also sat improbably on the table as if waiting for her to sit down to eat.
In the bedroom, she found her little black dress laid out on the bed. Erin reached out one hand to touch the dress, but as soon as she did, she found that it wasn’t on the bed at all.
She was wearing it.
Erin walked to the front door and opened it. In mid-swing, it became a sliding automatic door opening to the fancy grocery store where she and Andy had been shopping. Alongside the groceries, boxes of crystals and wands littered the shelves, interspersed with bottles of Champagne.
Curious, Erin picked up a bottle and examined the ornate label. The words read “Le Nouveau Palmier,” until a second glance revealed them to be meaningless swirls.
The bottle slipped from her hands and struck the floor with a shattering crash. A splash of cold droplets of liquid obscured her vision, and she closed her eyes as the grocery store blurred into nothing.
When she opened them again, the grocery store was gone, replaced by the bare walls of her old classroom. Erin remembered—in a fuzzy, distant kind of way—that the room was not, in fact, completely empty of its furniture. In this dream state, however, it contained nothing at all.
Well, almost nothing.
Erin drew closer to a single object located on the floor in the center of the room. Whatever it was, it trembled in a nonexistent breeze. She knelt with her hand out. Her fingers closed around a soft gray feather flecked with white. She stood and brought the feather to her cheek, feeling the sensation as it traced the line of her cheekbone, the curve of her cheek, and finally her lips.
She smiled.
Holding the feather, she spun in a circle, just as she’d practiced, concentrating on her intentions as the room whirled away into nonexistence.
She opened her eyes to a heavy wooden bookshelf labeled “200” for the Dewey Decimal System, and immediately recognized her location as the school library. Although the silent darkness gave her pause, she gripped the feather more firmly and walked out of the shelves. She almost tripped on an abandoned picnic basket.
Sidestepping the basket, she entered the open seating area to be confronted with an unusual sight.
A white door floated without support in the middle of the room.
Erin approached it carefully. Why would there be a door in the middle of the library? Erin reached out and gingerly placed her hand on the door, finding it cool and smooth to the touch, with no handle or knob to be seen.
A scrap of Scripture came to mind. She spoke it aloud: “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you.” With that, she gripped the feather in one hand, and with the other, formed a fist and knocked on the door, belatedly realizing she’d used the rhythm of the “Ride of the Valkyries” just like her mother.
PART II
ANDROMALIUS
21
There were only a few decorations on the wall, and in his time stuck in the Waiting Room, Andromalius had stared at them all. There was the framed “No One Is Coming to Save You” sampler, cross-stitched with inexpertly formed flowers and vines. Then there was the faded “Hang In There” kitten poster, which could have been considered relatively inoffensive if it weren’t for the fact that if he stared too long at the kitten, it gave the unnerving impression of staring back.
The only other decorative item—if it could be called decorative—was the worn-down “Take A Number” stand, which dispensed little green slips of paper with numbers that were never called.
Andy shifted in his chair, which seemed to have been designed for maximum discomfort, then stood up and charged the service window one more time. “Excuse me,” he said to the woman-shaped creature occupying the booth. “Any estimate on when I can get out of here?”
The Waiting Room attendant—who, as a fellow supernatural being, could have appeared in any form in the known universe but chose to look like a slightly more severe version of Margaret Thatcher—didn’t even look up from her pile of paperwork. “Has your number been called?” she asked without interest.
“You know damn well it hasn’t,” said Andy.
“Can’t process your release until your number’s been called.”
“You haven’t called any numbers in the last thousand years!” shouted Andy.
She ignored him and stamped a form with thick, rust-colored ink.
Andy kicked the front of the booth out of sheer pique, then strode over to the kitten poster. “I’m on to you,” he said, pointing a finger at the kitten.
The kitten’s whiskers might have twitched—but then again, maybe not.
Andy flung himself down in one of the many chairs. He’d sat in all of them since he’d been blasted out of earthly existence by that library witch. There was no way to tell how long it had been.
He’d been stuck in the Waiting Room various times over the millennia, for various reasons (some better than others). Each time, he could do nothing to set himself free. He could only wait for the Powers That Be to release him on their own mysterious schedule.
Andy sighed, pulled out his pocket notebook, and flipped through the pages for what seemed like the thousandth time. He’d had such a good thing going. He’d managed to get summoned by a mortal with a need for revenge and a hidden desire for vegetarian food. He’d felt useful for once, instead of knocking around the universe like an aging trust-fund kid with no place to call home.
Now he was stuck in the Waiting Room.
Andy leaned back and closed his eyes. Not for him, the blessed relief of sleep. No, he would experience every stultifying moment in all its tedious glory, with only an ersatz Maggie Thatcher to keep him company.
A rhythmic banging sound interrupted his self-pity.
Was it the “Ride of the Valkyries”?
Andy bolted up, stuffing his notebook in his pocket as he ran to the featureless white door of the Waiting Room. He pressed his hands against the door. “Some
one’s knocking,” he called to the Waiting Room attendant.
She didn’t look up.
He crossed the room to the booth and leaned down to the opening that allowed his voice to pass through the thick plexiglass-like material of the booth. He cleared his throat. “I said, someone is knocking on the door. To the rhythm of the ‘Ride of the Valkyries,’ to be precise.”
“It’s a funny old world,” she muttered, still without looking up, but her hand darted below the desk.
A loud buzzing noise rang through the room.
Andy bolted to the door and pushed.
The door gave way and he stumbled through, quickly unfurling his wings to recover his balance. The Waiting Room disappeared in a blinding flash of white light.
Andy looked up.
Erin stood before him in a black cocktail dress, with an expression of shock that metamorphosed into a delighted smile. But when he started forward, her form faded away like fog.
Andy recognized a dream when he saw one, and—unlike the Waiting Room—dreams provided an easy path back to reality. Full of determination, he concentrated on shifting from the dream back to reality. He closed his eyes and moved without moving, following the breadcrumbs of Erin’s subconscious all the way back to the real world.
Andy materialized in Erin’s bedroom with a soft sigh of relief. His gaze traced Erin’s form. She was still sleeping, her brown hair splayed over the pillow in nocturnal disarray, one foot poking out from the covers. Perhaps she dreamt on, or perhaps she had eased into a deeper sleep without dreams.
He carefully covered her foot with the comforter, then folded away his wings and tiptoed out of the room. “Don’t wake her,” he said to Nancy Drew outside the bedroom.
The dog cocked her head as if she understood.
After sunrise, Andy could wait no longer. He put the coffee on to brew and retrieved two mugs from the cabinet, remembering to move carefully so that he didn’t startle her out of her wits by breaking a dish like he had the first time.