Chapter Seven
Dreams
Over dinner, Mom peppers Pete and me with questions. I stick to monosyllabic answers and pick at my food. It’s my turn to do the dishes. As soon as I finish, I escape to my room with every intention of reading Wuthering Heights, but my eyes grow heavy somewhere in the middle of the first chapter.
When I wake up, I’m no longer in my bedroom. I’m standing on the basement step of our old house in Jude, the one with the avocado-green walls and the musty, unfinished smell of cement floor as something—a zipper or a pen or loose change—clanks in the running dryer. I scratch at my eczema, but it does not burn. I don’t feel it at all.
I must be dreaming.
Pete sits cross-legged in the center of the room, playing with the flickering flame of a candle lit in front of him. His fingers dance through the fire—as if his skin is immune to the burn—and my heart turns to ice because we aren’t alone. The man from the gym stands in the corner of the basement, a hulking figure with those white, lifeless eyes. Goosebumps march up my arms, because I’ve dreamt about him before. This is not the first time he’s visited my dreams—this man with the skeletal face. I try to speak, to grab Pete’s attention so we can sprint away from this place, but like every other dream, I am immobilized. I cannot move or speak, and the candle engrosses my brother. He stares at it with a look of complete concentration, as if that flame holds every answer and untold secret in the world.
The man stretches out his arms and tentacles of black mist ooze from his fingertips, twisting and turning their way toward us. Pete looks up and stares—not with horror, but with a look of fascination, as if he can’t decide whether to reach up and touch the black or crab walk quickly away. My body wants to lurch forward, but my feet are stuck and my tongue is frozen and the black swirls gather into a mass that grows bigger and bigger, as if it might consume Pete.
My body shakes. Why isn’t Pete moving? Why isn’t he running? Is he as stuck and helpless as I am? Will I have to stand here on this basement step and watch this thing swallow my brother whole?
The mass of black swoops lower.
The pressure clawing at my lungs tears up my throat and explodes out of my mouth. “Get away from him!”
The sound of my voice is so loud and unexpected that the white-eyed man does something he has never done before. As if I have startled him from his quest, he jerks his head and stares straight at me.
I bolt upright in bed, chest heaving, cold sweat trickling down my back as hazy morning light squeezes itself between the cracks in my blinds.
It is morning. I am in Thornsdale.
I can’t shake it—that dream. Even though it wasn’t real, I pad down the hallway and peek inside Pete’s room. He is lost beneath a bundle of comforters. Boxes are still scattered around his floor, as if refusing to unpack them might make our move less permanent. I have the oddest urge to go inside and sit on his bed and apologize for being such a burden of a sister.
Instead, I let out a long breath and close his door. The heavy feeling sticks with me as I brush my teeth and pull my hair into a ponytail and throw a hooded sweatshirt over my tank top and make my way down the stairs, where Mom and Dad chat in the kitchen while coffee percolates and eggs fry in a pan on the stovetop.
Mom sees me in the doorway first. “Good morning, sweetie.”
I rub my eyes. “Hey Mom.”
Dad offers me a smile and flips a page of the newspaper. I do not want to hear him read it out loud. I don’t want to know about whatever bad things are happening out in the world. Not when enough bad things are happening inside my own head. “I’m going into work later today,” he says. “Want to tag along?”
“Maybe.”
Mom lifts the pan off the stove top. “How about some eggs?”
“Um, no thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Maybe later. I think I’ll go take a walk on the beach.” As much as I don’t look it, I love the outdoors and I really need to get out of the house. Away from their watchful, worried eyes. I walk to the cupboard and remove my favorite coffee mug—an extra big one with a bright red reindeer painted on the side. I fill it halfway with coffee and halfway with pumpkin spice creamer, slip on a pair of unlaced running shoes, and slide open the door leading out to our deck.
“Looks like rain,” Mom says. “I wouldn’t wander too far.”
“I won’t.” I pull up my hood and step out into the foggy morning. The sun has already risen, painting the sky a whitish yellow, but the actual source of the light is lost somewhere in the fog. The heaviness that draped over my shoulders like a thick cloak falls away. I feel light, free, thankful for the ocean waves crashing against rock. I take a long sip of hot coffee and walk down the stairs to the earth. Seagulls squawk and the wind carries the distant sound of laughter from the shore as I make my way through a craggy path toward the beach. A boy in a wet suit looks out at the white-capped waves, a surfboard tucked beneath his arm. Something about his messy dark hair and the broadness of his shoulders makes me stop and duck behind a rock.
Luka Williams is standing in what might as well be my backyard.
I remember what Leela said yesterday, about Luka living in Forest Grove. I glance around at the other houses, wondering which one is his when a woman’s voice calls over the waves. “Pancakes are ready, Luka!”
She stands on the deck to the left of my house—slender and tall with dark hair billowing about her shoulders. She waves at Luka, who tucks his board under his arm and jogs toward her.
I duck further behind the rock, my heart pounding erratically, because holy cow, Luka is my next door neighbor. Crouching low, I watch him make his way off the beach, into his back yard, until my hot coffee turns cold and my legs grow stiff from squatting. He stands on the deck with his mother, obviously in no hurry to get to the pancakes inside. Not wanting to be caught spying, I slink around my house, dump the coffee in the dying lilies growing up from the mulch, then slip inside the front door to the sound of my parents’ hushed voices in the kitchen.
No sound or movement can be heard upstairs. Pete must still be sleeping, which is odd. He’s usually an early riser. Back in Jude, he and Dad always went on Saturday morning jogs while Mom and I went to the local dojo for martial arts. It’s something we’ve done together since the summer I turned ten. Dad insisted upon it. Apparently, it’s important that we learn how to defend ourselves in such a violent world. I objected at first, thinking I would hate it. Thinking I’d be awful. To my surprise, I ended up being such a natural that our first sensei nicknamed me Tiny Ninja. I hope we’ll continue our training here in Thornsdale. I could use the release.
Mom’s voice rises, then quickly quiets.
Curiosity pulls me closer. I tiptoe to the kitchen door and press my back against the living room wall, feeling guilty. I should not eavesdrop on my parents.
“I think I should go wake him up,” Mom says.
“Let him sleep, Miranda. He’s a growing boy.”
“It’s not like Pete, sleeping in this late.”
The paper crinkles. Dad has turned a page. “If the government doesn’t put its foot down, these fetal modification protests are going to get out of control.”
“I’m worried about him, James.”
“He’s a fifteen-year-old who had to leave his first girlfriend. He’ll bounce back.”
“You really think that’s all this is? Puppy love?”
The phrase prickles. It always has. Not because I’ve ever been in love or because I think Pete was, but because every time I hear it, it sounds so condescending. As if young people aren’t capable of the real thing.
“Of course. What else would it be?”
Mom doesn’t answer.
Silverware and plates clink and clatter. The faucet runs.
“Pete’s a solid kid. We just have to give him space.” The newspaper crinkles again. “I’m not worried about him.”
The water stops. I can almost see Mom turning around, placin
g her hands on the edge of the counter, tapping her fingernails against the marble top. “Are you sure we can’t get a hold of your mother’s file? You don’t think her psychiatrist would give you a copy?”
I blink several times, startled by the sharp turn in the conversation. Her psychiatrist? My grandmother had a psychiatrist?
“I already told you, Miranda, that’s impossible. And unnecessary.”
“You just admitted to being worried.”
“Of course I’m worried. Did you see our daughter this morning? Seventeen-year-olds should not have circles that dark beneath their eyes.” He flips another page of the paper. “But that doesn’t mean I think she’s like my mother.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I see … similarities.”
“Miranda.” The name comes out like a warning.
“Would it really hurt to make a phone call?”
“And draw unneeded attention to our daughter?”
My body takes on a mind of its own. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I step out from my hiding place and gape at my parents. “What are you guys talking about?”
Their faces pale.
My mind races, spinning with confusion. “Grandma died of a heart attack. As far as I know, heart problems don’t require psychiatrists.”
Mom takes a step toward me. “Tess … sweetheart.”
But I shake my head and look at Dad. “Why did she need counseling?”
He sets the newspaper on the table next to his egg-smeared plate.
I attempt to reign in my helter-skelter thoughts. If Grandma had mental problems, how could they keep that from me—especially after what happened at the séance? “She didn’t die of a heart attack, did she?”
Mom wrings a towel in front of her. “Honey, it’s complicated.”
“I’m smart enough to keep up.”
Dad sighs, as if resigned, and ignores Mom’s desperate head shaking. “She died in a mental rehabilitation center.”
“She was crazy?” The question escapes on a whisper. I blink rapidly, looking from Mom to Dad as if they are strangers. “How could you keep that from me?”
Dad runs his palm down his face and stares past the sliding glass door, past the beach and the ocean beyond. “We kept it from everyone, Tess. Not just you. We didn’t want that stigma hanging over your heads. Mental illness is frowned upon. You know that.”
Yes, I do. Because I take Current Events. Crazy people are a burden to society. And we live in a time where burdens are not tolerated. Burdens make a nation weak. So they are removed, taken away. For everybody’s own good. I’ve never thought to question the logic of it before, but suddenly I’m terrified. What if I become a burden?
Mom relinquishes the twisted towel and wraps her arm around my shoulder. I shrug her away, keeping my attention on Dad. “What was wrong with her?”
“She had frequent episodes of psychosis.”
“Psychosis?”
“She saw things nobody else saw.”
“Things?”
“She called them demons. Spirits.” Dad laughs a humorless laugh and shakes his head, as if trying to rattle away the unpleasant memories. I can only imagine what he thought about his mother’s claims. “When the illness reached its peak, she swore she could fight them.”
Cold fear sinks like an anchor into the pit of my stomach. Mom tries to wrap her arm around me again, but I step away, a single thought echoing in my mind. One I cannot voice. One I can’t even whisper. But inside, it shouts and rattles the walls of my soul. If souls exist.
Is psychosis hereditary?