by Sarah Noffke
“Have you seen anything on a werewolf case though? That’s really what I need details from a clairvoyant on,” I say.
She doesn’t laugh. I’m sure she wants to. I’m sure she wants to send a quip back in my direction but instead, she turns her head away, throwing her eyes at a darkened corner.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she says, and for the first time in all our lives, I feel a pain in her that is too beautiful for words. It’s not the pain of rejection, like I’ve made her feel so many times. It’s not the pain of loss. It’s the pain of having, and realizing this world can gift us in a way that touches our soul. That kind of experience is so perfect that it hurts. It etches itself on our soul like a tattoo. And it hurts so much that it actually feels good.
“It sounds like you’ve lived an incredibly sheltered life,” I say, gripping her hand firmly.
And like we aren’t having a conversation her eyes fall shut and her breaths immediately take on a shallow rhythm. I’m willing to stay here for all of eternity and hold her hand. Watch her sleep. But then her eyes flicker, trying several times to open completely. Without her looking at me, I know she feels me there, but I also feel the disorientation in the way she regards the far wall. “Ren,” Dahlia says, and her voice is too quiet. I lean in to hear her. “I know you have all these plans, but just in case—”
“They will work,” I say, cutting her off. Now I realize what this is about.
“But if they don’t. I want… I need the opportunity to say—”
“No,” I say, my voice suddenly loud. “No goodbyes.”
“But Ren. What you’re trying to do—”
“Have a little faith in me,” I say, a beautiful irony in my voice.
“Oh, Ren Lewis,” she says, and now she brings her eyes back to stare at me. They are brimming with tears, casting the blue of her eyes in pools about to overflow. “There’s no one I’ve ever believed in more than you. That’s why I need the chance to tell you one last time that—”
“Save it, Dahlia,” I say, interrupting the one set of words I can’t hear from her right now. They will jinx everything. “You’ll get another chance. I promise.”
“Ren, this is the end of my story,” she says, her words slow. And I almost think she’s fallen asleep halfway through the sentence. “This morning,” she says, and then licks her split lips. “I was washing my face and I saw a vision of this moment. You don’t allow me to say goodbye and then…” Dahlia pauses and her eyes don’t seem to see my face, but rather a picture show in her mind. She’s reliving the vision.
“Ren, I saw you, you just sit here and watch…me…die,” she says, finally completing a sentence that is almost too emotionally and physically taxing for her to finish.
Her hand feels close to fracturing in mine, but she doesn’t complain about the pressure. I draw in a deep breath and lean close in to her, my nose almost touching hers. “You don’t say goodbye when you know you’re going to see each other again,” I say.
“But if we don’t…” she says in a tortured whisper.
“Shhh,” I say and press my lips to hers. She doesn’t kiss me back. She can’t. It’s too much for her. But it’s enough for me. And then I feel her hand brush the stubble of my cheek. Peeling back, I look down at her. A unique peace is on her face as though all burdens we are born with have been washed away in this moment.
“Ren, you made it all worth it. You made everything better,” she says, her arm shaking to keep her hand up, pressed to my cheek.
“You know what I’ve always seen when I’ve looked at you?” she says, her words sluggish, but somehow strong.
I shake my head against her hand, and it’s enough of a movement that she drops it down to my lap. “Home,” she says simply. “You’re my home,” Dahlia says.
And then she closes her eyes and I instinctively know that Dahlia won’t open them again in this world.
Chapter Thirteen
LA Times
There have been few losses as great as the one announced today. It came as an incredible shock when the family of Dahlia, the famed singer and musician, released a press statement. Last night, the extraordinarily talented pop star died in her sleep, according to her family who were by her side. This is an extreme blow for fans to digest since no one knew that Dahlia was sick and, more specifically, dying of ovarian cancer. The international star had taken a hiatus from touring to work on a new album, according to the most recent communication from her management. When questioned, they stated that they were also unaware that Dahlia was sick. The family said in their recent statement that Dahlia had asked that the information be kept secret and only her closest relatives and staff were made aware of the condition.
Now that the world knows of this information, a long and arduous road to healing will have to be discovered and will surely be threaded by millions. Dahlia spent over thirty years making music that was cherished by people young and old. It was music that brought people together and gave them a common interest. She celebrated more than fifty number one hits, most of those staying on the charts for more than fifteen weeks. Dahlia is not a giant star. She’s the top artist of all time with more recordings and more platinum records than any other. On this day a star has fallen, one that will leave a permanent dark place in the sky.
Vigil service will be held outside of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. The memorial service is closed to the public and the family has asked for the utmost privacy during this time of grieving. Dahlia died at age forty-five and is survived by her parents and her lifelong partner, Ren Lewis.
***
I release Dahlia’s parents with a curt nod after we exit the church. The service wasn’t adequate, but how could it have been? There’s little that can be done to celebrate a life as extraordinary as Dahlia’s. Radio stations all over the country have shut down for the day, taking their own vow of silence, something that’s never been done. People line the streets outside the cathedral, all dressed in black, and most wearing tear-streaked expressions of grief. There has been talk of a memorial statue being erected in the middle of Hollywood. There’s been a lot of talk, but none of it matters. People die. Dahlia has died. There’s nothing that anyone can do to make her life feel as memorable as it should. Well, there is one thing and I’m the only one who can do it.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bobby, Dahlia’s longtime bodyguard, says as he opens the door to the limo for me. He’s known Dahlia longer than I have. He was there the day she barged into my flat, some twenty-two years ago. This man has spent the better part of his life trying to keep the woman I love safe, alive.
I extend a hand to the man with a flat nose and red eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, meaning it. He won’t ever see Dahlia again. He soon will be unemployed. Bobby eyes my hand, taken aback by the gesture. Then he takes my hand and shakes it and by reading his thoughts I confirm what I already knew. He is and has always been in love with Dahlia. I can’t blame him. Everyone loved her and most were in love with her. She was the type that drew in people’s attention and then locked it on her forever. There was no escaping her allure.
I toss a glance at the sea of people at my back. Actually they are everywhere. Thousands of fans have gathered in the street, most of them holding a candle that will burn through the night. Most have flown great distances or traveled from faraway places to be here, close to where Dahlia’s body rests inside the cathedral. I can’t blame these followers for banding together to comfort each other. I climb into the limo and the image of a mother and daughter holding each other while they sob is burned into my vision. The last thing I witnessed on the streets.
Adelaide is the last one to slide into the car, taking the seat beside me. Her stare on my face feels like a burning ray from the sun. She’s worried. I know it. Everyone in this fucking car is worried about me. They want me to cry. To show an emotion. But Pops, on the other side of the car, is showing enough emotion for all of us. He blows his nose loudly in
to a handkerchief and then slides the snotty rag into the breast pocket of his jacket.
No one knows why I’m not upset. Crying. On edge, at the very least. They want me to grieve. I see in their faces that they need me to grieve. And I’m not because I haven’t lost anything I can’t regain, but they don’t know that. They just think that the monster has taken over. That I’ve shoved the pain away. Buried it again, like before with my mum and Jimmy. But I haven’t. Maybe they think I’m in shock. How could I be though? I lay next to this woman every night, watching her wake with less every morning. Slowly I watched Dahlia die.
“Ren,” Adelaide says, putting her hand on the leather seat between us. “Are you okay?”
I turn and look at her. “How are your cases going?” I say, like we are discussing show times for a matinee.
“Son, this isn’t the time,” Pops says, blowing his nose again.
“Well, I’m fairly busy for the next few weeks, so it’s probably the best time,” I say, watching the monster fiddle with his seat belt. He’s out of the harness in only a few seconds, and my pops, who is now crying again, doesn’t notice.
“Chick-a-wa!” Lucien says, toddling over in my direction, his hands out.
“Lucy,” Adelaide says, scooping up the kid. “Give Ren some space.”
“Can you call him by a proper nickname, like little beast or gigantic mistake?” I say, watching the child reach for me like I’m a chocolate sundae.
Adelaide allows a small smile, but then tucks her chin into Lucien’s shoulder, where she quickly buries it.
“Pops!” Lucien says.
“Ren,” I correct, knowing he’s referring to me.
“Pops! Pops! Pops!” he repeats.
“The only word you can say and it’s the wrong one,” I say, shaking my head at him.
“Pops!” he says, with too much conviction.
“If I find out you’ve been teaching him this as a joke then I’ll have Dahlia come back and haunt you,” I say to my daughter.
And this produces a small gasp from my pops. Adelaide pulls up her head and looks at me with glassy eyes. I’ve never seen her cry, didn’t much think she was capable of it. “I’m going to miss her,” she says, and the pain in her words makes me realize how much loss she feels right now.
“Of course you are,” I say plainly.
“She was kind of like a mum to me,” Adelaide says, tucking one of Lucien’s red curls behind his ear, like it was bothering him and not her.
“I’m sure she thought of you fondly as well,” I say, my voice calm, mechanical.
“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” she admits.
“Goodbyes are overrated,” I say, knowing that’s absolutely false. Saying that final farewell is a gift for loved ones. When we are robbed of that moment because someone is taken suddenly then we always feel like there’s unfinished business. All goodbyes unsaid reside somewhere and I’m sure it’s a place that reeks of regrets.
The honking sound emits from the other side of the car again. “Not a better young woman on this earth,” Pops says, and then wipes his eyes with the back of his arm. “Well, ’cept for you, Addy, and your grandmum. Most astonishing women I’ve ever known.”
“She said the same thing about you before she died,” I tell my pops, and it’s the only gift I can give him.
The twinkle in his eyes tells me it’s the best gift I’ve could have given him.
“She said that?” he says through a chuckle and a sob.
“She said I should be nice to you,” I admit.
He waves me off. “You are you and I love you just how you are.”
“You always did,” I say, and then turn my attention to the scene outside my window. The street leading up to the gated entrance to our home is lined with people holding flowers and posters. The posters read the same thing over and over and over. Hundreds of signs of affection that all say the same thing. They read:
“We could not have loved her more.”
Chapter Fourteen
Aiden’s face drops with slack when I stroll into his lab. I returned to the Institute straight after the funeral because I don’t have a moment to waste right now. The daft scientist opens his mouth, but I cut him off by holding up my hand.
“Yes, you’re sorry for my loss. Blah, blah, blah. Can we skip the unpleasantries, because I have work for you and I need it done fast. If it’s not done straightaway then everything I’ve been working towards will be lost,” I say, and watch his expression progress from sympathy to clinical. Good, this isn’t going to be as difficult as I imagined.
“Uhhh… yeah, sure. I thought we were about wrapped up on projects, but if you need my help then I’m all yours,” Aiden says, that familiar squeak in his voice.
I tilt my head and give him a mischievous look. “Oh, I bet you wish you were all mine, you pervert,” I say.
He returns my look with one of amusement. “You never take a break from the jokes, do you? Ren Lewis and his cunning attitude are unstoppable.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I say. “Now the work is actually just starting. I need you to create a device for me and it’s going to involve more talent and brain power than I think you possess, but let’s give it a go anyway.” Actually, Aiden is the only human on earth that I think can pull this off, but I’d never tell him that. And still this is a long shot. I shouldn’t have waited until after Dahlia died to turn my attention to this, but I also was overwhelmed with making her into a Dream Traveler.
“You really know how to inspire a person to want to work with you,” Aiden says. “What is it that you’d have me do?”
“I need you to create a device to find the location of what you probably call a wormhole and then the device needs to open it,” I say, all in a rush of matter-of-fact words.
“Oh, is that all?” Aiden says, bursting out with a giant laugh. He pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes, which are filling with tears from his dumb reaction.
“Well, no. There will probably be more, but let’s start with this for now,” I say.
“So you want me to help you find a wormhole?” he says, leaning against his workstation and crossing his feet in front of him. He’s acting cocky with his skepticism and it’s going to get him killed.
“Door, portal, passage, whatever you want to call it. It’s important that you don’t get stuck on semantics here.”
“Right,” Aiden says. “Because that’s the obvious hurdle in all this.”
“Look, I can’t help it that you’re a loser who has very little imagination. Your immediate cynicism on this is not only unappreciated, but it’s hurting my feelings during this really vulnerable time in my life,” I say, pulling off the perfect amount of pity in my voice and arranging my face into something that looks pathetic.
The scientist takes a minute to study me. Then he shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
My face then lights up with a victorious half smile. People are really too easily manipulated. “You are sorry and a fool,” I say.
Aiden, realizing that I’m playing him now, shakes his head at me again, but this time with his lips pursed and an expression that says, “This man can’t be helped.”
“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let’s say you find this wormhole, how do you know where it leads to? It could put you on another planet or in Mesopotamia.”
I shake my head. “No, for as much as you know about science you’re a fucking idiot. You have spent too much time at Comic Con. Wormholes don’t really connect with other time periods. They can’t because time is linear. Wormholes, if you actually knew what you were talking about, connect the three worlds because they are all connected. There’s doors between these dimensions, let’s call them.”
He shakes his head before I’m done speaking. “No, that isn’t right.”
“Look, spacewaster, I’m going to need you to forget everything you know about science because it’s wrong,” I say.
“But I have
a PhD—”
“Shut the fuck up. You learned from a bunch of humans how this world works,” I say, cutting him off.
“Einstein actually,” he says, proudly.
“A human nonetheless. I’m about to teach you something if you will shut your dumb mouth,” I say.
“You’re going to teach me about science?” he says on the edge of a laugh.
“Yes,” I say with a sigh.
“And you didn’t learn this from humans?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Aliens then?” he says.
“You’re a fucking moron,” I say.
“Wait, are you telling me that you’ve had conversations with God?” he says.
“No, that’s how a hippie would describe it. I’ve seen the fabric of this universe. Of our world,” I say.
“But how?” he says.
“I turned off the fucking television, unlike most buffoons on this earth. I listened.” I throw my arm out wide. “What none of the fuckers on this planet get is that all the information is locked inside the conscious mind. It’s a bank and we all have an account there if we aren’t brain dead. Hell, even if we are. The information is infinite, which is why most know so little. But spend time studying the vault and the answers to anything can be found.”