Just like I dreamed, it’s a full mosaic of animals. I’m seeing them just the way Tink and Len did.
Something in me knew I would, but the truth still knocks me in the chest. I place my hand there, like I’ve got to trap it.
I’m dreaming something real.
It’s then I hear a slopping sound behind me, and I turn around to find muddy rubber boots, thick calves, a flowery muumuu dress, and that big old gauzy bun at the top of her head.
Turtle Lady.
It’s the closest I’ve ever been to her watchful eyes and those thin lips, which push out a grunt. Her voice is rough and fast. “Watch your step.”
My voice fails me.
Her hands are at her hips and she’s shaking her head, back and forth. “Quit disturbing things. Go on,” she demands. “Quit nosing around. Let it be.”
Let what be?
But like I’ve grown accustomed to doing with Turtle Lady, I run away before I can say a thing.
The lunchroom is all loud and echoey as I slap my tray against the table, a bunch of conversations mixing with the smell of smoky grill. Tanvi’s got her nose stuffed in a book, no surprise there, except she’s got a cloth cover so nobody knows she’s reading some blazing bodice ripper.
I’ve got whatever the cafeteria dude slops onto my tray with his rubber gloves and a ladle, because when Lindy leaves the Shaky, she wants nothing to do with cooking, ever. I run my spoon through the lumps, thinking it might be chili. Jeremiah eats a bagged lunch from Gramzy, which means a cheese and mustard sandwich, an apple he throws in the garbage, and a juice box like he’s five. It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day, and I can’t wait to tell him about Turtle Lady.
“I went to the marsh this morning,” I tell him.
“I’m reeeading,” Tanvi singsongs, like we’re just supposed to sit here in silence while she devours entire romances.
Jeremiah ignores her. “What marsh?”
I guess when you live between an ocean and a bay, that’s a fair question. “The one past Main, on the bay side, where all the old paddleboats are.”
Jeremiah doesn’t look impressed. “Oh. So?”
“Turtle Lady,” I say.
Jeremiah’s eyes widen. “At the marsh?”
“At the marsh.”
He crams the sandwich into his mouth. “What’s she doing there?”
“Telling me not to disturb things,” I say. “To watch my step.”
“Wait, wait, wait, back up,” Jeremiah says between chews. “Disturb things? What were you doing there?”
“So…remember how I dreamed your house?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the dreams are getting, I dunno, more and more involved, I guess. More and more…real. Like—” I try to explain before getting interrupted.
“This seat open?” It’s Ted Light, holding a tray at his waist.
“I guess,” I say at the same time Tanvi yelps just a little too loud, “No.”
Ted looks toward Jeremiah, like he might be the deciding factor, and Jeremiah shrugs a bit. “Why not?”
Tanvi sighs loudly and brings her book a little closer to her face, but Ted Light doesn’t seem bothered, the tray resting on the pudge of his tummy as he slides in next to Tanvi and immediately begins asking questions. “What are you talking about?”
“Dreams,” I say.
“Like aspirations or the kind you have when you fall asleep?” He shoves a spoonful of the unidentifiable slop into his mouth.
“The sleep kind,” says Jeremiah.
“I dream piano pieces,” he tells us, and he drops his spoon and lifts his hands up, fingering something in the air, like he’s hammering out notes on a floating piano. They match a buzzing hum from his lips. It’s weird but also mesmerizing. I even see Tanvi peek out from behind her book.
“Once I dreamed a whole piece I’d been trying to get right. Dreamed it from beginning to end. I woke up and ran to the piano and tried to pick it up from there. Nothing but nonsense.” He laughs and shakes his head, letting his fingers fall back to his spoon. “I forgot ketchup. It makes everything better. Can I get you anything?” He looks at the three of us.
Jeremiah and I shake our heads. Tanvi is silent. Ted Light shrugs and takes off for his ketchup.
“What’s this all about?” I ask Tanvi.
“What’s what about?” she asks.
“It’s just Ted. You don’t have to be such a scrooge about him. You like him. He might like you. I don’t understand.”
“He’s inconvenient,” she says. “End of story.”
I’m about to question her when Ted Light slides in with his ketchup packets, ripping them open, one after the other. His hand motions are graceful, even as he’s glopping ketchup into his bowl.
“So, what’s this about dreams?” he asks.
“I dreamed about this old canoe with a painting on it,” I explain. “In the marsh. And then I went to the marsh and it was there. Exactly as I saw it in my dream.”
“And Turtle Lady doesn’t want you messing with it?” Jeremiah raises his eyebrows.
“Bingo.”
“Weird.”
Tanvi places her book on the table. “How do you know you didn’t see this canoe first and then dream it? And then see it again?”
“I thought you were reading?” I ask.
“I was. Doesn’t mean I’m not listening. It takes a high level of cognitive ability to be able to follow two separate narratives at the exact same time. I can.”
Jeremiah grunts.
“Well, I know I’ve never seen it before,” I tell her.
“But how do you know know? I mean, you could have seen it and buried the memory deep in your subconscious, only to have it come out when you’re letting your guard down, for example, in your sleep.”
“But I’ve never—”
“Or, someone could have told you about it. That’s possible, right?”
“I guess—”
“Dreams are born from what’s real.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I read a book once, about this Freudian psychologist and his patient who became his lover, and he was trying to interpret her dreams, and then he learned she was dreaming about him, and let’s just say, the things she was dreaming were not good, and it got really messy for a while, but in the end, he put her under hypnosis and found out she was really channeling her frustration with an old lover into their relationship, and the dreams had nothing to do with him at all, so they were able to put aside everything and fall in love.”
I groan. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Wait. Where was I going with this?” She looks to Jeremiah, who turns the smooth red apple in his hands and shrugs.
“Beats me.” He takes aim for the garbage pail and tosses the apple right in. “But you’d think someone with a high level of cognitive ability would know.”
Tanvi scowls.
“You’re saying that dreams come from real desires. Real thoughts. Real feelings,” Ted chimes in, his mouth full of his ketchup concoction. “Right?”
Tanvi nods. “Right.”
“What do you think the dreams are about?” Ted asks me, his stare intent, like he has to have an answer.
I think of Tink again. It’s like I know her without knowing her. She’s someone to me. I think of the year. 2001. Long before I even existed. I think of Turtle Lady telling me to watch my step. Could she have something to do with these dreams?
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Any of you know a Len?” I ask. “He’d be our parents’ age. Hypothetically.”
“Len like Leonard?” Tanvi asks.
“I guess.”
They all shake their heads.
“Alexis? Kimmy…” I hesitate and feel my face go red as t
hey stare. “It’s just…the dreams. They feel like they happened once.”
Tanvi sighs melodramatically. “I hear you.” She picks up her book. “We all need an escape.”
“Maybe,” I say quietly. Is that what it is? An escape? From the mess with Lindy and Elder? From mold-less bread and a whole school year before summer comes again?
I try to think about where I might have seen that boat. Like Tanvi and Ted said, maybe I’m dreaming something I’ve already seen, rather than the other way around. I take a bite of the warm mush. It’s vaguely beefy. It’s neither terrible nor good, just in the middle, like everything that comes from the school kitchen.
“Hey, Jeremiah, your Gramzy keeps records, right?” Ted asks.
“Of what?”
“At the Pitch & Putt. You know how you’ve got to sign in to rent clubs or play in the game room? Maybe your dream people, or whoever, were there.”
I let myself smile. “That’s genius.”
Ted smirks and taps his head with his finger, looking right at Tanvi. “High level of cognitive ability.”
Tanvi slumps behind her book and shakes her head, but I see her mouth turn up into an amused smile.
After school, we ride our bikes home to Jeremiah’s, tossing them up against the old shack of the Pitch & Putt. The screen door creaks, and Jeremiah calls out for Gramzy. Jeremiah grazes his fingers along the kitchen counter for food, then he offers up a granola bar, which he tosses into my hand before I can refuse.
He tears into his bar, crumpling the wrapper and speaking in between chomps. “Gramzy!” he calls out again, and I follow him through the bright kitchen to the living room, with its heavy drapes and paisley couch, a thick rug, and old-lady knickknacks everywhere.
Instead of Gramzy, we see a tall man stand up from the couch, real quick, his eyes huge, his legs and arms all dangly, like he’s this wiggly basketball player jamming across the court. I recognize him right away, with the way he stands in his tan blazer. Up close I can see the notebook poking out of the pocket, thick with scribbles. He’s the stranger I saw standing on the boardwalk a few days ago. I can see that he is all Jeremiah, or Jeremiah’s all him, whichever way it goes, with wild hair and heavy eyes and the same calm smile.
I stand back as Jeremiah stands rigid, and I get the feeling this man’s going to swoop in for an unwanted hug just as Gramzy’s coming from the other room, her voice as no-nonsense as always. “Jeremiah. This is your father.”
I expect Jeremiah’s eyes to go wild or something, but instead they go dead, this glazed look across his face, like I could wave a wand in front of it and not even get the slightest reaction. I feel a little sick inside, knowing I shouldn’t be here for this big reunion, and I start backing toward the kitchen, when I see Gramzy wave her hand over, beckoning me in, and it’s clear we’re trapped in this room, all four of us in a minor hostage situation.
Maybe Jeremiah’s dad gets his cue from the dead look in Jeremiah’s eyes, because he doesn’t go for the hug I thought he would. He holds out his hand for a shake. Jeremiah doesn’t move, and I think of nudging him over.
“This is Summer,” Gramzy announces, and I wonder if I should curtsy or something, everything feels so weirdly formal. Instead, I reach out for his extended hand and immediately regret it. He didn’t mean it for me.
His hands are callused and his fingers are wiry-long, wrapping themselves around the back of my hand. It’s a bit of a limp handshake, unsure, awkward, not like Lindy taught me, to shake a hand like I mean it.
“I live next door,” I tell him. “And I’ll be getting back right now. Right now,” I repeat.
Jeremiah doesn’t move, but it’s like he snaps back into life. “Gramzy, I need your records. Your summer records.”
Gramzy eyes me.
“Not that Summer. The summer records for the Pitch & Putt.”
“What on earth for?” she wonders. “Your father’s here.”
“We need to see who’s been coming through. Summer’s been dreaming about a bunch of kids, and we need to know if they’re real and stuff.”
Gramzy looks at me for an explanation, and I shrug. There’s no other way to explain it, is there? Weirdo Summer needs to know if her dream people are real or not.
“They’re behind the desk. This isn’t the CIA.”
Jeremiah turns around and marches back through the kitchen toward the Pitch & Putt hut. His dad looks as confused as I do.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say. And, this time, I do curtsy, then walk off behind Jeremiah. Just before I leave the room, I hear Gramzy say, “I don’t know what you’re expecting after twelve years. Your very own coronation? He’ll come around when he wants to. That’s his right.”
As I slip out the screen door to the hut, I see Jeremiah crouching behind the desk, pulling out a thick black binder. I’m about to pounce, What was that? But something stops me. If, after all these years, I came across a dad I never knew was mine, and I was the nonconfrontational Jeremiah I knew, I’d probably turn right back around, too.
He plops the binder on the desk and pushes it toward me. “Here.”
I nod and walk toward the book. Jeremiah stands stiff, hands in his pockets, unsure of where to go next. I can tell he doesn’t know what might be there for him, inside where his dad is, or outside, or maybe anywhere.
I turn to the first page, toward Gramzy’s neat, loopy writing. It’s like a page from the cursive-writing handbooks you get in third grade. The names are in neat little rows along with the day and time they checked in.
The binder’s thick and it spans years.
“Scan it with me,” I urge him. “I’m looking for a Len, an Alexis, a Kimmy, or a Tink.”
“Tink?”
I shrug.
He leans over my shoulder.
I see some kids’ names from school. Gum-snapping Langston Cross. Willis Walker and her snot-nosed little sister. Darren Ledbetter, who comes almost every single day from June to September. My name doesn’t come up. I play Pitch & Putt for free.
I turn back as far as I can, to the very beginning. I look at the year. 2009.
I sigh.
“What?” Jeremiah asks.
“It’s just ten years ago.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“The boat was made in 2001.”
Jeremiah’s brow furrows. I can tell he’s trying to figure it all out. “Do you remember what they look like?”
I close my eyes, the memory of their faces blank. I shake my head. “Some things are crystal clear. Some things are all blurry.”
“That’s dreams for ya.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“Well, what’s making them happen? Where are they coming from?”
I think about the way it felt like they were in my stomach. “It’s almost like I swallowed them,” I say with a laugh.
But then I stop myself. Maybe it’s not so funny. Each dream ended with me inside the ocean. With the ocean inside me. That sick feeling each morning. It was salt water. Sitting in me. First from the riptide. Then from the kayak tipping over.
“The ocean,” I whisper. My heart beats a little faster as I let the idea take hold, and then I say it firm. “It’s coming from the ocean. I swallowed a whole bunch of ocean. Twice.”
Jeremiah doesn’t question it, just lets his eyes grow wide. “And the ocean is where you got your start,” he states, like he’s mulling it over.
“Maybe they’ve got to do with me. With where I came from. I mean, they’re inside me for a reason, right?”
“A part of your subconscious. Like Tanvi was saying.”
“Mm-hmm. All I’ve got in my life is an after. I’ve never known the before.”
“And this dream…” Jeremiah pieces it all together. “Is part of your before?”
�
�Maybe?”
It’s making some sense. An idea snags at my heart. It’s quick. But it’s there. A hypothesis. To whatever this science experiment is.
My mother.
I’ve let snippets of who she might be and what she might look like creep in and out of my mind over the years. Long dark hair that might match mine. A laugh that’s bigger or brighter than mine could ever be. A love of the ocean and stars. Maybe these dreams are letting me get closer to knowing her.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s leading me to places Turtle Lady doesn’t think I should be snooping around in,” I say.
“Do you think she knows something?” Jeremiah asks.
I let the thought sit with me. Is it possible my story is tied up with hers? “I mean, she is the only person in Barnes Bluff nobody knows much about.”
“A little like you.”
A little like me.
“See this?” Jeremiah leans in and puckers his lips together. “Smacked my lip on the corner of the sandbox,” he says. “I bled straight through to Gramzy’s shirt.” He tugs at his puffy pink bottom lip. “You see the scar?”
I sit up, lean in, and see a jagged little white line stretching to his chin.
“I was two,” he says.
“And you remember it?”
“Yup. Mrs. Grady says it’s easy to remember messed-up events.”
“Okay. What’s that got to do with anything?” I wonder.
“Getting plucked from the ocean and ending up in Lindy’s backyard would be a pretty memorable event.”
“Yeah. You would think.”
“Maybe these dreams will lead to a memory,” he says. “You just need to dig it up.”
I smile, thankful that whoever dropped me here in Barnes Bluff dropped me next to Jeremiah Cooper.
“He’s not what I expected,” he says, quiet.
At first, I wonder what he means, then I realize he’s talking about his dad, the gangly dude in Gramzy’s knickknacked living room.
He wanders away from the binder and plunks himself on the flowery couch. Dust rises in clouds of pillowy smoke. Then he sighs. “There’s too much to sort out.”
“He seems like he could be nice?” I ask it like a question.
A Swirl of Ocean Page 6