by S. M. McCoy
I changed the subject. “It’s going to rain.”
“Seems so, my sweet.”
My cheeks flushed, and my stomach heated with the way his nickname for me flowed from his lips. Mouth dry I coughed and stood. “We should get back.”
I turned away hoping he didn’t see my face, not daring to look back. His footsteps joined me and I felt a weight over my head as he placed his hooded jacket over me. Then the rain tapped on the fabric, slow and then steady. It drenched my jeans from the knee down. I stole a peek from the hood to see his eyes, closed and letting the water run down his face and through his soaked chestnut hair.
He breathed in deeply, and his skin looked like glass how the water slid from his near perfect features. When I thought he wasn’t looking I would stare at his eyebrow, where some of his hair never grew, forming a line like he should have a scar there. It was silly, but that imperfection made me smile despite myself.
Hiding my face behind his hooded jacket, I knew that as long as he was with me, the shadows would leave us alone.
CHAPTER THREE
It’s Your Funeral
The phone stared back at me as I looked between its open text box to Victor, and the computer screen for Seattle Funeral. It was a generic-sounding place. Didn’t bring any warm, fuzzy feelings of comfort to those who had lost a loved one. Just a business, like any other, located in Seattle, where I used to live, and prepared funerals—simple enough. Closing the text box, instead I dialed the phone number of the funeral home.
“Seattle Funeral Homes, let us take care of everything. My name is Beth, what can I take care of for you today?” the receptionist said with a pleasant, but comforting voice. Just the right amount of sadness, but uplifting. Guess their name was misleading.
“I’ve lost the records for my mother’s funeral, could you help me with those?” I didn’t have any records to begin with, but you don’t get answers without a little fudging. I was asking for something I hoped didn’t exist at all.
“Of course, who was your mother? I’m sorry that her records were lost; I’ll do my best to find them for you.” I didn’t know whether I wanted to snap at her or thank her for her kindness. She was almost too kind and it bugged me. I wanted answers, and I placed this unknown lady in the position of evil overlord that I needed to conquer to win. I couldn’t decide what type of answer I was looking for. Did I want to find out my mom was alive and ditched me, or that she was truly dead and my dad was delusional in his final days?
“Samantha Dylan,” I said quietly, looking over my shoulder, covering my mouth over the receiver.
“When was your loss? I can’t seem to find your mother under Dylan.”
“Sixteen years ago?” In a month, I thought, would be the anniversary of my existence, and the disappearance of my mother.
“We have a Samantha Abernithy around that time—maybe that was her maiden name?”
“Oh yes, that’s right,” I agreed, knowing that it was a shot in the dark, but maybe it was my mother. Maybe she really did die?
The phone went silent. I waited, holding my breath. I was about to say something before…
“That’s strange, I do apologize for the inconvenience, but we don’t seem to have those records. It was recorded as a transfer by a relative. All records are closed. To unseal them you can go into the vital statistics office. Writing a letter is usually easiest—less fuss and waiting. Do you need the address for vital statistics?”
“No, thank you for your help.” I pulled the phone away from my ear slowly, hearing the faint cordial goodbyes of the receptionist until the only noise left from my phone was a beeping that signaled a disconnected line, and then silence. I didn’t have the strength to press the End Call button.
All this time I thought I was alone, and my mother had a “relative.” I had a relative. It took me a moment to shake the realization from its cobwebs, and finally thumbed a message to Victor…only to delete it as quickly as I entered it.
What was I supposed to say? I didn’t even know how to say it, or what my thoughts were on it. How was I supposed to process the fact that I had family? And just as pressing, I had a lead on my mother.
Vital statistic websites had too many results for me to request online. I looked up the address on the website, and frowned realizing they didn’t accept email as a form of letter. They had a form to print off, fields to enter, and signatures to file, old-school style. Paper, pen, and they probably had an old dusty filing cabinet to store it all in after they stamped and verified.
I typed in Aislin’s number…then pressed the back button. What was I going to say to her? I’ve been looking for my dead mother…oh, by the way, I happen to have a relative out there somewhere. I sighed roughly, and threw my phone at the cushioned headboard of my bed, while flinging myself the opposite direction. Spread out wide I stared at the ceiling covered in glow-n-the-dark stars, merely clear shapes in the daylight, when I heard rapping sounds on my window. I rolled over, but didn’t move farther than that.
Aislin took care of me, gave me a job, and was the only one who knew I was a runaway, nearly sixteen years old next month. She never asked me questions I couldn’t answer…I chalked that up to her not being pushy, but something in her eyes told me that she did some digging of her own, and didn’t need me to tell her anything, she didn’t already know.
But she couldn’t know that I had nightmares that felt like memories, and this aching feeling that if I knew my mom I would know myself, that I would suddenly find the white rabbit of life. Why I was here, and what I was supposed to do with my life.
My phone buzzed, then beeped. I huffed, then resigned, retrieved my phone.
Text message from Victor: I know you’re home.
I waited, thinking on the tap I heard at my window. He was outside, and this was the longest I had ever gone without talking to him. I didn’t know what to say to him anymore.
I took your advice, called the funeral home, and I probably have family out there. That both frightened me and filled me with hope, what if someone was out there that could help me? Tell me about my mother and tell me I’m not crazy, that she was taken away.
My heart ached…that she had no choice but to abandon us, abandon me.
Another message beeped at me: I don’t like texting. You can’t ignore me forever.
I typed back, Yes, I can.
Since that day in the rain, we walked back in silence. Didn’t even say goodbye when he left me at my doorstep.
Neither did I.
Work survived without me, Aislin covered my shifts, and she didn’t ask any questions about why I sequestered myself to my room like a golem. She just kissed my forehead and said I’d be safe here.
And I did feel safe here.
His coat clung to the back of my desk chair, I didn’t dare touch it again, even though it had been dry for days. It smelled like pine trees, fresh spring air…and him, I couldn’t describe the scent, but it was, I admitted to myself, wonderful. It needed to stay where it was, or I’d have worn it again, pressing the collar to my nose like a safety blanket, and I already had one of those…downstairs in the form of a sofa, like the one my dad sat in at home all the time.
I wrote you a letter, his text beeped and briefly popped up on my screen followed by another: Left it on the doorstep.
I smiled, despite myself, holding back a sudden urge to jump up and run downstairs to read it. But I didn’t, I stayed there lying on my back, waiting.
Thinking about my mom. My dad said that I was exactly like her, not just in looks, but in spirit, that we were dreamwalkers. Told me bedtime stories about how all the Dylan women were, and I would one day be one too.
“In the times of old, realms existed between where we stand now and where we stood centuries before.” I’d giggle, because as a child that never really made sense to me, but it sounded like a whole different universe, full of possibilities. That was enough for me to listen to his story.
“Every type of creature existed, e
ach with their own world to rule. Some were monstrous with sharp teeth, some were wondrous with magnificent magic, and others with mischievous ways that were too unknown for others to trust.”
“Were they bad?”
“No, little star, every creature has a choice, just as you do. Even demons can have good intentions.” My eyes grew wide in wonder.
“Even the sharp toothy ones?”
“Well, some of them anyway.” He narrowed his eyes, but quickly got back to the story. “Your mother was taken away by creatures of the night. They wanted her for her sight. Dreamwalkers can see things even seers cannot control. They can see things from other realms, and travel into the minds of their enemies…but also their friends.”
“You said Mom was a hunter.”
“Yes, a very powerful one, hard to hide from someone that can follow you in your dreams, but that wasn’t all they wanted her for. Taking her away protected them, but it’s also why I know she’s alive. And you should too, because her abilities are much more than seeing things; her energy is connected with everything—it’s how she sees so much, and how you one day will too.” He became very serious then, and at seven years old, it was hard to take a bedtime story as more than a story to make me feel like I was worth something. And it did do that, it made me feel important.
I was, after all, connected with everything, and therefore connected with my mom, even though she wasn’t around.
“Being connected to all energy is a wonderful thing, but it is also a very big responsibility. One day, I won’t be able to protect you, and you must learn to protect yourself, tap into that connection, and find your mother. Remember, not all shadows are bad…but not all are good either.”
I didn’t know how important being a dreamwalker was at the time.
That was the only time he talked about the shadows, and I knew that the prickly feeling I got like someone was watching me was real. Sure, it might have been a stupid children’s story he made up to tell me that my mom was a bad-ass bounty hunter, and I was just as heroic and awesome as her. But I hadn’t done anything to prove how much of a hero I could be, and I certainly didn’t want any serious occasion to arise to test that out.
More and more I saw things when I slept, and even saw things shift around me. I didn’t want to admit that what I saw was my imagination, because I know what I saw. It was real. And the shadow gleamed with sharp teeth out of the corner of my eye before I turned and they were gone. My eyes were deceitful visions of beings and things that shouldn’t be.
Five minutes seemed like an eternity before I went downstairs and was thankful that our house had a mail slot. The simple letter rested on the welcome mat inside the entryway, but it was anything but simple: sealed with wax, and addressed to me in calligraphy.
I slipped my finger in the opening, lifting up to avoid breaking the wax seal, letting the top envelope rip jaggedly along its creased top.
It read:
Dear Sweets,
A truth for a truth. I’ll be waiting at our spot after sunrise for an hour, every day, until you’re ready to hear my truth. Something I’ve never told another soul, not even out loud to myself.
Until you’re ready,
Your Shakespeare
***
Victor had a way with words, and Shakespeare seemed to fit him, but something about the nickname he’d given himself felt familiar, and not in a high school play sort of way. I still opened and refolded the letter several times over the last week.
Every day I’d go to the park and watch him waiting there on the tree stump bench. He looked so much like a marble statue, unmoving save for the flaps of golden hair, wisps in the wind. He began lying on the bench with his eyes closed after the third day, and I followed suit, lying down on the cold ground staring up into the gloom-filled sky, only ten feet away hidden behind the overgrown hedge.
The damp dew of the morning soaked through my jacket, the moisture chilled my skin and even the back of my head was wet through the hood, making me feel like a rat wading through the sewers. My stomach rolled over thinking about how much of a coward I was, making Victor wait, every day, for me to trust him and hope that whatever he wished to say wouldn’t ruin the only friendship I had here.
I didn’t want things to change.
“I would enjoy spending time with you, if you were closer,” Victor said, loud enough to be heard from behind the brush.
I sucked in a breath, panicked on what to say, so I did what any girl in my situation would: I said nothing.
“You don’t have to say anything. I came here to tell you something.”
“No!” I shouted. It was awkward, but I didn’t mean for it to come out that way; I didn’t want him to tell me what I thought he was going to say. He couldn’t change what we were, not when I was so close to getting answers about my mother. Though I wasn’t sure that having or not having the answers would change how I felt about this moment, about him, or about right now.
I couldn’t lose him when I felt my mind slipping from me. When my eyes closed I feared every time that when I opened them I wouldn’t be where I was. That I’d open them and what I saw before would still be there.
“I mean, me first.” I sat up, but didn’t move into view. Peeking through the various openings of the foliage, I could see him looking at me, but I was sure he couldn’t actually see me. I’d sat on that bench before and never saw anything beyond the hedge; picking out an eyeball peering from it would be impossible.
I closed my eyes and the bushes disappeared and all I saw was white light circling his form—it swirled and twisted like smoke, then shifted darker, and darker. Sharp teeth floated in the shadow, and I squeaked. My eyes shot open and to my relief the bushes were there and the shadow was gone.
“I talked with the funeral home.” I paused, but he remained silent, listening. “I received a letter from the state board. The death certificate filed with them was a generic one, normally only done when no evidence is provided for a deceased. It’s the same kind of death certificate provided when someone has been missing for years and presumed dead. Do you understand what this means?” I was near to pleading by the end, near to tears at what I couldn’t tell anyone else. Anyone but him.
My mother could still be alive. She could tell me how to make the sight stop, stop the shadows from following me. I felt a presence behind us, and my heart quickened. I knew someone was with us, someone other than Victor and myself. I wanted to shout out, “Leave us alone!” but I remained silent. I would have to leave, as I did before when the shadows followed my father.
“You gave them your address…” Victor said softly, barely audible from where I sat. He was sitting up straight as a board, stiff as a frightened cat, but his face remained the picture of calm. It was almost like he could sense the shadow following us too. That was silly, right? Because I still clung on to the hope that this was all in my head, and no one else’s.
“You don’t understand,” I repeated myself, thinking he was completely ignoring the most important thing I’d ever told anyone, ever, and he was talking about my address.
“I understand.” He paused and in what seemed like a moment, Victor was on the other side of the hedge, his eyes clearly on me. First they frightened me, and then they softened before he continued, “You’ve confirmed evidence in a conspiracy theory and gave whoever set it up exactly where you live.”
The words my dad said before he left me at the bus station repeated in my mind: “They’ll come after you next, tell no one, they already got your mom.” Who were they? The shadows? The one watching us right now? I wrote it off to delirium at first, but then the dreams changed my mind. The sight…changed my mind.
How could I tell Victor, or anyone for that matter, that a shadowy figure from my dreams told me that bad people were after me because of my mother…and I believed him without even questioning who the bad people were? He wouldn’t tell me, but I felt him now…like I was in a waking dream…that shadow was watching us…watching me.
Someone was after me, and I couldn’t explain who, and the only person I could ask was missing, and the only dream I could ask wasn’t controlled by my desire to dream of him again. I was stuck hunting for answers and no idea where to look next. I could feel my sanity slipping from my grasp as quickly as if I never had it to begin with.
“I may think my mom is missing, but I didn’t say anything about someone being after me…” I croaked, feeling a lump form in the back of my throat, realizing what he was saying. How did he know?
Did he notice when I looked over my shoulder as we walked around the national park? I didn’t think I did it all the time, just when I got this prickly feeling at the back of my neck like someone was watching us. Like now, I craned my neck to look around as Victor held me perfectly still, his hands firm on my arms.
Victor always moved closer to me then, now that I thought about it. Several times I brushed my fingers up against his forearm from his closeness, and never thought about anything else other than to quickly shove my hands into my pockets. Foolishly blushing and averting my eyes.
Stupid. Thinking he wanted anything else other than to protect me…probably from myself.
He jumped over the hedge, and I felt my skin prickle, like those times before. His agility was impressive considering I always thought he avoided any physical sports or activities, he could’ve been on a track team jumping hurdles. Those lean muscles hidden under an oversized floppy white basic tee. The moisture from the morning making the fabric cling to him in a way that would have been appealing, if it weren’t for the seriousness in his face.
He crouched next to me and as blunt as a hammer asked, “Aren’t they?” And my brain filled in the they, with the he that was so close I could almost touch him with my mind. I smelled the air and it filled with cinnamon.
I didn’t tell him about what my father said, and he was near delirious by then. Why, after all these years, would anyone come looking for me? I didn’t need to keep my identity a secret anymore for safety…did I? Then why didn’t I ever go back to Seattle?