“Just hear me out,” I say. “Please.”
She folds her arms and looks away, toward Casey’s ex again, now sitting at one of the picnic tables. She and her friend notice Clara and start talking amongst themselves, letting out a couple obnoxious squeals loud enough for us to hear. They look back over at us and Clara looks away.
“Clara,” I say, “are you listening to me?”
“Sure.” She giggles. “You were saying something about your nightmares?”
I nibble the inside of my cheek, wondering how I can put this, how I can soften it in some way. But then I just say it: “You’re in trouble. Serious trouble.”
Clara nods at me, biting down on her lower lip, as though she’s holding in a laugh.
“It’s not a joke,” I say. “Has everything in your life been going normal?”
“Normal?”
“I mean, has anything different happened to you?”
“Different how?”
I shake my head, trying to think of something else to say, something that might lead me to an answer. “Is there something you don’t want to tell anyone?”
“Like what?” She laughs.
“I don’t know,” I say, remembering the voice in my dream. “Is there something you don’t want other people to know?”
I feel stupid even asking these questions—like she’d ever tell me, a complete stranger, her most intimate secrets. I take a deep breath, thinking how my grandmother always knew how to ask just the right questions, how none of her questions were ever too pointed, and how they always encouraged the fullest, most telling answers—like she was able to sense what people wanted to talk about. So why can’t I do the same?
“It’s really no big deal,” Clara says. “I sometimes have creepy nightmares, too. But nothing freaky happens. It was probably just like that.”
“No,” I say, “it’s different for me. My nightmares come true.”
“Why don’t you tell Clara what she was doing in your nightmare,” Drea suggests. “You know, like, was she running? Was she hiding? Was she doing anything unusual or significant?”
“Well,” I grimace, “I didn’t exactly see her in my nightmare.”
“Um, what?” Drea’s mouth falls open.
I sigh, completely frustrated with myself, with how I sound. “I know it doesn’t make sense. But you have to trust me. I heard Clara’s voice in my dream; I’m sure of it.”
“And what did my voice say?” Clara asks.
“You told me not to tell anyone.” I wait a couple moments for her response, to see if the words from my nightmare might conjure up some memory—inspire her to tell me something significant. But she looks completely dumfounded—her mouth hanging open, as though waiting for me to finish my thought.
“I told you not to tell anyone what?” she asks.
“That’s just it,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Wow,” she says, with a giggle, as though I’m certifiably whacko. “That’s really weird. I don’t know what to say.”
“Look,” I say, leaning in closer, “something significant is going to happen to you—something that might be . . . not exactly good. So, if it’s okay with you—even if it isn’t okay with you—I’m going to be looking out for you.”
“Sounds great,” she beams. “I mean, it’ll be fun to hang out; it can get pretty dull around here.”
“Onion ring, anyone?” Amber interrupts the awkward moment, smacking her tray down on the table. It’s piled high with just about every artery-clogging snack the strip joint must be serving up today—fried clams, onion rings, a couple hot dogs, and four super-sized Chocoliciouses. “Couldn’t decide what to eat, so I just figured I’d order one of all my craves.” She sets the frappes down in front of us. “So what did I miss?”
“Stacey was just trying to explain to Clara about her nightmares, how they come true.”
“Yeah,” Amber says, pointing at Clara with an onion ring. “So, you gotta listen to her or else you’ll end up fertilizing dandelions.”
“Amber—” I snap.
“So much for the queen of ease.” Drea sighs.
“Try one of these, will you?” Amber says, completely oblivious to her lack of subtlety. She stuffs her mouth full of fried clam. “They seem a little sandy to me.”
Clara grabs one and starts chewing away. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or hungry or merely looking for a diversion.
“So what do you think?” Amber asks.
“About the clams?” Clara asks.
“About everything.”
“I vote not to think.” She grabs another clam strip.
“Finally,” Amber says, “someone who sees things the same way I do.”
“A scary thought,” Drea says, taking an onion ring.
I dive in to the greasy treats as well. Perhaps we could all use a little thoughtless diversion—for at least a little while anyway.
ten
When I get back to the cottage, Jacob is in the kitchen unpacking grocery bags.
“Hi,” I say, shutting the door behind me.
He pauses from unpacking, a bunch of fresh carrots dangling from his grip. “Are you all right?”
I shrug.
“Where is everybody?” he asks.
“Amber and Drea decided to go for a swim, and I think I might have seen Chad and PJ playing volleyball with some of the frat guys from next door. How come you’re not out, too?” I ask. “The water’s seventy degrees—practically spa conditions.”
“Didn’t feel like it.” He comes around the side of the counter to greet me. He takes my hands, nuzzles his forehead against mine, and looks straight into my eyes—all of which under normal circumstances would turn my knees to absolute jelly. But today I’m feeling oppressively rigid. “It’s just you and me.”
“Yeah,” I say, managing a smile.
“What’s wrong?”
“Where do I begin?”
“I take it you talked to Clara,” he says.
“That’s just a fraction of my freak-show morning.”
“What do you mean?”
I proceed to tell him about my accidental encounter with the creepy photographer guy from next door and then I segue into my conversation-turned-pigout-fest with Clara. “She probably thinks I’m crazy.”
“It doesn’t really matter what she thinks,” he says. “All that matters is you’re going to help her.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
“I guess I’m just feeling really stressed.”
Jacob folds me up into his arms where it feels safe, and kisses my ear, and whispers that everything will be okay, that we’ll get through this together. And I know that should make me feel better, but for some reason his super self-confidence is completely bugging me.
“Just promise me one thing,” he says. “No more breaking into the darkrooms of creepy photographers, you hear me? At least not without me by your side.”
“Deal,” I say, breaking the embrace. “I think maybe I just need to lie down for a bit.”
“Want some company?”
I shake my head.
“Well, can I at least make you some iced tea?”
More head shaking, even though the thought of raspberry tea over ice sounds so completely heavenly right now. “I just want to take a nap.” I give Jacob an icy peck on the lips and head into the bedroom, feeling the windchill off my back plummet the temperature in the room from eighty degrees to ten below zero.
I close the bedroom door and press my back up against it, feeling like I’ve plucked the Queen B crown right off Drea’s head and propped it high atop mine. That’s when I notice the cream-colored vase by my bed and the thick bunch of fresh white lilacs gathered inside, making me feel even worse.
I’m just about to turn and go back into the kitchen, to serve Jacob my special of the day—grovel cake, complete with two cups of apology and a half-dozen kisses—when I hear a knock at the door. I turn to open it.
It’s
Jacob. He’s balancing a tray in one hand, waiter-style. He comes into the room and sets the tray down on my night table, a tall frosted glass of raspberry tea perched in the center. “I had a feeling you might want some anyway.”
“You know me way too well.” I wrap my arms around him and kiss his neck, wanting more than anything to whisper into his ear how much he means to me, how much I truly, madly love him. But instead I just say, “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”
“Not to mention a certain person’s favorite brand of cookies.”
I look down at the plate of Mallomars and topple him over the bed, planting not six, not seven, but at least ten whopping kisses across his lips, topping them off with a feature-film-worthy make-out scene.
“Wow,” he says, when the kisses break. “I should have brought you tea and cookies ages ago. What’ll I get if I bring you a hot fudge sundae?”
“Very funny,” I say, sitting up. Aside from the tea and cookies, he’s also brought a couple bottles of oil extracts. “Lemongrass and jasmine?”
“So your dreams will be more telling.” He pours a few droplets from both bottles onto a ceramic dish and then dabs his fingers into the mixture. He rubs the oils onto my forehead, behind my ears, and at both sides of my neck. It smells sweet, like flowers and syrup, like freshly picked fruit. His fingers are warm on my skin. They draw upward over my throat and then cup my chin. Jacob kisses me—a full, long kiss that turns my insides to a warm and sugary paste, like honey. “Sweet dreams,” he whispers, getting up to leave.
“No,” I say. “Stay. You’ll help me fall asleep.”
“Just what every guy wants to hear.”
“You know what I mean.” I get up from the bed and pull a suitcase from the back of my closet. The suitcase is full of all my spell supplies. I take out a stick of jasmine incense—coupled with the jasmine oil, it’s sure to help me focus better in my dreams. I also take out a spool of yellow thread, a thin, plum-colored candle to help dispel confusion, a candleholder, and a jar of rainwater I’ve been saving.
I light the incense and set it down on its holder. The smoke rises up in puffy, grayish swirls. I breathe it in and close my eyes, mentally preparing myself for traveling in my dreams, trying to picture something that reminds me of sleep. I imagine the rain coming down outside my window, even though it’s sunny out; I imagine it warm and runny on my skin, bathing me, preparing me for the most delicious sleep. I open my eyes and charge the rest of the ingredients by passing them three times through the incense smoke. Then I cut a long piece of thread from the spool and dunk it into the rainwater. “This water’s been bathed in three full moon cycles,” I tell Jacob. “I’ve been saving it for something important.”
“Where did you learn this spell?” he asks.
“I got it out of there.” I gesture to my family scrapbook, taking up a huge part of my suitcase. It’s old and tattered and at least six inches thick. My grandmother gave me the scrapbook just before she passed away. It’s basically this mishmash of stuff—spells, home remedies, bits of poetry, and favorite recipes—all written by people in my family before me, those like me who have the gift of insight.
I flip the book open and show Jacob the spell we’re doing—a spell written by my great-great grandmother to unbind secrets. I’m thinking that since the voice in my dream—Clara’s voice—told me not to tell anyone, that there must be some dark, obstructive secret underlying this whole thing.
I stir the piece of thread three times clockwise in the rainwater, concentrating on the color yellow for clarity, making sure it gets thoroughly submerged. Then I take it out and run my fingers down its length, a few droplets of water falling back into the jar. Meanwhile, Jacob charges the candle with the jasmine and lemongrass oils. His fingers fully saturated with both, he traces along the candle stem from north to south, west to east, and then he places the candle down in the holder on my night table.
“So now what?” he asks.
I take the thread and tie my first knot in it. “I need to tie as many knots as I have questions—as I want my dreams to answer.”
“And what’s the first question?”
“I want to know what Clara’s secret is. And my second,” I say, tying another knot, “is why I can’t tell anyone.” I tie a couple more knots, wondering how and if she’d really make me pay if I told anyone her secret. And then a couple knots more for the blood—for why my nose is bleeding and if it has anything to do with Clara’s secret.
I wind the knotted thread around the plum-colored candle and then light the wick, extinguishing the wooden match with a snuffer so as not to confuse the energies in the room. “As clear as water and as loud as rain,” I say, “may these secrets burn down as quick as a flame. For all that is hidden and all left untold, may you trust me enough to let these secrets unfold. Blessed be the way.”
“Blessed be,” Jacob repeats.
We snuggle up together on my bed, taking turns sipping the raspberry tea, eating a couple of the cookies, and watching the candle as it burns its way down through each knot.
eleven
It’s dark, probably well past midnight, and I can’t seem to stop shaking. I’m sitting alone on the beach, the chilling ocean air slicing right through me, sending shivers all over my skin. As each rain droplet hits against my body, it turns to ice and rolls off me, leaving a welt. In the distance, I can see the shadow of someone walking along the water. I squint to try and make out the figure. At first it looks like Clara. I can make out the sarong—a coral color, I think. It’s wrapped tightly about her waist. The extra fabric flares out behind her in the wind. And I can almost make out her hair, the dark henna-red color just visible in the moonlight. I call out to her but she ignores me and continues walking farther and farther away.
I go to stand up, but I can’t. I can’t get my legs to work right. Icy water drips down my forehead and over my lips. It drains into my mouth and collects on my tongue.
“Don’t tell anyone,” whispers someone in my ear.
I turn to look, but I can’t see anything. And it’s dark all around me.
“If you tell, I’ll know,” she whispers. It’s Clara’s voice.
I look back out toward the water, but I don’t see her anywhere. Instead I see the shadow of someone else—a guy, I think. The posture is stiffer, less languid, and it carries a certain darkness.
“If you tell, I’ll make you pay.” Her voice is coming from just above me now. I look up and a trickle of something drips down my face and onto my leg. I go to wipe it from my cheek. It’s moist and dark between my fingers. Like blood.
“If you tell, I’ll make you bleed,” she whispers.
My heart throbs; tears stream down my face. The blood continues to trickle down the length of my thigh. I go to wipe it, noticing more blood running down my arm.
I look all around to find her, but there’s only that other shadow, that guy, and he’s coming right toward me. I scooch back in the sand to get away from him, still unable to stand. The rain has completely saturated the beach, making it hard to maneuver. Still, now on hands and knees, I work my way through it, closer to the cottage, away from him.
After managing a few yards, I turn and look back. He’s still coming right toward me, a bouquet of some sort in his hands. Lilies, maybe.
The death flower.
I scramble forward as best I can, trying to get my legs to work right, but it’s just no use. The rain continues to pelt my skin, turning the blood a slight pinkish color. I struggle to continue, the sand weighing me into the puddles now forming at my hands and feet.
“I’ll make you bleed, Stacey,” her voice continues. “You’ll bleed until there’s nothing left.”
I try to stand again, almost able to get myself up. But after a couple steps, I feel my legs collapse and my world start to spin. I just feel so weak. So tired, like I’d give anything to sleep. I take two full breaths, noticing the tinkling of wind chimes in the distance.
“Just rest now, Stac
ey,” she whispers. “Rest will make it all go away.”
My cheek pressed flat against the rain-soaked sand, I force my eyes to open. He’s still several yards away, but moving closer by the moment. I blink hard to try and focus on his face, but it’s so blurry and dark, and my head won’t stop spinning.
Using all the strength in my arms, I lift myself up, back on hands and knees, and make it up onto the back deck. I reach up for the door handle but end up falling backward, smacking hard against my shoulder and hip.
The wind chimes bong even louder, so piercing I almost want to cover my ears to block them out. I go to reach up for the knob again; this time I’m able to wrap my hand around it. I open the door, crawl inside, and lock the door behind me.
“Amber?” I call out. “Drea? Is anybody home?”
But there’s only silence. I try standing again. My knees are wobbly and weak as I struggle to my feet. I flick on the light switch, the sudden blast nearly blinding me. But when I’m able to focus, it’s like I don’t know where I am. It’s our cottage, but everything looks different—changed, like someone’s rearranged all our things. I look to the coffee table. There’s a knife sitting on it. I grab it for protection, noticing right away that it’s really a letter opener—the old-fashioned kind with a curly handle and a pointed blade. I grip the handle and stumble to the front door to make sure it’s locked, but before I can even get there, the door blows open and makes a knocking sound against the wall.
And then all the lights go out.
I take a deep breath and do my best not to cry out. He’s here. Inside. I can feel it. Can feel him.
“Come on out,” he whispers. “I don’t bite.”
The beating of my heart seems so loud, almost audible, like it could give me away at any second. I work my way slowly and quietly to a corner, away from the light of the windows, the moon casting in. Here, it’s safe to look around. His figure moves in front of the bay window in the living room. It appears as though he just came out of Jacob’s room. As though he’s coming right toward me. I back up farther against the wall, but it’s like I can’t move—can’t get away. Like I’m trapped in place.