I began to sing. “Broken window, empty hallways . . . a pale dead moon in the sky streaked with gray.” I let my voice lead me down the cobblestone driveway, taking me through a wrought-iron gate and onto the street, shiny like onyx stone. “Human kindness is overflowing, and I think it’s going to rain today.” I switched to a harmony on the next verse.
There were very few cars on the main road. Generally Sunday was a day people tended to stay indoors; but I noticed shortly after moving here that the rain was a natural inhibitor to the residents of the perennially sunny climate. How different things were out here, I mused, naturally thinking of my home town of Roxbury. Unless you wanted to end up stir crazy, or live on canned or freezer food, getting wet was unavoidable during the winter months. Looking out the window, I could almost pretend I was driving down the humble street of Thistle Brook. I laughed out loud, biting my lip, as I passed the third Starbucks in five minutes. Nearly as ubiquitous as gas stations, I thought with amusement. So maybe not just like home, but enough so that my spirits weren’t in the slightest dampened.
I raised my voice, ebullient, and fighting the urge to close my eyes and lose myself in the song. Glancing down at the steering wheel, I saw my hands, while usually a pale white, were even more so. Almost lavender, they ached around the knuckles some. Leaning forward, I held a hand up to the vent, letting the heat warm the stiff fingers.
“And I think it’s going to rain to—darn it,” I broke off suddenly, as my knuckles brushed against the vanilla frosting air freshener, knocking it to the floor mat. I wasn’t too concerned, until I watched it slide under the brake pedal. I thought strongly about just leaving it there until I could get to a red light, but if it was lodged under the pedal I might not be able to completely stop. I started to panic a little, deciding it was probably safe enough for me to reach under there and retrieve it. Already in the furthest right hand lane I was driving so slow someone on a bike could have kept up. I kept my left hand steady on the steering wheel and leaned to the right, keeping my eyes just above the dash board. I felt around on the mat for the little plastic piece, carefully edging further and further toward the brake pedal. As I did, I lost inches of my visibility, straining my chin upward to keep my eyes on the road. I felt my fingers graze the edge of the fan blades.
“Gotcha!” Impetuous and eager—an effect of my very good mood—I grabbed at it brusquely. “No! Come back!” I had pushed it even further away. Eyeing it to gauge the distance, I kept my eyes on the road and stretched my arm beneath me as far as it would go. My shoulder cracked. Again, I felt the little aromatic scourge graze against my fingertips. I wouldn’t make the same mistake and rush it this time. Using my index finger, I scooted it toward me one incredibly tedious flick at a time. When I was certain I had it close enough to grab, I looked down to ensure a good grip. It was in a nanosecond that a car pulled out of a parking lot and into my lane.
I shrieked and dropped the air freshener. The sound quickly died in my throat as I tensed, ground my teeth together, and slammed on the brakes. The stressed tires squealed and the whole car shook with violent, jurassic shudders. Hattie howled grotesquely under the duress. I had time then for only one last thought: I’m going to crash. . .
I heard these four words at least a dozen times, blurred together incomprehensibly. Bracing myself for the impact, I closed my eyes, tightened every muscle in my body, and wrapped my hands to the steering wheel in an iron grip. I didn’t so much as hear, but feel the crunching of metal. I didn’t open my eyes for what felt like a very long time.
When I did, Hattie was rocking herself back and forth, like a child self-soothing herself.
“Oh no . . .” I whispered, staring open-mouthed out the windshield. It was fogged and rain spattered. I couldn’t see anything—or anyone. “Please be okay,” I pleaded to the invisible victim. My heart continued to race. I could feel my pulse everywhere. My legs felt like Jell-o liquefied. Luckily I had been going too slow for the airbag to deploy.
I unbuckled as quickly as shaking hands would permit. Before opening the door I shut off my iPod and leaned over to grab the notepad and pen I kept stashed in my glove compartment. Both legs were working, I observed, with immense relief. I wobbled unsteadily in my boots. The mist was heavy and my view was obscured, but I squinted my eyes, able to see that our cars were spread apart by at least twenty feet.
My brain was working double time: Stay calm—don’t panic—get help. Should I call the police? Yes. Should I make sure everyone is okay first? Yes. As I realized I couldn’t call the police and make sure everyone was safe simultaneously, I decided to go with the latter.
“Please be okay,” I repeated quietly, slowly walking forward. The gravel crunched under my boots, too similar to the sound of metal grinding together. I winced, but persisted. And please don’t be an old person, I added silently.
As I approached the other car, cautious and clutching the notepad to my chest, I saw a figure squatting beside the driver side front tire, doing what looked to be surveying the damage. I peered into the back window and didn’t see another person. So it’s just him, I ascertained with a small amount of relief.
As he rose from the ground, rolling his neck from side to side, I decided this for certain—definitely not an old person, but a man probably somewhere in his early twenties judging from his large, muscular build and impressive height. He seemed to be moving all right, if only portraying soreness in the back and neck by the way he continuously rolled out his shoulders. He remained face forward, a gray beanie covering the majority of his head, save for the strands of dark hair that rested over the collar of a maroon track jacket. I watched as he reached one large hand into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a small black phone. He moved to the right just enough, so that I caught a clear view of what he had been looking at.
I cringed, stifling a sound and clutching the notepad a hair tighter against my beating chest.
Thick white scratches, about three feet in diameter, ran obtrusively across the driver side door. The door, no match for Hattie’s resilience, was crumpled and caved inward. He was lucky to have not been hurt. My traipsing fingers groped idly below my ear as I ogled the very ugly scar left on what used to be a very lovely black car. In addition to the vicious marring, the left side of the fender had come unhinged, mangled like a dislocated arm and left to drag limply on the pavement. Likely with only seconds remaining before he was to turn around, I took the opportunity to scan for additional damage, starting with the trunk. I was easily able to determine the make of the car by the shiny, silver letters spelling out the word Mustang.
The back end had never quite made it out of the parking lot. A quarter of the car still blocked the entry, while the front angled downward and awkwardly into the right lane of the street.
I cringed again, sucking a quick breath of air in through my teeth as the man ran a finger gingerly along the dented metal. He muttered something unintelligible in a hostile tone. Instinctively, I stiffened and took a good step backward, deciding it unwise to sneak up on a person who might very well be fuming—as he had every right to be. Unable to wrangle up the courage to apologize, I waited directly behind him, strategically placed a few feet away.
He didn’t move.
My hands started to shake, and absurdly I felt grateful for an object to project my anxiety onto. I bent the pad back and forth, twisting it from side to side like a damp rag. When no more than a minute passed, I could hardly take it anymore. Steadying my nerves, I searched for a mature voice that would belie the one convicting me as a reckless, ignorant, and frightened seventeen-year-old girl.
“I’m ve—” I cleared my throat, and started again. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I’ll pay for any damages and I have all my information right here if you’d like to look at my insurance.” When he didn’t face me, I continued timidly, my voice husky and soft. “If you don’t mind trading information with me . . . I’ll make sure to call first thing tomorrow.”
After school is over, I
decided. He didn’t need to know that.
Still appearing as if he didn’t have any intentions of ever turning around, I wondered possibly if he might be in shock. This theory was further corroborated when he slowly lifted his head so that it rested atop of his broad shoulder and stared straight ahead as if he couldn’t take his eyes off something in the distance. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing more fascinating than a few cars passing through an intersection. I glanced behind me, thankful I had enough foresight to turn my hazard lights on before getting out of the car.
“Are you, um”—I swallowed once—“all right, Sir?” I asked, a loud crunch under my boot with the step forward. “Would you like me to call an ambulance?” My voice had taken on a certain edge, panic lining the concern at the possibility of this person not being completely . . . stable. “Did I hurt you?” I was glad his back was to me so he couldn’t see the flush in response to the awkward way I’d phrased the question.
I noticed something, though. It couldn’t have been more than a flinch, but being tall and broad shouldered as he was, the move was exaggerated. At my question, his whole body tensed, and went rigid from head to toe. I had no explanation for this and waited patiently; eventually he would have to turn around.
Right?
I assumed he was taking a deep breath, as I watched his back cave slightly, heave upward, and then relax. The long torso—which must have been hunched inside the jacket—decompressed and elongated, stretching him another inch or so. He was much taller than I, with at least six inches separating us. I don’t know why, but this frightened me. I didn’t exactly feel as if I was in danger, but a nagging sliver of hysteria fixed firmly around my neck like a choker necklace. Along with the fact that he purposefully delayed looking at me, this made it difficult to breathe without making any noise.
My pulse quickened as he finally began to turn around, in what was a very obvious reluctant shuffle of the feet. It felt like I had waited forever before I saw his face. But as his profile came into clear view, a jolt shaking me from head to toe thrashed from the inside out. It made the car crash feel like bumping into a coffee table.
My knees buckled, and a soundless gasp choked the air from my lungs. It wasn’t possible; I had to be dreaming again.
Chapter Eleven
Wake up, Foster.
A melancholy calm swam over my body. The fear ebbed, replaced with an ache I could neither understand nor avoid. I stared at the boy in front of me, wondering if he would ever stop haunting my dreams. I sighed, shaking my head from side to side slowly. Every night.
Every night I fell asleep, hoping I would make it till morning without seeing him, that I would wake without his eyes, his lips, and his skin burned into my mind like scorches on firewood. And then I would rouse, just as I thought I already had this morning, and step onto my balcony to soothe the damage done while unconscious. The rain had helped immensely. I could only hope it really was in fact raining. If not, I was in for a rude awakening.
Please. Just wake up. You have to stop dreaming about him.
The sorrow weighed heavily; so much so, that I closed my eyes and began assailing my arms with painful pinches and spoke out loud, thinking it might stir my slumbering body.
“You have to wake up,” I ordered in my most authoritative voice. “You’ve probably slept through your alarm, and now won’t even have time for a shower.” When imperious didn’t get me anywhere, I moved next to manipulation. “The kids are waiting for you. Think of how excited they’re all going to be!” Still certain I was dreaming, I used my final method, guaranteed to get the job done. When all else fails . . . “Rhoda?” I called aloud, hoping she was nearby to expedite things with a slather of wet tongue.
“Hm . . .” The sound of his voice and throat clearing halted my fastidious pincher fingers instantly. Odd. I didn’t normally hear sounds after realizing I was dreaming. Images yes, but never his voice. With a mocking lilt, the deep voice answered my question. “I think the question is . . . are you all right?”
I jolted. Some dream, I marveled, keeping my eyes tightly shut. His voice was much clearer and infinitely smoother than usual. On the first sleepless night, I’d spent a deleterious hour in study, memorizing the measured cadence he used, wondering if that was just the way he spoke when stifling anger, or if he was naturally predisposed to speaking slowly. Either way, the fresh tones of humor made my body react viscerally.
I gave myself another round of pinches, waited a moment, and then listened closely. Nothing but light rain and the far away sound of a car passing somewhere in the distance. The sensation of wet on my skin might have been an indication that I wasn’t dreaming, but as of late, my unconscious world had become deceptively real. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think I might very easily hear those same sounds listening from my bed.
Even knowing it was nothing more than a dream, this felt different—so incredibly real. Everything from his clothes, his face, to his voice was especially clear. There wasn’t a hint of obscurity or the languid haziness that resulted where my memory was unable to recall and recreate. The eyes by far were the most surreal—such a unique, rich shade of blue. It frustrated me; I hadn’t been able to get them quite right. The reminder was gratifying, if not moderately bittersweet.
Before it could slip away for good—or at least until tonight—I held on for one last second, studying the generous black lashes, ringing and further brightening the glowing blue eyes flecked with copper around the pupil; the way the left eye closed just a touch more than the right, revealing more of the eyelid. Mostly, I savored the intent and expression. While a car crash was not my first choice as far as dreams went, I knew it could have been much worse. But for the brief moment we looked at one another, there was not a trace of anguish or malice. This, I hoped, would make it easier to slay the shadows that could oftentimes make me wish I was still dreaming.
Just about ready to open my eyes, I delayed at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. “Hey! You two okay? You need me to call the police or something?”
“That’s not necessary, Sir.” Terse, but polite, Dominic abruptly answered him. “Thank you.” The sound of tires accelerating against the wet ground filled the surrounding silence.
I’m—not—dreaming. This is happening.
There was a reason everything looked and felt incredibly real—because it was. There was only one thing I could do, and I was already burning at the thought of it.
They were locked on me, curious and wary, and unless I was mistaken, with a fair amount of smug. Still, I had expected worse—much worse—and wondered if it was still to come. He was impossible to read; the wide, blue eyes gave nothing away. Then he did the oddest thing of all. He smiled.
“Are you done napping, then?”
My mouth dropped open. I’m not quite sure what I thought he might say . . . but it wasn’t that. “I thought I was dreaming,” I answered honestly, shocked when the truth fell effortlessly from my lips.
The smirk broadened. He crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his eyebrows as if deep in thought. “Dream about me often, do you?” he asked mildly.
And because it was the truth I began to sputter. “No! I don’t—I mean, I dream about a lot of things, but, of course, not about you—not that I wouldn’t—dream about you, I mean, but I—”
“I was only kidding,” he interjected quietly, smiling a sort of rueful, cautious smile and holding up both hands. In a surprising gesture of chagrin, he looked at the ground and shook his head. “Sorry, that was a dumb thing to say.” He lifted his head and began looking me over. “Are you hurt? Your whole face and neck are really red.”
“I ate a tomato for breakfast.”
What?!
Dominic gave me a look of uncertainty. “Are you allergic?”
“I am, yes.”
“Maybe you should stick to peaches and bananas.”
“I’m very sorry about your car,” I said. The yellow pad I was holding was crumpled and shriveled. I pressed it against
my jeans, trying to smooth it out. “Do you—do you want me to write my information down?”
I thought maybe he sighed, but faced into the wind, I couldn’t be sure. When he turned back around, it was only partway, so that a portion of his face remained hidden.
“I’m going to call a tow truck and see how soon they can come and get my car.” He walked away several steps and stopped.
I tried not to eavesdrop, but unable to completely do so. He paced back and forth, the expression on his face growing increasingly irritated. I scribbled on the pad, doodling my name in the hopes that I looked official-like and busy. He strode over a moment later looking grim, and I inferred the conversation had not gone well.
“There’s a lot of accidents today,” Dominic said. He ripped the beanie from his head and his black hair spouted up like a leafy plant from the ground. It relaxed over his ears and forehead before he clawed an impatient hand through it, pulling hard on a clump at the crown. “And since we’re not blocking an intersection or anything,” he waved with aimless vexation toward his car, “it’s going be at least two hours before they can get someone out here. Unbelievable. I really didn’t need this to happen today.” He removed his phone from his pocket again and began jabbing roughly at the buttons.
I thought maybe he was going to call the police after all. I didn’t see very many options. Clearly his car was in no condition to drive; the door bashed in and the fender dragging on the ground. Then I saw it and took a sharp intake of air. His car—it wasn’t just a Mustang. It was a classic; a very old Mustang, and probably the parts were absurdly expensive to replace.
Awakening Foster Kelly Page 24