Not because I had sex, not because I was stupid or careless or anything like that. She was disappointed, she said, because I didn’t listen to my instincts. I’d told her a couple of weeks before that I was having some doubts about Richard. I couldn’t say why, there weren’t any tangible reasons, just a gut feeling.
That’s something Kat always said, for as long as I can remember: always trust my feelings. And I completely ignored them; she was absolutely right about that. We talked all night about it, and by morning I was feeling much better.
I just realized that, to the casual observer, I must sound like quite the fragile little mess. Always crying and screaming and running to the nearest available help when anything bad happens. I don’t think that’s really fair, though. The whole thing with Richard, for example. I was seventeen, I thought I was in love, and I was pretty delusional about him. So what? Who isn’t, at that age? Looking back it’s easy to say, “what did you expect from him?” and looking back of course I was crazy to imagine it could have been anything like my romantic fantasies. But that’s the whole point: at the time, you don’t know–at least I didn’t. I made a mistake. I trusted when I shouldn’t have and said yes when I should have said no. I don’t think I’m the first girl in history to do that.
And of course, I was horribly upset and I thought the world was going to end, or at least my little piece of it, because that’s how everything feels when it’s happening to you. I still feel bad about it, because I was so stupid, but I learned from the whole experience so it wasn’t a total loss in the end. And as for running for help, isn’t that what your friends and family are for?
With these stupid nightmares, well, I won’t apologize for freaking out about them. I’d like to see what anybody else who starts seeing psychic visions of a serial killer would do. I don’t think there’s an instructional pamphlet for that anywhere.
I’ve gotten a bit off track here, I suppose. The original point was that Aunt Kat’s probably the person I trust more than anyone else, and we’re about to get to talking about what’s been going on with me recently. I go through the whole story–well, the most important parts, anyway–and she’s surprised, frightened and appalled by turns. I tell her about the dreams, about the articles in the newspaper, all of it.
“Do you believe me?” I ask her when I’m finally done with it.
She answers immediately. “Yes.” Then she stops to think for a minute. “Of course, I believe you. Your brother, if he told me something like this, I’d think it was just one of his strange little things, some sort of odd fantasy. But you, no. I know you’re telling me something true.” She sort-of frowns. “Or at least something you believe is true.”
I don’t say anything. I had this exact same conversation with Dr. Ritter and I don’t want to explain myself all over again. I want her to accept it at face value, but I guess that isn’t reasonable. Would I accept it at face value from someone else? Probably not.
“You have to admit, what you told me is pretty far out there, Sara,” Kat finally says, more because one of us has to say something to fill the silence than anything else, and it clearly wasn’t going to be me. “Like I said, I do believe you, but it’s pretty hard to wrap my mind around it.”
“I know.” I wish I didn’t, but, boy do I know. “I’ve tried to think about it logically. I mean, I’m going to be a doctor. I’m training to be a scientist. I know how things work, physically. This–this doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit anything I know, or anything I’ve read. It shouldn’t be happening. This isn’t how people’s brains work.” That all sounds great, and it’s all true, but my brain doesn’t seem to know that.
Kat empties her glass of wine before she answers me. “That doesn’t matter, Sara.” She pours herself another glass. “Should and shouldn’t don’t matter. Sense doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s happening, and you have to figure out how to cope with it. And it’s all on you because it’s in your head, nobody else’s.”
She’s absolutely right. When I close my eyes, when I’m asleep, I’m alone. Whether I’m at home and Mom and Dad are just down the hall, or I’m in the dorm and Beth is six feet away, or I’m with Brian and I’m in his arms, I’m still alone inside my head. Nobody can make the nightmares stop, nobody can turn off whatever switch got flipped in my brain that’s making me see them.
But I notice that she looked away from me for a moment there. She didn’t say anything about the fact that what I’m seeing in the nightmares is really happening out in the world. That two girls have died already. That I’m the only one who knows what’s really going on. She still won’t look me in the eye. She’s waiting for me to say something about it, because she can’t bring herself to. Well, neither can I.
She’s known me my whole life, and this is the first time she’s ever held back on me. It’s also the first time I’m glad she did. She finishes her second glass of wine in one gulp, and pours a third. She looks back at me, and for a long time, neither of us says anything. Finally she can’t stand it anymore and she asks me, “So tell me more about your boyfriend?” and I’m more relieved than I can say that she’s changing the subject.
***
Just like that, it’s Friday–another night without nightmares, too! – and Christmas is three days away. After lunch with Kat, I was able to get most of my shopping done. There’s just one person I don’t have something for, but he’s the most important one of all and I’ve been having no luck thinking of the right gift.
We’ve only known each other for three weeks. There’s so much I don’t know about Brian, and I want my first Christmas gift for him to be special, something he’ll always remember. I’ve been getting more and more worried that I won’t be able to think of anything.
But last night I found inspiration–in the sports section of the newspaper of all places. There was an ad for a big memorabilia show today, in Philadelphia, at the Spectrum. There’ll be pro athletes there, players from the Phillies and Eagles and Flyers, signing photos and all that sort of thing. Brian’s not the biggest sports fan in the world, but he does follow them, and of all the local teams, he follows the Phillies the most. And he’s got something in common with my father–they both have the same favorite player, Mike Schmidt, who just retired this past season. And who, conveniently enough, will be at the show.
So I decided to take the car and go there, and wait in line however long it takes, and get Mike Schmidt’s autograph for Brian. He’ll love it. He has to, right?
I was going to try to get one for Dad as well, but he saw the ad too, and since he’s off from work today he was thinking of going himself. So we’ll go together, just me and Dad. My brother couldn’t care less about sports, and Mom wasn’t interested in waiting in line for hours.
Right after breakfast we get in the car and Dad is as excited as I think I’ve ever seen him. He's a huge sports fan. I remember back in 1980, when the Phillies won the World Series. They had a victory parade the day after, and Dad took off from work. He kept Bob and me home from school, and he dragged Mom along too. We all went to Philadelphia and spent the day watching the parade. The whole time he was weeping, tears of joy, literally all day long. It’s the only time in my life I’ve ever seen my father cry.
The entire ride up, Dad is reminiscing about that, going on and on how he can’t believe he’s going to actually get to stand two feet away from “Mr. Schmidt” and maybe even–perish the thought! –shake his hand.
It’s a very long ride.
We finally get there, park the car, and Dad goes to the trunk, opens it up and pulls out a box. He takes out his official replica Phillies uniform and puts it on, and then he hands me a Phillies cap to wear. Now that we’re properly outfitted, we start walking into the arena. I’ve only ever been here once before, to see the circus, and in my opinion this is kind of a circus all its own. Most of the people around us are wearing jerseys for the
Phillies, or the Eagles or one of our other teams. And most of them have this distant sort of look, just like my father does now. As though they’re on a pilgrimage or something. All I want is a nice Christmas gift for my boyfriend.
For the two hours we wait in line, Dad acts like the people waiting all around us are long-lost relatives. They’re rehashing every play from the World Series. It’s amazing. Most of them, my Dad included, start to get less talkative and more nervous as they get close to the front of the line.
Finally, we arrive. There’s a table piled high with photos of Mike Schmidt in action and behind the table, the man himself. My first impression is that he seems smaller in real life than he looked when he was playing. And it’s weird to see him in a suit instead of his uniform. But it’s definitely him.
He looks at Dad, waiting for him to say something, but in the presence of his hero my father has lost the power of speech. I forcibly grab Dad’s arm and shove it towards Mike Schmidt, and Schmidt dutifully shakes it. “You’re his idol, sir,” I say for him, and it’s obvious from Schmidt’s bemused expression that this is far from the first time today he’s encountered a scene like this.
“Who do I make it out to?” he asks, taking a photo from a stack on the table by him.
“Could I have two? One is for my Dad here. Howard Barnes,” I answer, and the great man quickly signs a photo of himself. “The other one, it’s for my boyfriend, I wanted him to have something really special for our first Christmas together,” I babble, and then realize I haven’t said his name. “It’s Brian, please,” and he signs a second picture while the people behind us in line glare at me for wasting so much time. I grab the pictures, mumble “Thank you, sir,” and drag Dad away.
He recovers his wits a few minutes later, and we wander around the show some more. He gets a couple more autographs, and then we–finally! – head out of the arena. When we’re back at the car he carefully and reverently takes off his replica uniform, folds it neatly and puts it back in its box along with my Phillies cap, and then we’re off.
We stop at McDonalds for a quick bite on the way home, and we just sit for a few minutes after we’ve eaten. Dad is staring longingly at his autograph. “This is beautiful,” he says, a faraway look in his eye. I look at Brian’s gift. Mike Schmidt signed it, “Brian–Go get ‘em, slugger!–Mike Schmidt, #20.”
He’s going to love it. How could he not? I just stare at the words, picturing Brian opening up his gift, imagining his reaction, feeling him holding me, kissing me…
There’s a sound, my Dad clearing his throat, and I’m back in the here and now. He looks at the picture in my hand, and then, with a very odd expression on his face he wags his finger at me. “I think I need to meet your young man.”
“You’re going to, Dad. On Sunday.” What’s going on?
He’s still got that expression. He’s looking at me as though he’s noticing something he’s never seen before. “I see so much of your mother in you. I don’t think you realize how like her you are,” he says, finally.
I do, actually. I look a lot like her. I’ve seen pictures of her when she was young, and if you didn’t know it you might think you were looking at me. I start to say that, but he shakes his head.
“It’s not just that you look like her,” he says, reading my mind. “It’s–well, I was watching you just now. I saw how your eyes lit up when you were thinking about your Brian.” How long was I staring at that picture?
“Nobody else has eyes like yours. Nobody else’s are that bright. Nobody else’s light up the way yours did just now. Except…” and now he chokes up a bit, and he has to have some water before he can go on, “Nobody except your mother. How you looked just now, that’s how she looks sometimes, when she’s looking at me.”
Oh.
Oh, my.
I didn’t expect that. “Um–I–I don’t know–Dad, I’m not sure what…” As I’m babbling, it hits me. I’ve heard this before. From Brian, the night we met, at the club. He said something very similar to me, and suddenly I’m feeling dizzy, and warm. I have to hold on to the edge of the table to steady myself.
“I saw it, honey,” he says with a gentle smile. “I see it right now. You’re done for. This Brian, he’s in your heart. You can’t hide that, and you can’t fake it, either.”
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with my father. But he’s right. Brian’s in my heart, that’s exactly how it is. There’s no point pretending it’s not true. And it’s such a relief to have someone really and truly get what I’m feeling. Even if it is Dad.
“Can I ask you something?” My voice is very small and very far away. I still need to hang on to the table for support.
“Always. Anything. You know that,” he says.
I already know the answer, but I want to hear it anyway. I let go of the table and my hands are shaking. “Sometimes when I look at him, when I look into his eyes, I mean really look into them, and he catches mine, it’s like everything else just disappears. Like we’re the only two people in the whole world. Even if we’re in a crowd, or at the movies or wherever. Isis it like that with you and Mom?”
He reaches across the table, takes my hands in his. “Boy, you do have it bad. Worst case I ever saw. Or the second-worst, anyway.” He lets go of my hands. “It was. It was exactly like that.”
“Was?” What does that mean? Why not “is?” That’s not what I was expecting to hear at all! Dad reads my mind again. “I can tell you the exact day that it stopped being like that. October 12th, 1968.”
Wait. October 12th. That’s my…
“What? I don’t understand. October 12th is my birthday. 1968, that’s when I was born. I don’t…”
He rolls his eyes, laughs. “For a girl who’s got a 3.7 grade average in pre-med, you’re pretty slow on the uptake.” I still have no idea what he means. “Before we had you, it was just how you said it. When we were together, when everything was right, there was nobody else in the world but us. And I know it was the same for her.”
He has to take another big gulp of water before he can go on. “But from the minute we first saw you–perfect beautiful little you–after that, I couldn’t ever imagine the whole world disappearing. Because if it did, then you’d disappear too. And I never want to imagine a single minute without you in it. If you ask your mother, she’ll tell you exactly the same.”
I feel tears running down my cheeks as he says that, and I’m out of my chair and hugging him. I can’t get any words to come out, but they’re not necessary.
***
We don’t talk much on the ride home. We’re both lost in thought. When Dad parks the car, Mom is there, opening the front door, and she starts to ask how our day went. I don’t give her the chance to talk; I run to her and throw my arms around her, and I hold on tight. I don’t let go until she makes a sad little moan and wheezes, “Sara, honey, I can’t breathe!”
I let her go, and she grabs my arms, stares hard at me. “What happened to you today?” I don’t say anything right away, I’m concentrating on not crying again, but it’s difficult. I feel a single tear roll down my cheek, but then I’m able to get control of myself. I’m just looking into her eyes, trying to see what Dad was talking about, trying to see in her what he saw in me today.
“I love you, Mom. That’s all. I just wanted to make sure you knew.” I can see it. It’s there. It’s always been there, I just never paid enough attention to really notice it in her before. “You do know, right?”
Now she hugs me back, just as tightly as I did a minute ago. “Oh, Sara. I know. Of course I know!” Out of the corner of my eye I see my father, standing by the car, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen an expression quite so full of contentment as he’s got right now. He watches me and Mom for a while, then, just when we let each other go, he comes up and grabs the both of us. We’re there for what seems like a long
time, holding each other and not noticing the cold at all.
Finally, after what might have been a couple of minutes or maybe an hour, I’ve lost all sense of time, Dad lets us go. He asks Mom, “Is Bob upstairs?” and she nods. “Sara, go get your brother. We’re all going out to dinner. My beautiful family deserves a treat tonight.”
***
It is a treat, too. Dad takes us to his favorite not-quite-fancy Italian place, he orders wine for everyone–even Bob is allowed half a glass.
I have to admit, it feels very strange to be drinking wine, like an actual adult, with my parents. When I’m at school, obviously, I don’t have these thoughts. I’m twenty one years old. I’m in charge of my life, making real, important choices. I’m working hard, making serious progress on as adult a goal as I can think of. I’m in a real, serious relationship with a man I love. Then of course there are the damned nightmares, and the fact that I’m still even close to being in one piece after several weeks of them qualifies me as a functioning grown-up for sure.
Still, something happens to me when I come home from school, even now, even though rationally I should know better. It’s not that Mom and Dad do anything, really, to make me feel that way–it’s pretty much all in my head.
I realize that partly it’s just the fact of sleeping in the same bed I’ve slept in since I was in kindergarten, and looking at the picture of Kermit the Frog that’s been on my wall since 1977 or so as I fall asleep. Everywhere I look in my bedroom there’s a reminder of my childhood. Especially the poor ratty, dog-chewed stuffed rabbit that’s sitting on my bed right now. Good old Mister Pennington.
But right now, my father is looking at me very differently. He’s been ever since lunch and I just now realized that’s why. I guess he was right, when he said I’m slow on the uptake. What it is, is he’s seeing me as really and truly an adult for the first time. Well, if he thinks I am, I certainly ought to be able to believe it myself.
Dream Student (Dream Series book 1) Page 16