by Kristie Cook
I’d always feared losing the memory-dream. Because I knew I’d lose forever the clear image of his face…and my sanity along with it.
Chapter 2
I awoke slowly, not my usual gasping, upright bolt. I opened my eyes, but didn’t find the expected darkness. I lay on my stomach again, my head nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. From the dim light on the floor, it looked like the sun had just started to rise. I glanced up at the clock. 6:05. Not 3:45. Not 8:00. And I felt wide awake.
I rolled over to find Dorian still sleeping peacefully, spread-eagle on the other side of the king-sized bed. He was a strange phenomenon, just like his mother. Before me, no Amadis daughter had ever given birth to a male without a twin sister. Mom and Rina had been sure I was pregnant with twins. I’d never had an ultrasound, never even went to the doctor for prenatal care. Mom acted as my midwife and her and Rina’s feelings were supposed to be enough.
I had developed my own theory: Mom and Rina had sensed a boy and were so sure I’d follow everyone else’s precedence, they simply assumed a girl accompanied him in the womb. Stupid assumption. I was always abnormal, even for us. Of course, I would be the one to screw everything up.
They hadn’t given me a good reason why Dorian couldn’t lead the Amadis when the time came. Instead, they clung to the hope that, because I was different in so many other ways, I might still be able to have a daughter. Mom and Rina felt this could happen, although no Amadis daughter had ever given birth more than once.
There was one obvious problem with this new “plan”—it required a father. And my only love was…gone. Disappeared. Not seen since that tragic battle seven-and-a-half years ago, less than three weeks after our wedding.
As I watched Dorian sleep, his face looking so much younger than his nearly seven years, the thought of him hearing my temper-tantrum last night tortured me. No kid should have to witness such loss of control by his own mother. He had his own pain to deal with; he didn’t need to hear mine, too. I was supposed to be strong for him.
It was time for a change. Time to live, instead of barely existing. Time to discover the Real Alexis. I couldn’t entirely let go—that was out of the question—but I could surely move forward with some things. Right? I needed to, for me and for Dorian. I owed him. He deserved more than Almost Alexis. But how?
I thought I could start with my writing. I needed to get back on track with it. I hadn’t written for nearly two days, finding it difficult to write the final chapters of the last book of the series I’d started six years ago. The series was a wildly successful—although dark—love story bringing together the worlds of humans, vampires and other creatures. I stayed out of the talks of movie deals, so they hadn’t come very far. I didn’t care.
Shortly after Dorian’s first birthday, my agent started harassing me for another book, since the first one did fairly well. She reminded me of my contract, but I didn’t care. Writing was a part of my old life, I’d told her. That’s not who I was anymore.
“Who are you, then, Alexis?” she’d asked. “You’re barely alive. Your characters are more alive than you. At least they do something!”
I finally promised her I would try, just to get her off my back. And Mom and Rina, too, who insisted I start on the new idea I had before my world fell apart. I had decided I could use writer’s block as an easily acceptable excuse when asked why I never produced anything. But no one ever had to ask. I discovered, once I forced myself to sit down at the computer, I did still enjoy writing, and the stories came effortlessly, as if they’d been given to me by some other force and I simply served as a tool. As time went on, I found the escape to be even better than my dreams.
Apparently, I’d created a welcomed escape for my readers, too. As the normal world came into its own dark times, people looked for a fictional world in which to lose themselves. The world I’d invented became one of the most popular choices. Knowing I’d given this to readers—a little escape from their miserable lives—was one of the reasons I enjoyed writing. Because I knew exactly how they felt.
Now that I’d almost completed the entire story, however, I struggled to bring it to an end. Just two days ago, my fingers flew across the keyboard, barely able to keep up with my thoughts. But as soon as I ended the chapter and started a new page for the next one, the flow of words ceased, as if turned off at the source. I knew how the story ended. I just couldn’t put the words together. Yesterday, I’d blamed it on the vampire dream. But I knew the real reason. I had no ideas for the next story, which meant no other world to throw myself into. Then all I would be left with was my own life of nothingness. Perhaps knowing how close I was to that abyss sparked yesterday’s meltdown.
I needed to push past this obstacle, though. I needed to do it for Dorian. Perhaps ending this series would allow me to end this chapter of my life. Perhaps Dorian and I could move forward with a fresh start at a new story. Perhaps the new dream was my subconscious trying to tell me something. Or, perhaps Swirly Alexis had stepped in overnight, mixing my thoughts into a mass of confusion.
I hated Swirly Alexis almost as much as Psycho. Nothing made sense with her. I often had a hard time distinguishing between fact and fiction when she ruled my brain. Today will be another doozy, I thought with a sigh as I crept out of bed, leaving Dorian to sleep for another hour.
I stopped in the doorway of the breakfast nook, which led to the kitchen. Always an early riser, Mom sat by herself at the wooden table with a cup of coffee held between her hands in front of her. Surely she sensed my presence—even normal humans could feel when someone has entered a room—but she didn’t acknowledge it. Her back faced me as she seemed to be staring out the window, watching the backyard brighten with the morning’s first light. The bluish-gray of dawn still colored the sky and the birds and squirrels were already active, hopping around the lawn and fluttering among the tree branches. The windows should have muted their chatter and calls, but they seemed unusually loud today.
I moved my attention from the yard back to Mom. As I watched her, sitting so still and looking so peaceful, a wave of remorse washed over me. I had treated her cruelly and she didn’t deserve it. I lashed out at her all the time because, well, she was here, and also because she stood next in line to lead the Amadis, but she couldn’t give me even the smallest bit of information. I held a certain amount of resentment for that, but I knew she had no control over it. Until she became matriarch, she had to follow orders. And, in the meantime, she never complained as she took care of Dorian and me as if we were both her small children.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry I’m such an ass,” I whispered against her cheek. I cringed, knowing I’d just offended her again. “Sorry.”
She patted my hand. “I’m sorry you’re still suffering so much.”
I pulled away to pour a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table with her. I played absent-mindedly with my necklace, sliding the pendant and key back and forth on the chain, rubbing my thumb over the smooth face of the triangular ruby. Usually Foggy could numb the pain, but I hadn’t been fooling anyone that she made it completely disappear, especially not Mom. And not even myself. I knew the pain always lingered, under the fog, and, deep down, a part of me wanted to feel it…needed to feel it.
“I would really like to stop hurting, Mom, but then it feels like I’m…giving up.”
“Nobody would blame you, honey,” she said quietly.
I stared into my coffee cup. “I know. They’d probably be glad I was finally coming back to reality. Seven years is a long time….”
“Not really. Not for us,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss the idea. “I still mourn for Stefan—”
My breath caught at Stefan’s name. I still mourned for him, too, but... “He was a protector. I mean, not a boyfriend or real love or anything. It’s not the same.”
“Yes, but we were very close. We even talked about dating, but were afraid we’d ruin our friendship. I miss him very much.” M
om sighed. “And I still mourn for my true love.”
I looked up at her with wonder. She’d never mentioned her true love before.
“Yes, honey, I’ve lost my own true love. Many years ago. It was 1910, a very different time, before either of the World Wars. Oliver was an English man visiting Italy, where I was born and raised. We fell in love at first sight. I followed him back to England and we married almost immediately. Barely more than a year later, he died. He’d become terribly sick and no one knew why. He probably had cancer, but we didn’t know back then. I couldn’t save him.”
A single tear slid down her cheek. She brushed at it with the tips of her fingers and then wiped at her eyes before anymore fell.
“Mom, I had no idea.”
“He was my soul mate, Alexis. And just like you, I had such a short time with him. As you can see, I still grieve for him. But life goes on and so do we.” She smiled, just a turn of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “So, it’s not how long it’s been that bothers me, honey. I understand.”
“But you mourn for their deaths. Tristan isn’t dead. I can’t believe that! I don’t mourn. I hang on!”
“Look how miserable you are, honey. I know hanging on is part of who you are. Ever since Stefan left when you were little, breaking your heart, I realized you were given the capacity to love more intensely than even me. Once you allow yourself to even trust enough, you become so attached. But…do you really think Tristan would want you to live like this?”
Tears pooled in my eyes. This wasn’t the first time she’d brought this up, so it wasn’t the first time I’d thought about what he would want for me. He would want me to be happy. I knew that with my brain, but my heart didn’t care. I had to hang on and wait for him, regardless of how much his absence hurt. She was right. That’s just how I was.
“If I don’t live like this, if I don’t feel the pain, I’m afraid I’ll forget. And I can’t forget!” She took me in her arms and I cried on her shoulder. “He’s already so dim, fading in my mind. What if I lose his face? What if I can’t remember anymore?”
Very quietly, she said, “Maybe it’s time to let go, honey.”
I felt like Mom had just slapped me. Swirly Alexis jumbled my thoughts, but Psycho pushed her away, and the insane anger from yesterday returned.
“NO!” I yelled, slamming my fist on the table, startling her. I jumped up, staring at her as if she were the crazy one. “I will never let go!”
I grabbed my coffee cup and stormed outside. A tumult of emotions battered at me, a hurricane raging in my mind. How could I make any changes, move forward, if I refused to let go of the pain? Letting go of the pain, of the misery, of exactly what caused days like yesterday, meant letting go of Tristan. And I absolutely refused to do that.
Did that mean changing would be impossible? Did I have to live like this until he returned? Or until the Ang’dora, which would change me, make me strong and give me powers so I could find and rescue him? Or did I hold onto something that didn’t really exist? Was holding onto the thread of hope that he still lived completely futile?
Ugh! I hate you, Swirly! Stop messing with my mind!
She responded with more irrationality. An unexplainable and overwhelming need to move overcame me. I went around the corner and pulled out my stash of cigarettes from under the air conditioning unit, needing to take the edge off. As soon as I lit one, I gagged and choked. Gross! When did I start doing this? I smashed the butt out and crushed the pack in my fist. I took a swig of coffee. What I normally called the nectar of heaven now tasted bitter. The warmth felt thick in my mouth and coated the back of my throat. I tossed the rest out. I didn’t need the caffeine anyway. I already felt wired. What is wrong with me now?
I knew I wouldn’t be able to write. My publisher would be expecting those final chapters any day now; it had been too long since I’d submitted anything. I didn’t care about their deadlines as much as I did about Dorian. But despite my revelation this morning, I just couldn’t bring myself to sit down and finish the story. My mind wouldn’t focus and my body couldn’t physically sit still.
While Mom took Dorian to school, I paced anxiously through the sprawling house, first through Dorian’s and my bedrooms, as well as my office, which all sat on the east side of the house. I picked up toys in Dorian’s room and straightened the bed, though it was unnecessary—he hadn’t even slept in his bed last night. I moved to the kitchen and scrubbed the counters and then the floor. Again unnecessary—Mom kept the house immaculate—but I needed to do something.
I even ventured into the west wing that housed Mom’s suite and the guest room, which we called Owen’s room. Besides Rina’s visits every year or two, he was the only one who used it. Wondering why the door was closed, I cracked it open. A pillow flew at me and I jerked the door shut. Crap. I’d forgotten Owen had arrived yesterday. I wondered how much of my tantrum he experienced. Not that it was new to Owen. He’d seen the worst of me.
He must have had a difficult time at first. He mostly stayed away then. Being the one to return that ill-fated day and deliver the crushing news, he’d obviously felt survivor’s guilt and it was hard for him to be around me. I probably didn’t do or say what I should have to make him feel any better. I didn’t blame him for what happened. But I did, every now and then, wonder why and how he, Solomon and the other soldier came back and not any of the rest. I never asked him, though. I didn’t want details…details that might tell me something I really didn’t want to know. Owen never brought the subject up himself, either. I didn’t know if he didn’t like talking about it at all, or just not with me.
Although we didn’t need extra protection, not even a shield, he started coming around more. Especially recently. Dorian loved his Uncle Owen. He was the closest thing Dorian had to a father figure, although I ensured everyone remembered he was not his father and he would never replace him. Mom enjoyed his company, too, and I didn’t mind it.
I let him sleep, returning to the mid-section of the house. I circled the table in the formal dining room and meandered through the living room that we only used for holidays, moving around knick-knacks and putting them back the way they were. I did the same in the family room at the back of the house and eventually swept all the books onto the floor and started re-shelving them by the color of their covers. I supposed Swirly made this organizational system seem rational when I started. Half-way through, though, I realized the idiocy of it. Too impatient to put them back in alphabetical order, I just piled them haphazardly onto the built-in shelves.
At some point, Mom returned and watched me as I paced and rearranged and cleaned, trying to work off this insane energy. I tried to ignore her. Once Owen woke up, they both seemed to contemplate my behavior and exchanged worried glances. I couldn’t ignore that.
“What?” I demanded. They just shook their heads.
“Nothing,” Owen muttered.
“For you to worry about,” Mom added cryptically.
By noon, my muscles twitched and ached with the need to move. Cleaning and pacing weren’t enough. Energy synapses shot through my nerves and muscles and the sudden urge to run came over me. Run? What the hell?
I didn’t understand the insane impulse, but I rushed to my room to find running clothes and shoes anyway. I only found old shorts, sweats, holey and stained t-shirts and flip-flops. I didn’t even own a pair of tennis shoes. Of course, that made sense. I hadn’t run for the heck of it since high school gym class.
Oh! Mom runs. I found her in her room, folding laundry. “Mom, can I borrow your running shoes?”
She gave me a funny look.
“I just feel like I need to go for a run.” I couldn’t explain the compulsion. She would think me deranged if I told her Swirly decided I needed to fix my fat self, the only explanation I could conceive. I hopped from foot to foot with overwhelming energy.
She narrowed her eyes for a moment and then a strange expression flickered across her face, like a realization she quickly dismis
sed. “Yes, of course. They’re in the closet.”
I sat at the kitchen table, tying the shoes, when Owen walked in.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“For a run.”
“Cool. Mind if I tag along?”
I looked at him with an eyebrow raised.
He shrugged. “I was going anyway.”
“I’m sure you actually run,” I said. “This will probably be more like a jog…or for you, a walk.”
“If I get bored, I’ll leave you alone to your trot.” He grinned, his sapphire-blue eyes shining.
“Whatever.”
We started with a jog down my long driveway. As my muscles loosened, jogging wasn’t enough. My body wanted more, so I picked up the pace to a slow run. Then a faster run.
“When’d you start running?” Owen asked as we picked up speed for the third time, neither of us breathing heavily.
“Now.”
He looked down at me, his blond hair falling across his face. He wore it long now, past his ears but not quite to his shoulders. He gave me a strange look. “Really?”
“Really. I’m wearing Mom’s shoes because I don’t even own any.”
“Huh.” He didn’t seem to know what else to say and let the subject drop.
Once off my property, we’d taken a right and ran down the middle of the quiet, residential street for several blocks. All the homes on the street sat on a minimum of two acres, most with gates at the driveways and hedges at least six-feet-high lining the street. The neighborhood featured privacy and the people who lived here could afford to pay for it. We moved here nearly three years ago, when my books really started taking off and the media started paying attention.
We’d stayed in the safe house in Northern Virginia until a few months after Dorian’s birth, when Mom deemed us healthy enough to move. The safe house was supposed to serve as a place of refuge for Amadis people needing to escape or who were newly converted. With me there, Rina refused to let anyone else come. So my presence created a few issues and we couldn’t stay permanently. We moved to a house near Virginia Beach. I liked life there more than Atlanta, but we’d lived in a small town. Small towns weren’t always conducive for the famous—or semi-famous, anyway. Especially when they’re loony. Atlanta and this neighborhood provided a better environment for me and my insanity.