by Dima Zales
“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.
I get more proof when we get home. Mom and Dad don’t know it, but I learned years ago, when the conditions are just right and the heating vents in their room and my room are both open but the heat isn’t actually blowing in either room, I can hear them quite clearly.
What I hear tonight, as they’re getting ready for bed, is Dad telling Mom about his day with me. Then he tells her that he’s thinking about putting off the big kitchen renovation they’ve been planning for the last year. He wants to save the money for something much more important that he thinks might be coming a lot sooner than he expected.
My wedding.
I don’t know what to say to that.
I’m willing to bet that Mom and I have exactly the same expression on our faces right now, and that we both just went precisely the same shade of white. I don’t know how I keep from fainting at the shock of hearing those words.
There’s only one reasonable thing to do then. I jump out of bed and over to the thermostat, crank the heat as high as it will go and with the blast of hot air out of the vent, the voices of my parents are gone. I lay back down on my bed, grab Mister Pennington to me in a death grip, and try to put my father’s crazy words out of my mind and fall asleep.
Two hours later I’m still clutching Mister Pennington, and Lumpy is snoring at the foot of the bed. I’m finally just now drifting off to sleep. The last thing that goes through my mind before I’m out is that, maybe, my father’s crazy words might not be quite so crazy after all.
10
(December 23-25, 1989)
I wake up thinking of the color white. All I can figure is that I must have been dreaming about – well, what I overheard my father say last night. I can’t remember precisely what was going on in the dream, but it’s really not that hard to guess.
It seems unfair that I have to see everyone else’s dreams whether I want to or not, but I have so much trouble remembering my own. I still haven’t had any of those dreams since I’ve been home. I’m sure I’m not lucky enough to be done with them, but I am very grateful that I’m not seeing what Bob or my parents are dreaming about. I don’t think I could handle that.
Speaking of Bob, when he sees me walk past his room on the way to the bathroom, he sits up on his bed, snorts, and starts humming “Here Comes the Bride.” I freeze in my tracks. I’m completely at a loss – why would he be doing that? How could he know what I was dreaming about? He isn’t having the dreams too?
I’m looking at him in total shock, and he’s looking back at me like I’m from Mars. “What?” I growl at him.
He shakes his head in mock sadness. “You’re not the only one who knows about the heating vents,” he tells me. “Give me a little credit.” Well, that’s a relief. Sort of. I’m glad he’s not having the same dreams I am – although I guess it would make sense in a way if he was. It would definitely be a genetic thing, then, something inherited. It would even – in a way – be comforting somehow to know I’m not the only one going through this. But on the other hand I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, even my little brother.
Of course, now I’m wondering how long he’s known about the vents.
Oh, God, what if he can hear what goes on in my room, as well as our parents’ room? Was he listening in for hours on end when Beth was here last summer and we were up all hours of the night talking about everything and anything? That thought is almost more horrible than the nightmares.
OK, maybe it’s not quite that bad. But it certainly doesn’t make me happy. I try to come up with a witty reply b
ut my brain lets me down, and all I can think of to say is: “Whatever, Bob,” with as stuck-up and superior a face as I can manage before I continue on my way to the bathroom. Bob just laughs and starts humming again. This is definitely not the best way to start the day.
I really wish Beth was home, instead of up in Vermont skiing with her sister. I want to tell her what happened with my Dad, tell her everything he said. I want to know what she thinks about it all. But maybe it’ll be better when I tell her in person. I can’t even imagine what she’ll say. I’m sure her initial reaction will be absolutely priceless.
But she is in Vermont, so I turn my attention to more pressing matters. Christmas presents, for one thing. I spend a good hour inexpertly wrapping all my gifts. I admit that I’m a little frustrated with my lack of skill at it – I’m planning to be a doctor, after all. I may end up doing surgery on actual live human beings, for God’s sake. You’d think I wouldn’t have so much difficulty applying wrapping paper to small square boxes, but I do.
I do finally get it all done, however badly, and after that I’m sitting in the kitchen and eating lunch. Mom walks in carrying the mail, and calls out to Bob that he’s got a letter. I see it in her hand, and my heart skips a beat. It looks like my school’s crest is in the spot where the return address should be.
“Mom, is that…” is all I get out before Bob comes running in. He takes the letter from her hand, and as he does I see clearly that it is from Crewe University. It has to be some kind of joke.
It’s not. Bob tears open the envelope – a very thick envelope, by the way – and begins to read the letter out loud: We are pleased…early admission…class of 1994 …
Dear God. He’s going to be at college with me. He’ll be in my dorm.
I take a deep breath. Then another. He’s the biggest pain in the neck I know. But it would be totally crappy to spoil this for him, wouldn’t it? It’s a big deal, and he’s got every right to be happy and proud. If I’m any kind of decent human being at all I’ll respect that and be glad for him.
I am and I do. I get up and hug him – awkwardly, but it still counts. I tell him I’m thrilled and impressed and a lot of other things that, as I say them, I realize I do actually mean. He’s my brother, after all. I may not be able to stand him most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love him.
At eight o’clock, Dad calls everyone into the living room. He’s got the fire going nicely. The pizza he ordered got here a couple of minutes ago. And the VCR is warmed up with the annual triple-feature: Charlie Brown, the Grinch and then Year Without a Santa Claus. This is one thing Bob and I do agree 100% on – it wouldn’t be Christmas without them.
It’s a perfect evening. We watch Charlie Brown pick out his sad, scrawny little tree and learn the true meaning of Christmas; we watch the Grinch plot and scheme and then have his epiphany; we watch Heat Miser and Snow Miser do their big musical numbers, which is my favorite part from any of the shows.
Afterwards, we all drink hot chocolate and, following longstanding family tradition, we each open one small present. Dad makes out the best; his gift is from Mom, and it’s a book-on-tape for the car. It’s one of those Robert Ludlum spy novels he likes so much. Bob’s is the most oddly appropriate, from me: a Crewe University t-shirt. Mom’s isn’t too bad, a woolen hat that Bob picked out for her. And I think mine is the most sentimental: Mom had a great picture of Beth and me at the beach last summer that she put into a cute little frame for me.
We won’t open the rest of the gifts until Christmas morning, but it’s nice to get just the one early. And now that we’ve done everything according to tradition, it’s time for bed. It’s going to be a big day tomorrow.
Sara is in a window seat, looking out over the wing of the plane. She’s barely awake, watching the clouds fly by, looking forward to seeing her family, but missing Brian and wondering if she’ll be able to see him over Christmas.
There’s a sudden jolt; it must be turbulence, she thinks. Perfectly normal. Then another, and another and then the “Fasten Seatbelt” sign comes on. Sara wonders why there’s no murmuring from any of the other passengers, until she looks around and sees that there aren’t any. No flight attendants, either. The plane bucks up and down, and there are no announcements, no anything.
She unbuckles her seatbelt, and, hanging on to seats for balance as she goes, she makes her way up the aisle towards the cockpit. She can see all the way up there; the curtain that separates First Class from Coach is drawn aside, and the door to the cockpit is wide open.
As far as she can tell from her vantage point, there’s nobody up there, either. She continues on, barely keeping her feet, until she’s at the door and she can see there is no pilot, no co-pilot, no anybody. Apparently she’s all alone on the plane, all by herself at 35,000 feet.
It makes perfect sense to Sara that she should sit herself down in the pilot’s seat and put on the headset. It doesn’t seem odd to her that when the radio crackles to life, it’s Beth’s voice she hears. Sara asks for instructions, advice, directions, but over the radio Beth has nothing helpful to tell her. “You’ve got to land that plane on your own!” is Beth’s last word before her voice dissolves into static…
…she’s still sitting, still looking out a window, but now Sara is in the back seat of a car. She runs her hands over the leather seats; she feels the warm air blowing from the heater. The car is very familiar, as though she’s been in it before, and the driver is familiar as well – even only seeing the back of his head, she knows she’s encountered him before. Outside the window, she recognizes the athletic complex on the South side of campus, and now the car’s turning and then at the next block turning again. She follows the driver’s head, knowing somehow that his attention is focused completely on the bus stop on East 107th street. Sara sees two people there, and she knows that the driver only expects, or wants, to see one.
She knows which of the two it is. She’s a pretty girl with black hair, about Sara’s own height or maybe an inch shorter, slim, no coat despite the cold outside, just a school sweatshirt. She’s jogging in place to keep warm, and then she’s past. Sara thinks she knows the girl, but she’s not sure. The car makes the block again, and again the girl isn’t alone, and the driver speeds past. Sara still can’t be sure about the girl. The third time past, finally, she’s alone, and the driver slows. Sara stares hard, not believing what she’s seeing, not wanting to believe it…
I can’t breathe. My eyes are open, but I can’t see through my tears and I can’t breathe. I’m coughing, my throat is all scratchy, I’m trying to get something up. I spit out – I don’t even know what, something disgusting. I keep coughing, and finally with one very painful effort, the rest of it, whatever it is, comes up.
I can’t see what it is, I can’t really see anything. I try to wipe the tears out of my eyes, try to breathe deeply, try to block out the pain in my head. I get my feet under me, and I can barely stand. I don’t feel steady at all; I hang onto the bed for support. I take one step and trip on something soft, and I’m just able to grab the bedpost and keep my balance. I look down, and through barely-open eyes, I see Mister Pennington on the floor.
His right arm has been nearly ripped off.
Bitten off, I realize suddenly, and not by Lumpy. By me. While I was sleeping. Because I must have stuffed Mister Pennington’s arm into my mouth to hold back a scream.
No. God, no. Please. Please let it not be.
I don’t know who I’m begging to, and they’re not answering me anyway. I know exactly what I saw. Who I saw. It was Jackie, from the dorm. The guy is after her. He’s picked her out for his next…
No. I have to do something. If it isn’t already too late.
It can’t be too late. I have to talk to her. I have to warn her. But how? My head is throbbing, and it’s hard to think. I’ve got a phone in my room. I can call her. But I don’t know her number. I don’t even know how she spells her last name.
I need a moment. I open my bedroo
m door and walk out, right past Lumpy. He’s staring up at me with what I think is worry. He rubs his nose up against the back of my leg, and the cold, wet feeling is a tiny bit of comfort.
I walk to the bathroom, drink a cup of water in one gulp, and with a painful retch I cough it back up, splattering all over the mirror. I try again, one sip at a time, and this time I keep it down. I don’t think I can keep aspirin down, though, so I’ll just have to live with the pain in my head for a little while.
Back to my room. The phone is right there. But how do I get her number? Who would know it? Would Mona? She’s the RD. She has emergency contact numbers for everyone in the dorm. Will she be there? I hope so.
The phone rings ten times, and I’m just about to hang up when it’s answered by a groggy voice. “Hello?”
“Mona?” I try to force my voice down, but I don’t really manage it. I can hear how hysterical I sound.
“Who is this?” Her voice sounds a bit more alert.
“It’s Sara. Sara Barnes. I need you to give me Jackie’s phone number. Jackie, freshman Jackie, in room 201”
“Sara? What’s going on?” I hear concern there now. I’ve got her worried. Good.
No. Not good! What am I going to tell her? “I – I only just realized this morning,” I start, trying to think of something that will sound reasonable. “I’m – I’m missing a pair of jeans. I had my credit card in the front pocket, and I don’t have them now. I think I was packing, and I left them in the laundry room and she was the next one there. I think she just took them and packed them by mistake. I wanted to ask her, before I go and cancel the card.”
Now she’s annoyed. “And you need to know right now, at seven-thirty in the morning on Christmas Eve?”