I’m entitled to leave early, my mother has already spoken to Ms. Reins, but I’m loath to face her round, jolly sympathy. I know from experience that I can’t escape without a volley of ‘poor dears’ and cooing sounds better suited to pigeons than people. I pause in front of the tinted windows of the administrative office, fighting the urge to ditch class and go home on my own.
As I stand in front of the glass, he is suddenly there before me, reflected in the dark surface of the window. He smiles widely when his eyes met mine. A ripple of surprise passes over his face. He raises a hand and wiggles his fingers at me, giving me a hesitant wave. I wave back to him, a little thrill racing through me. It is him, the boy from my dream. His image begins to fade from the edges like breath clearing from a window.
I’m still standing there with my hand up, watching the last twinkle of his eyes in the glass, when the door flies open. “Rebecca Pierce, you poor dear, why are you just standing there? Are you ill? Oooooooo, Oooooooo, it must be your head. Come in, poor little thing, I’ll call your mom right away.” I’m whisked into the office of polished wood and beige carpeting and gently placed in one of the comfortable burgundy chairs reserved for welcomed guests.
If only she had called my mom! But Mrs. Evelyn Wade-Pierce is impossible to reach, even in emergencies. She’s always with a client and almost never returns pages from the school. Ms. Reins isn’t up to the task of tracking her down, especially not when my ultra-laid back, charming, and handsome father can pick me up at a moment’s notice.
If the head pain hadn’t already made me nauseous, the sight of my father dressed in a leather jacket, skinny jeans and a button down shirt with very few buttons in use, jaunting through the door with a motor cycle helmet in one hand, would have done the job nicely. Midlife crisis central.
Still, he’s all tender fatherly concern. He peers intently into my face. “How are you doing kiddo?” he asks gently. I breathe in a whiff of the cloying new cologne he’s bathed in and my breakfast rockets up. I have just enough time to lean into the plastic potted plant beside me. In the background there’s a flurry of ‘poor dears.’
The ride home is the most miserable of my life. Between the cologne, pounding headache and motor cycle vibrations I’ve never been so glad to see my driveway. Before the accident, he would have dropped me at the curb and sped away. Now though, he lingers anxiously while I pull out the keys, “You can come in if you want Dad, Mom won’t be home for hours. It’s still your house.”
I don’t turn around to see his break-it-to-me-gently eyes. I know full well that their separation is going a lot better than their marriage. I don’t even really want him to come back if it means more fighting, but it really stings the way he acts like our neighbourhood is a hot zone, even when there’s no chance at all of them running into each other. It’s kind of hard not to take that personally.
“I’ll get your pills and make sure you’re settled in before I go, okay?”
“Sure dad, sure,” I say as I slump down on the sofa. It takes him all of three minutes to ‘settle’ me with a blanket, headache pills and a glass of water before he lets himself out. I don’t ask him to stay. He doesn’t want to be here, the message is clear enough. I try not to think about how much my mom will freak if she finds out about the motorcycle pick up and child abandonment. The most frequently used word in her vocabulary is ‘irresponsible.’ It’s not until my headache eases up and my stomach quiets that I notice large, drying splotches of vomit on my shirt. Ugh.
I turn the shower onto its hottest setting and sit in the bathroom waiting for the water to warm up to near scalding. I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor and step into the steaming shower. The water chases itself in little rivers over my body. I breathe the moist air in deeply, as I trace a soapy hand over the long red lines on my right arm and the wide raised scar on my upper thigh. I let the water rinse me clean. Lathering shampoo into my fine brown hair, I let my fingers skirt the smooth, shaved patch at the base of my head that edges the fissure in my skull. Just a week ago my neck had been sore to the touch. Now the gash is completely closed and healed over. It’s amazing how quickly my body healed.
I touch the edges of my scars, where the skin is still rough. There’s no doubt that I had a close call but now that the punctures are closed and the blue and purple bruises on my skin have faded to patches of shallow yellow I looked almost the way I did before. Fully dressed, with my hair down you’d never know how close a thing it had been.
I step out of the shower, shaking wet hair out of my eyes and groping blindly for a towel. When my eyes clear I looked up at the mirror and see the word, “Hello” written across the mirror. My heart does a 360 spin in my chest and I lunge for the lock on the bathroom door. It’s still locked. Hands shaking, I check it again. I retreat from the door. It’s a small bathroom, just shower, sink, toilet. There’s nowhere for someone to hide. I try to calm myself, trying on all kinds of rational explanations. Trying to get a grip on things I take a hand towel and scrub the word off the mirror. It’s easier to be calm once it was gone.
At least it’s easier to be calm until the mirror starts fogging back up again. I watch trembling, naked except for a bath towel, as letters begin to form on the mirror. Don’t be afraid. I have never found any words less comforting. I scream, fling open the door and hurl myself through the house.
I clutch the towel to me as I dive through the front door and race into the yard. Buick comes bounding over, his eyes shining at the fun of it all. He looks up at me with sparkling eyes, tail pumping like crazy, as I stand panting and half crying. Buick’s tongue lolls out to the side, greatly amused by my antics. Standing in a towel, on my front lawn, next to my big black doodle, I feel absolutely ridiculous.
I need to calm down and think, but not almost naked in the front yard. “Come on Buick, let’s go around back.”
I skirt the house, still not ready to go inside, and settle into the lawn chair on the deck. With the warm afternoon sun on my skin and the familiar sounds of birds chirping and trees rustling, the possibility of words appearing on my mirror seems far more remote. “Let’s think about this boy.” I say to Buick, who is still regarding me with keen interest. “Either my recent blow to the head is causing me to hallucinate, or something is trying to communicate with me by writing on my mirror.” Buick looks at me with sympathy and turns his head to the side, “which is impossible of course, but it’s still damned creepy.”
I knot the towel around me and force myself to lounge on the chair, figuring if my body is relaxed my mind will relax too. I spot my diary lying under the little wooden drink table, with my pen still tucked in from yesterday. At least now I know what to write. I open it and hold the pen in my hand, mentally composing my first sentence. I stare at the whiteness without really seeing the page, until a tiny spot of black appears on the crispness of the journal page. More spots appear like bubbles rising to the surface of a still pond. Little by little, the spots form into words, I’m sorry I startled you. The sentence slowly writes itself before my eyes. The words are written in looping, fluid cursive that is so elegant it looks like calligraphy.
I don’t scream. I don’t flinch. I hold very still, the journal clutched in my white fingers, waiting for the words to disappear, or for more to appear. I blink. The words stay there. I ease my grip on the soft leather of the journal and reach for my pen. Shakily, under his graceful script I write, ‘It’s okay.’ Which it isn’t, but what else does one write to an apologetic hallucination? ‘Who are you?’ I add, though I think I know.
A long time goes by and then slowly, drop by drop, pinpricks of ink shape themselves into words. You know me. I hold my breath as the words take shape, picturing his gentle, slow smile and twinkling hazel eyes. I savour the memory for a moment, before looking back down at his words. ‘Are you a ghost?’ I ask.
This time the wait is so long I begin to think he isn’t going to answer. When the ink does start to appear it is a pale grey, like a prin
ter running low on ink. No.
No. It’s an answer but not really an explanation. I close the book slowly, suddenly aware of wearing only a towel and having a very strange conversation with- a book. Judging from the washed out look of his answer I really don’t expect much more communication, and frankly, I’m relieved. It feels like I’m playing a crazy game of Would You Rather. Would you rather lose your mind or have a conversation with a disembodied spirit?
My cell phone rings inside the house, bringing me back to reality. It’s already 2:40 and Mandy has probably dialled my number the very second her feet left the school property, and cell phone ban, behind. I scramble to answer it. With Mandy it’s answer the phone, or receive a visit.
“Becka, where did you disappear to during gym? You could have at least said goodbye, unless you were very sick, then I could have driven you home. Everyone was so disappointed to miss you at lunch-”
I pin the phone between one ear and my shoulder, dressing as I listen to her synopsis of the day. Mandy rarely needs much encouragement so I just make vaguely approving noises as I stick my head into the bathroom. There’s no sign of steam or messages but the vomit smeared pile of clothing is incriminating enough. I gather up the wad of clothing and stuff it deep into the hamper, making a mental note to get to the laundry before mom.
“Great then we’ll see you around seven!” Mandy exclaims with enthusiasm.
My attention returns to the conversation. “What?”
She lets out a dramatic breath of annoyance, “If you aren’t going to listen to the conversation you’ll just have to live with my plans Becka. Everyone wants to see you, and since you’re too frail to come out, we’re coming to you.”
My mom, blissfully unaware of my shortened school day or any of the ensuing events strides through the door at 5:30 sharp. Painful punctuality is one of my mother’s worst personality traits. She’s also crazy observant so, before some detail can give me away I volunteer, “Dad picked me up from school.”
She raises one well shaped eyebrow and purses her lips, just a touch. “How, considerate of him,” is all she says, though I know she is burning to ask me if he used the Volvo or the Harley as a method of transportation. “Any special reason he felt the need to drive you home?”
Her eyes search mine as I answer. “He was just trying to be nice.”
She frowns but lets it go. Ever since the accident she’s avoided saying anything unpleasant. It’s the walking on eggshells effect. In her eyes I’m still broken and fragile, so I’m getting a free pass. “Your day was uneventful than?” she asks, setting down her briefcase on the dining room table.
“Actually it was kind of different. Being back at school, and all.” The and all part of it was especially interesting. “Mandy’s laying siege to the living room with the gang tonight, if that’s okay?”
Mom’s mouth twitches in reaction to the news but whether she’s annoyed or pleased, I can’t tell. Even after living with her my entire life I still can’t read her reactions. “As long as you don’t over tire yourself,” her eyes sweep over me, noticing my change of clothing and the un-styled, fresh out of the shower look of my hair. Satisfied that my health is in no danger she nod and shuts herself away in the office.
* * *
Scarfing down pizza, drinking way too much soda and watching ‘B’ movies with my friends feels normal, which feels weird after all the recent drama and strangeness in my life. Justin, Matt, Mandy and I lounge across the living room furniture, trading quips and bowls of salty snacks between us. It’s been like forever since we’ve done this, and no time at all. Justin and Matt both live less than five minutes from my house. We’ve grown up peeing in pools and stuffing erasers in our noses together. At this point we knew so much about each other that they’re more like brothers than friends.
Matt lazily tosses a Cheeto at Mandy, trying to get her going. He’s an incurable tease. He likes this kind of thing, watching movies, messing around, anything that involves more laughter than deep thought. I don’t think we’ve had a single serious conversation in years. It’s been all movies, music and sports but that doesn’t mean we’re not good friends, we just don’t talk about it. He’s always been athletic but in the last few years he’d really filled out. With his easy sense of humour, dark hair and muscular build, he’s started to draw a lot of female attention.
“What?” he says to me, catching me staring at him.
“Just admiring the view, after all, I had to have something to live for,” I quip at my driest. He rolls his eyes and tosses a handful of Cheetos at me but his throw goes wide and hits Justin in the face.
Justin is day to Matt’s night. He’s lean, fair haired, with light eyes and a gentleness of spirit. He has a swimmer’s build, which is fortunate since that’s was about the only sport at which he excels. Justin plops a few of the missile Cheetos into his mouth with a smile. Unlike Matt, Justin has been my confidant all my life. I always call Mandy my best friend, because she’s the other girl in our group, but Justin’s always the first number I dial whenever life gets difficult.
“I told Matt we should put a picture of him by your bedside, as a beacon of hope, but he was too modest,” Justin teases.
“I just didn’t think hospital light would do me justice. I’ll get Becka a life sized poster for her wall though, if it will speed her recovery. I’ve got some great poses.” Matt jumps off the sofa and starts modeling bizarre heroic poses, leaving me giggling. Justin takes the opportunity to slide over next to me.
I lean my head against his arm and just close my eyes, listening to my friends banter back and forth. I smile to myself, maybe I’m really not as lifeless as I’ve felt.
Chapter 3: Dreams
I’m in the most amazing forest; row after row of white birches rise out of a smoky mist. My feet step into the softness of the grass and miniature yellow flowers wink up at me through the emerald carpet. And standing before me, hand outstretched, is my spectre. He is as beautiful, perfect and as surreal as this forest.
As he holds my hand, warmth spreads up my arm until it I am bathed in morning sunlight. His gaze is earnest, but kind. “Where are we?” I ask and my voice is muted and diffuse in this mystical place.
“This is a sacred, ancient place. It’s one of the eternal places of your world. Do you like it?”
I breathe in the warm, moist air with its deep earthy flavour and sigh. “I love it.”
“Good.” He smiles and leads me forward into the woods, pointing out little wonders as we go, but always keeping one hand interlaced with mine. Like all dreams, it’s hard to think clearly, or to ask the thousands of questions my waking self wants answered. I am content to just be in this surreal place with this warm, surreal boy.
I wake with a smile still on my face, feeling the new morning sunlight across my eyes. I slip out of my bed and pad to the shower. Stepping out of the shower into the steam filled bathroom my eyes travel immediately to the mirror. Hello is written on the mirror in a flowing formal script. Hello yourself, I write in the steam on the mirror. Instantly, the words fill in with steam droplets, and new words appear. Pleasant Dreams? I smile, letting the memory of the white woods wash over me. The best. I trace on the slick surface of the mirror.
I skip down to breakfast, trade some bright small talk with my mom and then race out, just in time meet to Matt at the curb. It aggravates my mother an unreasonable amount if I’m late and he honks for me. He smiles as I slip into the passenger seat. It’s part of our morning ritual. Matt always picks me up first, and I always ride shot gun with him. He hands me over a steaming cup of coffee, just the way I like it. “Don’t spill, it’s still hot,” he says. Maybe it was the night with my friends, maybe I’m just getting back into the swing of things, but this day is easier than the one before.
Mandy burbles through the first three periods. She’s excessively pleased with our little evening get together and is already planning a bigger event for Saturday. With Coach T’s blessing I duck out of gym and hea
d for the library to catch up on my work. Justin takes the seat opposite me as soon as I settled down. He has fourth period free and instead of taking a long lunch, he actually uses the time to study. “Alright, here’s where we are. Matt’s going to tutor you in chemistry. Mandy’s got English. Don’t hate me but Piper is the only one who’s remotely good at Spanish-” I roll my eyes. I’m not that desperate to pass Spanish. “-so anyway, that leaves me all the rest.” He finishes in a rush and gives me a sheepish smile. “Are you in the mood for math or history?”
I’m not in the mood for either but I probably need his help more in math, “Math, I guess,” I answer wearily.
He chuckles, sliding over my mint condition textbook, “thought you might feel that way,” he says.
And in my defence, I do actually concentrate on math for an entire half hour. It isn’t my fault that little blotches of ink start to dot the margin of my workbook. Having fun?
“Aren’t you?” Justin says lightly, looking over my workbook.
“Aren’t I what?”
Justin taps the inked question, “Having fun? Come on you’re telling me you didn’t miss this; long hours in the library with me, slaving over equations?”
I smile despite the strange frozen feeling that grips my insides. Justin can see his words. Justin can see it, which means that this is all real; the messages, the boy from my dreams, being brought back to life, all of it. I shiver.
When the lunch bell rings Justin bolts out of his seat, making a quick scramble towards the cafeteria. He turns, taking a few steps backwards and beckons me laughingly forward, but I wave him on. I’m not about to plunge into the thicket of jostling teenagers just to have my choice of seating, especially since Justin always saves me a seat anyway.
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