Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Journal
The pills rattle inside the see-through orange plastic container as I pace in my room. I push down on the white cap, twist, and shake two into the palm of my hand. My pacing stops.
Why would Dr. Roth caution me against taking medicine? Isn’t it made to help people like me? For all Dr. Roth knows, I could be two seconds away from kidnapping babies because I think they’re in danger, like those kids from my dream—the ones strapped in the back seat of a running car in a closed garage. I shake my head, confused. Dr. Roth is a psychiatrist. Shouldn’t he be encouraging the use of medicine? His counsel makes about as much sense as my dad espousing the many dangers of security systems.
I set the bottle on my desk, squeeze the two pills in my hand, and stare at the stapled papers lying untouched on my bed. Opposing desires dual inside me, splitting me into two distinct halves, one of which is dying to read my grandmother’s words. That half wants nothing more than to lunge at the papers. But the other half is equally resolute and views those pages like a leper. That half is terrified of having access into the inner workings of a madwoman’s brain.
I stand immobilized in the middle of my room, until the curious half manhandles my fear into compliance. I creep slowly to the edge of my bed and sink down onto the mattress. The springs give a soft squeak. I set the two pills on my comforter and pick up the papers. With my heart thudding heavily, I start to read.
Last night I dreamt about a plane. I sat in the cockpit, watching the pilot have some sort of seizure. I watched the flight attendants try to keep the passengers calm, their own fear oozing out from their stricken eyes, and I was moved profoundly. Somehow, with immense concentration, I managed to land the plane. This morning, there is news of a plane crashing. There were no casualties.
I flip several pages.
A bus full of students died because of me. It was my fault. James insisted I get help, but this medicine is making me weak. I couldn’t save them. I wasn’t strong enough.
More pages.
I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. He haunts me at all hours of the day. No matter what I do or how hard I fight, I can’t escape.
My heart beats harder. I flip more pages, noting that the further I go, the larger and messier the handwriting becomes.
Teresa can save me. She can make this stop.
The shock of seeing my name there, on the page, pulls me back. I blink at the two sentences, reading them over and over, then scan the page, looking for more. How could I save her? Is this why she kidnapped me? But I am not mentioned again. There are more dreams and disjointed stories. The handwriting growing more and more into a child’s scrawl. The words become incoherent, as if she’s racing a clock to get it all down. Fear and confusion pulse from every line.
I lay the pages down, unable to read any further, wishing Dr. Roth wouldn’t have given it to me. Wishing I wouldn’t have started to read. Because one thing is clear. Whatever my grandmother had—or has—is the same thing plaguing me. Prophetic dreams. The power to save lives. The belief that what happens in our sleeping hours unfolds in real life. Feeling haunted at all hours of the day.
I shove away from my bed, sit down at my computer, open up my browser, and do what I’m so adept at doing. Googling. Obsessing. Only this time I’m not looking for recent news. I’m looking for news from the past—archived stories. I search for plane crashes and bus accidents until my room darkens around me. My screen glows as I scroll through the different articles, taking meticulous notes.
Finally, I type in high security mental hospital, Eugene, Oregon. Dr. Roth didn’t give me a specific name, but I can’t imagine there is more than one in the city. I hit enter just as a gentle rapping sounds at my door. My mom pokes her head inside. I pull away from the computer as if I’ve done something wrong.
“May I come in?”
I click out of the internet. “Sure.”
She walks inside and runs her fingers through my ponytail. I want to cover up the notes I’ve taken, unsettled by how much my handwriting resembles my grandmother’s.
“Honey, this needs to stop.”
“I know.”
She runs her fingers through my hair again, her touch gentle and soothing. I wish I could crawl into her lap like I did as a small child, tell her about my nightmares, and let her soothing presence chase the bad things away. Only I’m not a little girl anymore and the bad things are too big, even for her.
I swivel the chair around and the question that tumbles out surprises even me. “Did grandma ever say why she tried to kidnap me?”
Mom bites her lip.
My attention zips to the journal on my mattress. I don’t want her to see it. I walk over and sit on my bed, careful to position my body so the journal is blocked from view.
Mom sits beside me, her face softening in that way mother’s faces do, as if she would love nothing more than to take my troubles away. She places her cold hand over mine. “Because she wasn’t stable, sweetheart.”
“So you think that’s it—she tried taking me because of psychosis?”
“What other explanation is there?”
“Maybe she knew something we didn’t.”
Worry expands in Mom’s eyes. “Your grandmother was seeing things nobody else could see. She couldn’t hold down a job or even carry on a coherent conversation. When I came home from the doctor’s office with Pete and found you in her arms …” Mom shivers. “It was the most terrifying moment of my life.”
I look down into my lap. “I’m afraid of becoming like her,” I whisper.
Mom picks up the pills lying on my comforter. Their whiteness is impossible to miss against the deep purple. She turns my hand over and places the pills in my palm. “You don’t have to be.”
With tears in her eyes, she pats my knee and leaves my room.
I sit there, unmoving. For a minute, maybe two. Then, without giving myself time to reconsider, I reach for the glass on my nightstand, pop the pills into my mouth, and chase them down with a big swig of water. Mom is right. I don’t have to be afraid of turning into my grandmother. Not when there’s something I can do to prevent it.
There’s a tap-tap-tap at my window.
I swivel around with my hand against my chest and spot Luka. A puff of breath swooshes past my lips. I hold up my finger, shut my door quietly, and click the lock. Then I hurry to the window and open it. “How did you climb up here?” I ask, looking past him to the shadowed grass below.
“The trellis helped.” A cool breeze joins him as he climbs inside and brushes his hand down his shirt, as if smoothing away nonexistent wrinkles. When he looks up, my knees wobble a little. Because Luka snuck into my bedroom. It’s late at night. And the door is locked.
“Hey,” he says.
I wipe my palms against the thighs of my jeans, wanting to hide the pill bottle, but unsure how to do so without calling attention to the very thing I don’t want him to see.
“I wasn’t sure if your parents would let me come in this late.” He glances at the closed door. “Or if they’d let us talk privately.”
“Probably not.”
“How’d it go with Dr. Roth?”
I pick up the copy of my grandmother’s journal and hand it over. He reads for a bit, flips a page, and reads some more. The longer he does, the tighter I wrap my arms around my waist. When he finishes, he holds the journal up. “Dr. Roth had this?”
I nod.
He looks past me and spots the pill bottle I don’t want him to see. “Did you …?”
I nod again.
“Do you feel different?”
“Not yet.”
He steps closer, the nearness of his body throwing off heat like a furnace.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.”
“But what about your dream?” I died in it. That has to mean something. “What if I turn into her? What if they lock me up? What if—?”
“Tess,” he stands so cl
ose I have to tilt my head back to look at him, “I won’t let anybody lock you up.”
The huskiness of his voice and the nearness of his body and the way his attention drops to my lips has my heart crashing against my chest. I think Luka is going to kiss me. I think Luka is going to kiss me and I have no idea what to do with my hands. He must know, because he looks down, curls one of his pinkies around mine, and draws me closer. So close our bodies nearly touch. He runs his thumb across my knuckles, a feather-light touch that sets every one of my nerve-endings on fire. When he looks at me, his green eyes are like a sea storm and I can’t breathe. In fact, I’m quite certain I might not ever breathe again. His attention flickers to my lips. I stand very still. And something creaks in the hallway.
Luka and I break apart.
My lungs spring back into action.
He runs his hand down his face.
There’s another creak in the hallway. A definite footstep. Followed by a soft knock on the door. The door handle jiggles. But it’s locked. There’s a brief pause and another knock. “Tess, are you sleeping in there?” Dad asks from the other side.
I look at Luka with wild eyes.
He takes a couple steps to the window, then turns around, his face a mask of frustrated indecipherability. He looks like he wants to tell me something, but there’s another knock.
“Tess?”
I turn toward the door, panicked. Then I turn back to the window. Luka’s gone. There is nothing but the fluttering of my curtain and the subtlest hint of wintergreen in the air. Dad knocks again, the sound more impatient this time. I shut the window and hurry over to the door to swing it open.
“Are you okay?” Dad asks.
“Yeah. Fine. Why?” My voice is entirely too breathless for innocence.
His attention lands on the window. “I thought I heard talking.”
“Nope. No talking.”
His worry turns suspicious. I’m sure the scent of brine lingers in my room. Maybe he even heard me close the window. “You know we don’t lock doors in this house.”
“Right, I must have done it on accident.”
His suspicion remains, but he kisses my forehead. “Sleep well, okay?”
“You too.”
Once he’s gone, I sit on my bed, scoot under the covers, and flip open the journal.
They’re forcing me on meds again. They don’t understand that people will die.
Unsettled, I turn to the very last page. Her handwriting is that of a small child’s.
Somebody, help.