It is pretty out of the blue for me to be calling, as far as she knows. “This is going to sound strange,” and she’s getting the heavily edited version, “but, did you see in the paper about the two girls who they found?” It’ll be so much easier if she has.
“Ugh. That was horrible,” she says. Yes it was. Yes it is.
“Well, it’s been on my mind, I guess, and I remembered that you said how you’re going to take the bus over to campus to do your swimming over the break,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she answers, very hesitantly.
“I had–a nightmare, I guess you could say. I saw you, waiting at the bus stop there on 107th street, and a car came by and a guy just opened up the door and grabbed you right off the street.” Please just buy that, don’t question me about it.
“Seriously?” I can picture her rolling her eyes as she says it. I don’t blame her.
“I know how it sounds.” Believe me, I know. “But there is a guy who took those two girls, and they haven’t caught him, and you probably will be all alone waiting for the bus. I just–I know what you’re probably thinking, but I had to warn you before–if anything bad happened.”
“You said it was just a nightmare.” She doesn’t sound quite as sure about it as she could be. That’s something. But I haven’t got her totally convinced yet.
She has to believe me. I don’t know what else to say–and then it comes to me, out of nowhere. “Look. I never remember my dreams. I know this sounds like superstitious crap, but one of the only ones I do remember is, a couple of years ago I had a dream about my brother breaking his arm, and the very next day he got in a fight and, I’m not making this up, he got his arm broken.” Not true, not one word of it. But I’m emotional enough, worried enough that she’s got to believe it anyway. “Maybe it’s nothing, but you read about those girls in the paper just like I did. There really is somebody bad out there.” Bad isn’t the word, but it’ll do for now. “Please. Just promise me you won’t go alone. Get somebody to go with you, borrow somebody’s car and park right by the pool instead of waiting for the bus. Please?” Come on, Jackie. You have to listen to me!
“You’re really worried I’m going to get hurt if I go by myself?” I’ve got her. I’m sure of it now. I did it!
“I am. Swear to God.”
“OK. I promise. Tell you the truth, my mother wasn’t thrilled about it either, but I blew her off. I thought she was just being silly.”
“Maybe it is silly, I don’t know.” Even though I do know. “But better safe than sorry, right?”
She agrees. “Right. You know, it is nice that you were worried about me. Not everybody would have taken it so seriously.” Yes they would, if they saw what I’ve been seeing. “Hey, Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas to you, too. See you in a couple of weeks.” She hangs up, and I just sit there holding the phone for probably five or ten minutes, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened.
I saved her. I saved Jackie’s life! I made something good come from these hateful goddamned nightmares!
What could be merrier than that? Now I’m ready for Christmas.
***
Despite my relief, I’m still shaky when I go downstairs for breakfast. I lost control in front of my parents, even if it was only for a minute, and that scares me–both because it’s frightening on its own and also because of what they might think. I don’t want them to spend all of Christmas wondering what’s wrong with me.
I walk towards the wonderful smell of bacon and pancake syrup. Mom’s got everything all ready and dished up. Bob, barbarian that he is, is already eating. I sit down across from him, but like a civilized person I wait for Mom to join us at the table before I pick up my fork.
“Mom, Dad, I’m really sorry,” I say when she does. The pre-emptive approach seems like a good idea. “I–I know I kind of freaked out. But that nightmare, it was so real. I saw–Jackie’s my friend, you know?” They’re listening intently. “She lives twenty feet down the hall from me, I see her every day, and seeing–I don’t even want to say it out loud. I’ve never been that frightened, I don’t think.”
Dad pats my hand. “I know. I saw on your bed, it wasn’t Lumpy who bit your rabbit’s arm off, was it? Did you even know you did that?”
“I did it in my sleep. That’s how horrible it was. And it’s been in the news, there really is somebody out there who kidnapped a girl, not too far from school. I felt like I had to warn her. And anyway, she told me her mother didn’t want her going alone during the break, she was worried too.”
Mom and Dad both nod at that. They wouldn’t want me waiting alone at a bus stop in–well, definitely not the best part of town. Our campus itself is safe, but you only have to go a couple of blocks off in the wrong direction and it gets a little bit sketchy. And that’s pretty much where I saw Jackie in the nightmare.
I wish I could tell them the rest of it. All of it. But what could they say? What could they do? Kat didn’t really have anything helpful to say, and I’ve been wondering if I should have even told her.
If I were in Mom and Dad’s place, what would I do? I’m not sure, but based just on this morning I think I might take me out of school and send me to as many doctors as it took to get some kind of answer.
I don’t need that.
“I won’t deny you gave us a good scare, honey, but I’m glad you warned your friend. It sounds like you did exactly the right thing.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I’m a lot less shaky now. I–finally–settle into breakfast, and with a stomach full of good food, I feel almost 100%. Which is good, because I want to be better than 100% when we go over to Brian’s house later today.
***
We’re in the car, on the way over to Brian’s house. I’ve only talked to him once since the airport, and that was for maybe five minutes Friday night. I wish he’d been there for me this morning. I wanted him there, wanted him next to me, holding me. I wanted him to listen to me about the nightmare, to believe me, to know what I saw and how much worse it was than my parents or anybody else can imagine.
I have to tell him about it today. I don’t want to spoil Christmas, but I need him to know. I need to not be the only one going through this. And I know exactly how selfish and childish that sounds, but I can’t get through this by myself.
Something pops into my head; I had another dream last night. My own dream. I don’t remember what happened, just the feeling. I was all alone, and I had to do something. I don’t remember what it was, but it was something difficult, something I didn’t know at all how to do, and there was nobody around except me to do it.
I know what my subconscious was trying to tell me, the same thing Kat told me. I believed it then, but it isn’t true. I can’t do it alone.
I need someone beside me–someone like–I don’t know, maybe a co-pilot, I guess. And Brian is mine.
***
Brian’s house is in a quiet neighborhood, maybe five minutes from the ridiculously huge Galleria at Forest Glen. We drive past the mall, and at one in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, the parking lot is full. Are there really that many people who wait until the absolute last minute to buy their gifts? Apparently so.
Brian’s house, on Maplewood Street, is maybe a little bit bigger and, from the outside at least, maybe a tiny bit nicer than ours. It’s two stories, brick, with a neatly-kept front lawn. At first glance, it looks like a good place to live. Dad heads up their driveway and parks next to a blue station wagon; I see two more cars parked in the open garage.
Just as I open the door and step out of the car, lights flicker on. They’ve got the whole front of the house decorated with tiny white lights. It’s really pretty, but I can’t help think that something’s wrong, something’s missing. I’ve never been here before, so I don’t have any idea why I feel that way.
But then the front door opens, and
I couldn’t care less about what’s wrong with the decorations. Brian’s there. God, he’s so beautiful! If his smile were any bigger, the top of his head might fall off. It’s only with great self-control that I hold myself back from running over to him. I wait for my parents and Bob to get out of the car and we all walk up to the door together.
I can’t believe what I see, as I walk up to him. He’s wearing the loudest, most awful Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen. It’s green with a big brown reindeer pattern. I can only hope that it was a handmade gift from an elderly relative and he’s wearing it out of obligation. His eyes follow mine, and when I look back up his expression says very clearly: “I’ve already heard everything you could possibly say about this hideous sweater!” Which is probably true.
We’re all dressed–at Mom’s insistence–like we were going to a fancy, formal dinner. I’m wearing a long, dark green skirt that goes down nearly to my ankles, and a (surprisingly stylish) sweater Mom dug out of her closet because nothing else I own went with the skirt to her satisfaction. The only sign of the season is my earrings, tiny crystal Christmas trees, handmade by Mom’s mother–my grandmother Lucy.
I throw my arms around Brian, but with my parents right behind me all I do is kiss his cheek and let him go much too quickly. My father extends a hand and Brian shakes it. “You must be Brian. Sara’s told us–well, almost nothing about you,” Dad says, but he’s grinning as he says it.
“Yes, sir,” Brian answers, keeping his calm. I feel Dad’s hand squeeze my shoulder, and when I look up at him he looks back from Brian to me and quickly nods his approval.
A man and a woman who have to be Brian’s parents welcome us into the house. Mom shakes Brian’s hand. Bob shakes Brian’s hand. Dad shakes Brian’s father’s hand (“Ben Alderson, good to meet you.”), Brian’s mother hugs but barely touches Mom (“Helen Alderson, we spoke on the phone?”).
Brian’s looks come mostly from his father; same nose, same brown eyes, same build. His father’s wearing, if you can believe it, an even worse sweater–maroon, with a red-and-white Santa knitted on the front. He sees me staring in morbid fascination and shrugs.
“My eldest sister has far too much time on her hands since she’s retired. But you have to admit they are festive.” That’s not the first word that comes to mind, but I smile and he shakes my hand. “Sara, I presume?” I nod. “Thank you for joining us. We’re so glad you could make it” he says.
Brian’s parents ask if we want anything to eat or drink. Bob, on his version of “best behavior,” says, “Yes, please, thank you,” and follows Brian’s mother into the kitchen. His father ushers the rest of us into the living room, but Brian takes my hand and holds me back.
“I’ll give Sara a quick tour of the house,” he says.
“A quick tour. Your aunt and uncle will be back soon,” his father tells him.
Brian mumbles something that might have been “Yes, Dad,” and leads me up the stairs.
***
It’s all I can do to peel myself away from him. Even with the mood-killing presence of his parents, not to mention mine and my little brother right downstairs, I’ve missed him so much, needed him so much. But I do, somehow, manage it.
I look around at his bedroom. It’s about what I imagined. Very neat, no dirty clothes on the floor or empty soda cans in odd corners. There’s a Phillies pennant on one wall, and a movie poster for “Star Wars” on another. He’s got a little desk with one of those big “portable” computers with the tiny four-inch screen on it. It must weigh thirty pounds.
“It’s from my father’s office,” he says when he sees me looking at it. “You can’t do that much with it, but it was kind of useful in high school.”
“And you can use it for weightlifting practice, too.” He gets a good laugh out of that. “You have no idea how much I missed you.” That’s not true; I think I made it pretty clear just a minute ago.
“As much as I missed you. Have you been OK? Have you…”
My face falls; he doesn’t need me to answer. “It was bad. The worst.” He pulls me back to him, and just holds me. This is what I needed when I woke up today. I say, right into his ear, “It’s OK. There’s a lot I have to tell you. But this isn’t the time.” I was all ready to tell him, but suddenly it doesn’t seem as urgent. “We can talk about it after. Let’s enjoy Christmas. It’s our first one together, we deserve it. Both of us.” My heart skips a beat when I realize what I said, without even meaning to, but he doesn’t seem to catch it.
I kiss him, and it’s almost enough to make me forget about who’s downstairs. Almost. I very reluctantly let him go. He straightens his horrible sweater, leads me out into the hallway. I stop in my tracks, pull him back into his room. I’ve just remembered what was bothering me about the house. “Where’s all the decorations outside? The reindeer and all of that?” It was in his dream. I saw it all.
He knows instantly what I’m talking about. It’s not a happy subject; I hear the dejection in his voice. “Dad used to put it all out before my brother went into the army. We haven’t decorated like that since then. I guess I was just picturing it how I wanted it to be, instead of how it really is.”
That’s so sad! “I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am.” I grab his hand and squeeze it, and he seems to take heart from that. After a minute, we head back downstairs, still hand-in-hand.
His aunt and uncle have returned, and I’m introduced to them. There’s Ken, the uncle, and Tamara, the aunt, and Bianca, their daughter, who looks to be about Brian’s age.
I notice that my brother has noticed her. It quickly comes out that she’s also a high school senior; she’s only a month younger than Brian, but he started school a year ahead of her. Bob’s attention perks up even more at that; it immediately gives him something in common with her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s very pretty; nearly as tall as Brian, long brown hair tied in a ponytail, cute figure. Luckily for her, she was spared a dreadful handmade sweater; her father was not so fortunate.
Brian’s mother is thanking Mom for the gifts she brought. There’s a good bottle of wine–or at least an expensive one. I don’t really know much about wine, and I don’t think Mom does either. And then she also brought a three layer chocolate cake, from the fancy bakery that she only goes to for special occasions.
All of his family seems very friendly, and genuinely glad to meet me. They ask me lots of questions, but politely, and they seem to actually be interested in my answers. All except his mother. She keeps looking over to me, but never quite meeting my eyes.
Dinner is served. It’s fish, fish, fish and more fish. Calamari, shrimp, crab legs, salmon, even lobster. It’s kind of overwhelming. And Brian’s mother still keeps looking at me. I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong. I haven’t spilled on myself. I’m not talking with my mouth full or chewing with my mouth open. I’m being polite and friendly to everyone. I don’t know what’s bothering her.
Bianca asks me about being in pre-med, and I tell her a little about my classes and how I’m getting ready to begin the application process for medical school. “So you’ll be in school another four years, and a resident for four years after that, before you’ll have any time for a social life,” Brian’s mother says, with a definite edge to her voice. I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.
“I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that,” I answer. “It’ll be hard work, but I’ll keep up with everything. And I’ve been talking with the Resident Director in my dorm all about it. She’s in medical school now, and she’s able to balance all the work with the rest of her life. I’m not worried.”
She seems very unsatisfied with that. She makes another comment a little later about how people go to college and all the parties and activities distract from schoolwork and their grades suffer, and how it’s easy to get “led astray.” This, I only now realize, is what she thinks I’m doing to Br
ian. “Leading him astray.” My Dad really was right about me being slow sometimes, wasn’t he?
Brian’s on a partial scholarship; he told me all about that. He needs to maintain a 3.0 grade point average to keep it. I’ve got exactly the same scholarship, so I understand why his mother is concerned about his study habits. “I don’t think you need to worry, Mrs. Alderson. Brian’s working as hard as anybody I know.” I say it as respectfully and calmly as I possibly can.
“Well, he needs to keep that up, and not let himself get off track,” she says, and now, finally, she does stare directly at me. I stare back, with what I hope is a polite face.
“My grades are fine,” Brian speaks up. “They’re better, actually, since–since I met Sara. She helped me get ready for finals. I would have been a lot more nervous without her,” he says. Both his mother and I turn to look at him, and I see shock on her face. As mild as that was, I would bet real money that’s the first time he’s ever talked back in any way to his mother.
She looks like she wants to say something more–probably a lot more–but then she gazes around the table, and she goes a little bit red. I think she tuned out the fact that there was anyone at the table but her son and his distracting temptress of a girlfriend, and she’s just now remembered she’s hosting a tableful of guests. “I’m sure you’re right,” she says, standing up and picking up a couple of plates to take away. “Let’s just clear the table. It’s about time for dessert,” she says, on her way to the kitchen.
***
Brian’s mother doesn’t really warm up to me during dessert. The wine–which I don’t try even though it’s offered to me repeatedly and I am really curious to know what a $120 bottle of wine tastes like, in the hope that not drinking will help to show what a sober, responsible young lady I am–doesn’t do anything to relax her. I don’t think anything will at this point.
It probably should have occurred to me much earlier that Brian almost certainly didn’t have much of a social life in high school. I think it’s safe to assume he never got into trouble, never stayed out too late, never did anything to alarm his parents. That party he dreamed about, he didn’t tell me but I’m absolutely sure that he was “studying for the SATs with a friend” that night. I’m also sure that the party was a very rare event for him; it might have been the only one. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.