“Jax!” Margie hissed.
“How did you find out?” Sam said dully. “Was it on the news?”
“Instagram. You already have over six thousand likes.”
“Great.” Sam flopped down in a chair, overwhelmed.
“Well, now, I don’t think we all know each other! Introductions all around!” Fletch launched back into his role of amiable master of ceremonies. “Have you met my mentor, Dr. Richard Knavish?” He waved in the general direction of Knavish, who was rubbing his eyes and mumbling to himself. “And this is…?” Fletcher peered closely at Jaida, who had the normal reaction to such expansive sclerae.
“Whoa!” She stared for a moment in awe, then had the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m Jaida.”
“Of course, of course. So! What should we all talk about?” Fletch used his brightest voice for this ridiculous question, and everyone in the room just looked at one another for a long moment. Finally:
“We could talk about this. I found it under my bed.” Jaida held up an empty bottle of Tabasco.
“We could talk about this. I found it stuck in Weezy’s doggy door.” Margie held up a clump of wavy hair that quite obviously belonged to the girl bearing the hot sauce.
“Hmmm, all very interesting.” Jax made a mock-thoughtful face. “But I’m thinking maybe we could talk about this.” He held up his phone, with the Instagram photo of the hospital set debacle, which now was at over seven thousand likes and climbing.
Sam winced. “We’ll get to all of those. But first… we should talk about this.” She turned to Margie and took a deep, shuddering breath. Here goes. “Mom, I’m sorry that I got suspended. Again. But I’m more sorry that I’ve been lying to you. I just didn’t think that you would believe the truth, or maybe… that you could handle it. And the truth is”—Sam looked at Fletch, who nodded his permission—“Dr. Fletcher has figured out a way to release the souls of sleepwalkers so that they can resolve whatever it is that makes them so restless at night. I know, I know, that sounds off-the-chain bonkers, but it’s true. And he says that my soul is a Helper, and that’s what drove me to do the crazy things I did all my life. And I’m finding out that being a Helper is hard and scary and dangerous, and that people can do bad things to you while you’re trying to help, or even because you’re trying to help, and I don’t know if I can do this. All I’ve ever wanted was to be normal, and this is really, really far away from normal.” Sam was crying now. “And I’m also scared that you won’t be able to stand it, because you’re afraid of losing me like we lost Dad, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t go back, but I can’t seem to go forward, either. I need your help. I’m a Helper that needs your help.” This last bit was a sob, a downright snot-laden ugly cry.
Margie was still, silent, staring at the ground, listening. When she finally lifted her head, it seemed lighter and not just because of the hair-free haircut. “Sam. I do believe you. Because… I think your father must have been some kind of Helper, too.”
This was the last thing she’d expected to come out of her mother’s mouth, and it dried up Sam’s tears like a cosmic Kleenex. She and Jax looked at each other, then gaped at Margie, and in unison, exclaimed, “What?!”
“Fascinating…” breathed Knavish, pulling up a chair to listen. All he needed was a container of popcorn and his moviegoing persona would have been complete.
Margie spoke slowly, haltingly. “Your dad… he was like you. I would always find him sleepwalking in dangerous places, doing things I couldn’t understand. The night he… we were living in Point Pleasant at the time. You and Jax were little and Grandma was with us; I needed her because I was always chasing him in the middle of the night. But that time… he got out without me knowing. When I caught up to him, when I saw him, he was standing by the Manasquan River, it seemed almost like he was waiting, almost like he knew. And then a car went straight off the bridge into the water. And your dad walked… he walked right to the edge and I realized, He’s going to go in, he’s going in after the car, and I ran and I grabbed him, I was screaming, I held him as hard as I could as the car sank lower and lower, but he got away, and he went in, swimming, he went under, for such a long time, and I knew he was still asleep, and when he finally came up—it wasn’t him. It was another man, the man who had been driving, and your dad… your dad… he didn’t come up. He never came up.” Margie took a moment to compose herself, then continued, pushing the words out. “And I thought, it’s because of me. It was because I tried to stop him. Because I held him for so long, the car sank so low, he had to go so deep… if I hadn’t stopped him, if I had let him do what he needed to do, he wouldn’t have died. And I… I kind of lost my mind and I ran. I ran home and I hid under the covers. Until the police came to the door a few hours later to tell me what had happened. They found the car and they found… your dad. But they never found the man he saved. No one ever found out if he actually survived.”
Margie stopped then, not because she was necessarily done, but because Sam was hugging her, hugging her so hard Margie probably couldn’t get enough air to utter another word, and then Margie was hugging back, gripping Sam with the same gridlock squeeze, and they probably would have stayed that way until one of them passed out, if not for the quiet voice that interrupted their fierce embrace.
“He survived.”
Sam and Margie drew apart, and Jax turned slowly.
“I survived.” Dr. Fletcher spoke again, his face bewildered and astonished and afraid, all at the same time.
A million questions hung in the air, and no one seemed to know which to ask first. The fragile silence hung like a soap bubble, short-lived but full of wonder.
And then Knavish popped it, leaping from his chair and applauding. “Bravo!” he shouted. “Oh, this really is too wonderful!” He blew kisses up to the heavens. “Great Muses, what perfection! I couldn’t have written it better myself!” Knavish danced about, even clicking his heels at one point, but after what had just happened, it only seemed mildly loony.
It was Jaida who finally tried to make sense of something that made no sense. “So… you didn’t know?” She looked at Margie, at Fletch, at Jax and Sam. “Come on. You didn’t know… any of you? For real?”
“Aquaphobia…” breathed Joanne. “No wonder…” She grabbed the tissue that was still crushed in Fletch’s hand and wiped the perspiration from her forehead and the back of her neck.
“I ran away, too.” Fletch faced Margie. “I’m sorry.”
Margie nodded, somewhat understanding, but not really. “Why?”
“I was a different man in those days.” Which sounded very dramatic and heady, so Fletch clarified. “I mean, literally. My name is not really Baptiste Fletcher. It’s Bob Flemkowsky. And I wasn’t always a sleep doctor. I was a podiatrist.”
A communal gasp led to very individual reactions.
Knavish crowed, “Marvelous! Delicious! Bob Flemkowsky the podiatrist! Bobby the foot doctor becomes Baptiste the rogue parasomnia specialist! Brilliant!” He extracted a tiny notebook from his breast pocket and feverishly began taking notes.
Margie remained steady, listening intently.
Joanne dug inside the collar of her crisp white uniform and mopped the tissue in her armpits, murmuring, “I should have known. I mean, who names their kid Baptiste?”
Jaida took a very public hit off her inhaler.
Jax said in a dazed voice, “Feet are gross.”
Sam, for her part, was trying to remain open. She wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of her eternal soul being released by a dude who used to shave warts off people’s lower digits, but if there was anything she was learning from this whole experience, it was that things are not always what they appear to be. And despite the rampant labeling in both the daytime and Waker worlds, Sam was becoming a big believer in the concepts of change and possibility.
Fletcher continued, “As you’ve probably noticed, my visage is rather unusual. So, imagine me as a child with these same-size
d eyeballs on a much smaller body. I was the object of terrible scorn, so vicious and inhuman that I learned to never raise my head to look others in the eye. Therefore, it was a natural progression to becoming a podiatrist; I could use my scientific skills while always looking downward.”
“Makes sense,” mumbled Jaida.
Knavish sighed in origin-story rapture.
“But I was a very angry man. Dishonest. I stole from my patients. I charged them for procedures they didn’t ask for and didn’t need. I knew I had hit rock bottom when I started to think about amputating people’s pinky toes just for fun. Did you know that the pinky toe balances the entire body? I did. And I wanted everyone to be off-balance, as they had made me feel for so many years.” Fletch shook his head sadly. “The best thing that ever happened to me was driving off that bridge. I took it as a sign to begin again, to start my life anew. I saw it as a baptism, hence my new choice of name: Baptiste.”
Everyone in the room was hanging on each word. “And what about ‘Fletcher’?” Sam whispered. “Why did you choose that?”
Fletch looked mildly surprised at the question. “Oh. That was just because ‘Flemkowsky’ is such a heinous last name. It sounds like a farm animal hacking up sputum.”
“It really does,” said Jax. Everyone nodded.
“I never meant to cause you pain.” Fletch now addressed Margie directly. “When I read in the newspaper that it was a sleepwalker who drowned, I dedicated myself to helping those with parasomnias. Your husband saved my life, a life that wasn’t really worth saving. But I determined that I would not receive his gift in vain. I ran away so that I could leave everything, absolutely all of my old self, behind.”
“I understand,” Margie said softly.
“Jax?” Fletch held out a skinny hand, which Jax eyed for a moment before he shook.
“Okay, Flemkowsky,” he said quietly.
Then Fletch peered at Sam, his sclerae vulnerable and questioning. “Do you forgive me, Samantha?”
Before she could answer, the door slammed open to reveal Byron; it was strange enough for Sam to see him in daylight hours, but the weirdness was totally exacerbated by his wearing of an extremely nerdy rain poncho. If Byron was startled by the cast of characters in the room, he didn’t show it; his eyes were focused on Sam.
“Byron?” Joanne questioned. “How did you—?”
“Instagram,” said Jax.
“Yeah.” Byron pulled off his poncho hood. “Sam. Obviously, I was totally wrong last night and you were right. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
Before Sam could answer, Jaida jumped up. “Okay, you know what? There seems to be a theme here, so I’m just gonna get this over with. Sam, I’m sorry about… uh… well, there’s a lot. But I really am sorry, about all of it. I can explain more later. I think I can, anyway… but do you think you could ever forgive me?”
Sam was tempted to laugh. Or cry. Here she was, being asked for forgiveness, from her SleepWaker sort-of crush, her daytime sort-of enemy, and the man her father had pretty much died for—the man who, in turn, had truly given her a new life. Maybe it wasn’t the life she had desired or planned for, maybe it wasn’t “normal,” but at least it was genuine. Genuine and right and utterly bizarre, just like she was.
Helper.
That’s what her dad was. And who she was. And now she could feel it, she could feel the change, her essence dropping into place at last. Samantha Fife was herself, finally, body and soul. And ready to do what she was destined for: to help rescue the SleepWaker world from the clutches of a beautiful bully.
“Forgiven,” she said softly.
Time to bring some light to the darkness.
IT’S NOT EVERY HEROINE’S QUEST that begins in the middle of the night at the SuperSlide Amusement Park in Bismarck, North Dakota, but Sam was not every heroine.
She and Byron were searching for the teacups ride, which shouldn’t have been difficult considering they’d been told that there was a giant red-and-yellow teapot in the middle, but no matter what ride they misted through, they kept ending up at either the Go-Kart Roadway or the batting cages. Finally they slid through the SuperSlide and spotted the objects of their hunt: SleepWakers packed into all six of the circular cups, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning forward in total face lock, talking in hushed, urgent tones. This was the Clutch.
“They look pretty intense,” Sam whispered. “You think they’ll be open to this?”
“Well, hopefully from you,” said Byron. “I don’t know why, but they’ve never been very chummy with me.”
“Okay. Here goes.” Sam approached the teacups tentatively. “Excuse me? Can we talk to you guys for a minute?”
The murmuring at Teacup #1 subsided, and a number of faces turned to look at Sam and Byron. One rather elfin-looking girl with a sharp chin and pointy ears stood very slowly, both her hands still held by other Wakers.
“Are you Clutch?” Her voice was hesitant, suspicious.
“Uh, no, we are not… Clutch,” said Sam. “I’m Samantha, a Helper. You probably don’t know what that is, right?”
Elf Girl leaned in to her teacup and whispered with her fellow… Clutchers? Clutchees? Sam looked at Byron, who shrugged.
Elf Girl turned back, tilted her pointy chin up. “We do not know what that is.” She said it with finality, an air of “we’re done here.”
“Listen, um, what’s your name?” Sam stepped forward and the Clutch did what the Clutch apparently does, which is Clutch one another. “Hey, it’s okay! We’re not gonna hurt anyone!” Sam tried to sound soothing. “Dr. Hopkins told us where to find you.”
Elf Girl leaned in and whispered again to her tribe. Sam was starting to feel a bit agitated. How the heck were they going to persuade any of these guarded, secluded souls to help them battle the MeanDreams? They couldn’t even get them to step out of their stupid teacups. But Hopkins’s name must have carried some weight, because Elf Girl turned back.
“I am Wichachpi.”
Byron and Sam looked at each other. “Sorry?” Sam said. “Can you repeat that?”
“Wichachpi.”
“But your jacket says… Lauren,” said Byron, narrowing his eyes.
She tilted her chin again. “My Clutch name.”
“Oh! So, you all have, like, different names at night? Is that what you mean?” Sam was trying, but Wichachpi Lauren wasn’t making this easy.
“Our souls are our true selves. They have their own names, not stamped by a parent’s expectations.” This, from an extremely short boy with extremely long arms who held Wich’s left hand, even though he was seated on her right.
“Huh. O-kay,” Byron muttered.
“So, are you the leader here? Because I have something very important to tell you,” said Sam.
“I am sorry, Helper, but the Clutch does not recognize your right to speak here, because of your association with a Roamer.” Wich spoke with authority. “Their tribe does not believe in connection. It only exists for the individual. Therefore, your words are to be disregarded.”
Byron looked completely taken aback, and Sam sputtered angrily, “Hey! You can’t do that! That’s judgy and, and… tribe-ist! You have no idea who this person is, and what he’s done for the Wakers! He’s more connected than anyone!”
The short long-armed boy declared, “If this is so, then he is not a true Roamer. But perhaps it is just that he has not yet been put to the test. When he is, he will save himself, not others. That is the Roamer’s way.” Long Arms and Wich turned away and were absorbed back into the human knot.
Perhaps it was the slight rise of unease in her stomach, or Byron suddenly looking kinda busted, but something drove Sam to seriously overreact. She march-misted right through the ticket turnstile and invaded the Clutch’s personal teacup space, knocking sharply on the red plastic to get their attention. “Listen, Lauren and—” She pointed at Long Arms.
“Odakotah.”
“And Odakotah, you think just because you can
do a group hug, that makes you relationship experts? Let me tell you what real ‘connection’ is! It’s hyper-crossing halfway across the country to freakin’ North Dakota, which is, like, practically freakin’ Canada, just to warn you about a dangerous tribe that’s messing up our world! How dangerous? Well, let’s just say that my body is currently tied down and guarded by a group of Laters to keep it from getting snatched by a psycho SleepWaker! So, you can take your fancy soul names and your weird no-contraction sentences that you think make you sound all mysterious, and you can stick them right up your—”
“Sam?” Byron gently tugged on her pajama sleeve. “I think you’re losing them.”
He was right. The Clutch was rising and silently filing out of their teacups onto the gravel path.
“Hey! Hey, where are you going?” Sam barked.
“We are retiring to the Bouncy Bounce House,” Wich said stiffly. “It is an enriching communal experience. We wish you well with your physical-body-robbing dilemma.” Long Arms stood on his tiptoes and mumbled something into one of her pointy ears. She nodded and with a slight bow to Sam and Byron, intoned “Wakan tanan kici un,” then glided away arm in arm with a Waker in boxer shorts and a half tee.
“What do you think that means?” Byron muttered.
“I think she just told us to go hug a moving train,” Sam muttered back, gritting her teeth. The Clutch was about to disappear through the SuperSlide and Sam just wasn’t up to navigating the Go-Kart track again, so she called out, “Wait! Please wait! Wichachpi!”
Wichachpi stopped and slowly turned around. Boxer Shorts tried to whisper something, but she held up her hand. “So. You do know how to say my fancy soul name.”
Sam smiled slyly. “Are you messing with me, Wich?”
“I do not mess,” Wichachpi said formally. “But remembering and correctly pronouncing another’s moniker is a bridge to true relationship. Therefore, I grant you one chance to explain the nature of your visit. And this time, do not quibble and say you only came to bring a warning. It is obvious you desire something from us.”
Sam Saves the Night Page 15