Dream On

by M. Kircher

  "No," I yell. "You can't call the police!" My anger is replaced with fear now as I watch Evan activate the phone on his wrist screen. "Wait." I push Gabe out of the way and grab Evan's arm. "I'll tell you everything, but you have to promise not to call the cops. They can't know about this."

  Evan slowly lowers his hand away from the screen. "I'm listening," he says.

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and glance at Gabe.

  Gabe shrugs again. "It's your call, Em," he says noncommittally, and I'm annoyed. He's certainly not the most helpful gorgeous punk in the universe, that's for sure.

  "She's not drugged—"

  "Then what were you doing on the floor, and what's wrong with Lily?"

  I tug on the hem of my sweatshirt and study the carpet. How do I explain? I never thought I'd have to do this twice in one day, much less ever.

  "Well," I say, trying to clarify in a way that he'll understand, "you might find this hard to believe, Evan, but she's just sleeping. Nothing else. Gabe and I didn't do anything to her. But um…when Mom sleeps it's sort of a different kind of sleep."

  "What do you mean?" Evan asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

  "It's like — well, it's like she's hibernating."

  Evan folds his arms across his chest and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His corduroy pants swish together, and I notice that despite the poor, starving editor vibe he has going on, his shoes are expensive Italian leather. Interesting. The man does have some sense of style after all. And it looks as though Mom's book sales have been helping to increase salaries at the Agency, as well.

  "Hibernating," he quips skeptically.

  "Exactly," chimes in Gabe, and I shoot him a look I hope he takes as, 'Keep your mouth shut.' He shoots one back that I'm pretty sure means, 'I'll do what I want.' I sigh. This nonverbal stuff is exasperating.

  "I think you need to elaborate just a bit more if you don't want me calling the authorities," Evans retorts impatiently, drumming his fingers on his shirtsleeves.

  "Mom can sleep this way for as long as she wants," I answer. "She's dreaming. And she doesn't need to wake up to eat or drink."

  Evan seems unconvinced. "And how exactly does she do this? It's not a normal human function."

  "She and Em have some kind of genetic abnormality — they're called dreamwalkers," Gabe pipes in, and then it dawns on him that he's just spilled my secret. He winces just as I throw my hands up in disgust. "Oh, sorry Em. I didn't mean to blurt everything out."

  "Well you did anyway. Thanks Gabe. Some secret keeper you are," I tell him angrily and fold my arms. The cat is definitely out of the bag now. I might as well just keep on going, Evan already knows too much. The entire story can't make this mess any worse than it already is. "Okay, Evan. Here's the truth. I don't know how it works; it just does. Both my mom and I can dreamwalk. It's normal for us, and everything is under control. Mom's safe, and nothing dangerous is going on, I promise you."

  "Dreamwalkers?" Evan snorts. "Surely you're joking." But when neither Gabe nor I say a word, his brow furrows. "You're not joking." We shake our heads no. "All right then, prove it to me. Prove you're a 'dreamwalker'."

  I know he thinks we're just making all of this up. Why does this keep happening to me? How many guys do I have to reveal my freakish secret to in one day? I start to shake my head no, but Gabe's already beaten me to the punch.

  "Go ahead, Em. Show him like you showed me," the horrendously loose-lipped boy tells Evan enthusiastically.

  I groan and put my hands over my face. When will this nightmare be over?

  "Emily can connect our subconscious minds together. She held my hand, and we both fell asleep and woke up inside Mrs. Dal Monte's dream," Gabe continues. "We were here, lying on the floor, but in our minds, we were all dreaming the same thing. It's incredible!"

  I peek at Evan to see if he actually believes any of this. He scrunches up his eyes at Gabe and then scratches his chin. Then he takes off his glasses and rubs them against his plaid shirt. Then he scratches his head.

  "Say something!" I blurt out unable to bear the silence, or the scratching, any longer.

  Evan settles his glasses back onto his nose and looks back and forth between Gabe and I. "I think the two of you are trying to pull the wool over my eyes," he declares sternly, and I can feel my heart plummet to the bottom of my sneakers. It's all over then. He'll call the police, and everything will fall apart. My life has officially ended.

  "But," he continues, and I feel Gabe grab my hand. I ignore the tingles his touch produces and try to concentrate on what Evan's saying. It's life and death after all.

  "I'll give you one chance to prove Lily isn't drugged before I call the authorities and report all this to the Agency. You can show me the same thing you claimed to show this young man. If what you're telling me is true, then take me with you into your dreams."

  "No way," I exclaim. "It's too dangerous."

  "But you just took me, and I'm all right," rumbles Gabe beside me.

  I drop his hand. Traitor.

  "That was because you blackmailed me," I retort. Then I turn my attention to Evan. "Neither of you are giving me a choice. It's not fair. This is my life, my family. Mom and I are not some kind of amusement park ride for you to just climb on and take a spin. This is real. If they find out, the government will test us, and probe us, and who knows what else? Don't you get it?" I plead with the skinny editor.

  Evan's face remains impassive. His steady gaze is locked onto a point over my shoulder and when I crane my neck around to see what he's ogling, I realize he's staring through the glass panel that opens into Mom's bedroom, and his eyes are fixated on her face. I can tell he's not going to listen to me.

  "I have to see it for myself," he persists. "Or else I call the police."

  Chapter Twelve

  I skim my fingers over the cool marble countertop and rest my forehead against its reassuringly solid presence. I roll my head back and forth, trying to knead out the tension between my eyes.

  How did it come to this? How have I promised to take Evan with me into my dreams tonight? He's a total stranger. This is way worse than Gabe. Evan is an adult; he's never going to understand. And yet, I have no choice. I have to try, for Mom's sake. At least I'm taking him into my dreams and not swimming around in Mom's obviously troubled mind. But all this does is leave even less time for me to figure out what's going on with her. I have to take Evan on a quick dream tour and then get the both of them out of the house as fast as I can.

  I roll my head over and rest my cheek against the marble. I just want things to go back to the way they were.

  Through our tall kitchen windows, I see the sun just starting to dip below the trees and dusk beginning to settle in. It's presence presses around me like a weight. The night is no friend of mine. I prefer the light, and the hours and hours of living spread out before me like dots on a treasure map, time leading me onwards towards some glorious future.

  As the darkness deepens, I try to think of Mom. What do I do about her? Dreams can be changeable, I know this, but the Italy dream is my mother's favorite, the one she goes back to over and over, because it's where her memories of Dad are the strongest. It's never changed before now.

  I have to believe Dad wasn't there on the log when she went searching for him. It's the only reason she'd ever fail to plop her butt down, pick up a wine glass, lean her head on Dad's shoulder, and watch the sunset. She must have gone looking for him inside the rest of the dream. But how do I find her?

  Tingles of unease creep up my back. Think, Em, think! There has to be something. My head snaps up. That's it! The pictures.

  I push away from the counter and tiptoe out of the kitchen. I sneak softly up the stairs, hoping the carpet will muffle my footsteps. I don't want Gabe and Evan to hear. Sherlock and Watson don't need to probe any deeper into my life right now.

  I slide open the door to our spare room and kneel down beside the mess of photographs Mom has left scattered a
ll over the floor. She'd been sifting through these when I left for the store this morning, and fast asleep by the time Gabe and I got home. Something in the photographs must have made her think she could find Dad again. But what?

  I pick up a picture and hold it up in front of my face. It's one of her and Dad, of course. I pick up another, the same thing. There are a few of me when I was a baby, but not many. I brush the photographs of myself to the side. I know Mom wasn't thinking about me when she decided to lose herself in her dreams again.

  I focus on the ones of just her and Dad. I scan one picture after another, flipping them over and over, trying to find anything that might be a clue. But nothing stands out. It's only when I throw one down in frustration and the pile scatters in front of me that my eye catches a random burst of red.

  The red is coming from a picture off to the side of the messy pile, moved apart from the others. It's lying facedown on the carpet, half-hidden under the bed. How did I not notice it before?

  I grab the photograph. There is red marker scrawled across the back in Mom's curling script. I turn it over and see the smiling faces of my mother and father, with the sun in their eyes and a vast desert behind them. They're both wearing faded khaki and Mom's hair is bleached white as snow. The picture must have been taken on an assignment, somewhere overseas. They both seem sunburnt, but quite happy. I flip the picture back over and read the handwriting. "November 2, 2020. Where we found each other."

  'Where we found each other'… This must be it! The picture must have triggered some memory of hers, and the memory is what she's trying to dream about now.

  I have to get back into Mom's dreams and find her. I need her to wake up and help me fix this mess with Gabe and Evan. Especially with Evan. We'll have to move. Maybe I can fake Mom's death and hide us away in some remote country where no one will know her? The famous Lily Dal Monte is going to have to stop writing her bestsellers and disappear. Thank goodness I've squirreled away enough money from book sales so we can do just that.

  When I consider leaving, though, I'm surprised to find myself thinking about Gabe. Even though he's a lying, conceited, blabbermouth backstabber, he's the first person I've ever told about what Mom and I can do. And he didn't run away screaming. Which definitely counts for something, in my book. My traitorous brain pictures his lips again, and I wonder what they'd feel like against my own. I've never been kissed before, not that I'll ever admit that to anyone.

  "Ahem." Someone clears his throat behind me, and I whirl around to find Gabe staring down at me in all his rebellious glory. I wish he wasn't so attractive; it makes everything else so complicated.

  "How long have you been standing there?" I ask, and I quickly gather the pictures into a pile, hurriedly stuffing the one with the red writing into my back pocket. I hope Gabe doesn't notice.

  "Long enough to catch you staring dreamily at a blank white wall," Gabe answers and smirks at me. "Thinking about anything in particular?"

  I scramble to my feet. "Nope, nothing," I jabber. "Just thinking about old times."

  Gabe narrows his brown eyes. "Yeah, okaaaaay," he draws out in a way that makes me think he doesn't believe me.

  He eyes the bulge in my pocket. I meet his gaze and then quickly glance away. I can't let him know about the picture. Finding Mom is something I definitely have to do alone. I shove my hand into my pocket and brush past him out of the bedroom door, trying to act nonchalant.

  "So, is it time to let Evan see my little freak show or what?" I ask and dart down the stairs, praying Gabe will take the bait and forget about the pictures.

  Thankfully he does. "Yeah," he affirms and saunters after me. "We've got it all figured out."

  I get to the bottom of the stairs and see Evan sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. He turns when he hears us and holds up two hands, an alarm clock nestled in each one of his palms.

  "Insurance," Evan informs us, as I walk over and take one of the clocks.

  "This? This is insurance?" I ask him skeptically.

  "In case I fall asleep too," explains Gabe, and he plucks the clock out of my hand. Where did the two of them find these ancient things? I only ever use the alarm on my wrist screen, and these clocks look as if they haven't been used in ages. I try not to be annoyed that they've been poking around my house without permission or regard for any kind of personal boundaries. I breathe deeply. Let it go, Em. Just let it go.

  Gabe sets the first alarm for three a.m. and the second for three thirty. "Staggering the times by a half an hour gives me a better chance of waking up. I'm a deep sleeper," he explains.

  I stare at the two of them and then shake my head. "This is your big plan? Alarm clocks?"

  "What else would you suggest?" Evan asks.

  I settle my hands on my hips. I can't tell him I'd been hoping all this waiting would make him change his mind. I can fall asleep whenever I want to, but leaving this ridiculous scheme until dark gave me more time to figure out what to do about Mom. And give Evan a chance to realize what an idiot he's being. But now that my genius plan has failed, I actually have to go through with this. Frustration boils up inside of me. This is all just a waste of time! I need to be looking for Mom right now.

  "My suggestion," I tell Evan sternly, "is that you forget about what you've seen here and go back to your precious Agency. Tell them everything is fine and that Mom actually is a hermit who won't be doing a book tour anytime soon. You can keep collecting your fat royalty checks, buy some more fancy shoes, and pretend that you don't know a thing about what freaks we are. That's what I'd suggest, but I have a feeling you're not going to listen to my advice."

  Evan shakes his head. "Number one, my shoes are a gift from a professor of mine who knew that I cold never afford them on my own. They were meant to congratulate me when I got my posting at the Agency. Number two, I can't just leave your mother lying in a dark bedroom, not knowing if you kids are lying to me. I have to know for sure that Lily's going to be okay before I go."

  I wish I knew the same thing, I think. I wish someone would assure me that Mom's going to be all right, because at this point I just don't know.

  "Fine. Let's get this over with." There's no going back now.

  Gabe drags a loveseat over next to the big couch so the two of them are parallel to each other. Evan and I each stretch out across the cushy furniture and link our hands together over the divide.

  "This is all I have to do?" he asks nervously and blinks behind his glasses.

  "Yes, Evan. And shutting up would also help," I snap, and I close my eyes.

  Gabe's jeans rustle as he settles into the wingback chair beside the fireplace. A little ding sounds when he sets the two alarm clocks, and then I hear him place them on the little side table that's next to the chair. This ridiculous trip shouldn't take too long, but you never quite know with dreams. I peek at Gabe, and he gives me a thumbs-up. I grimace at him and then close my eyes again.

  I try to relax. To forget the warm, sweaty pressure of Evan's hand around mine and the presence of Gabe beside me. I count my breaths, and then I count my heartbeats. I feel the blood rush in my ears. In and out. In and out. In and…

  Chapter Thirteen

  The first thing I notice is the wood underneath my fingertips — whorls and knots, worn down over the years — and a few splinters that catch on my skin. There is warm sunshine pouring down over my shoulders, and I realize I'm sitting in a sun-room. The four walls of the room are each a pane of glass, and outside I can see rolling sand dunes and blades of tall green grass, waving in the breeze.

  My hands drop to my sides and smooth over the cheap floral fabric of the battered sofa I'm sitting on. This place seems familiar; I must have been here once before, but I can't remember when. My brain has locked away many of my childhood memories, because they're just too painful for me now.

  The room is sweltering hot. I can feel sunlight beating down on my head and heating my cheeks. The heat makes my limbs heavy and sluggish. A green gecko climbs up ove
r the edge of the sofa and blinks its two bulbous eyes at me. There is a small round table to my left with a pitcher of lemonade sitting on it, beads of sweaty condensation running down the sides. The sound of the ocean crashes softly in the background.

  And then I remember Evan. I twist my head and see him sitting speechless on the sofa beside me. His eyes are wide as he stares around the room, as if he can't believe what he's seeing. I watch, with a grin on my face, as he takes his glasses off and wipes the lenses on his plaid shirt.

  "Is this real?" he asks, and smooths his hands over the wooden arms of the sofa. He touches a fingertip to the pitcher of lemonade, drawing it back in surprise when a droplet moistens his skin.

  I laugh. "It's in my mind," I explain. "A sensory picture that's been stored away in my brain somewhere. So even though it feels real, it's not."

  Evan gulps and then he nods. He presses his finger against the lemonade pitcher again.