26 I wake as if slapped from sleep by an invisible hand. For an instant my mind reels with confusion, then I realize someone is screaming—someone nearby.
Aurora.
I throw on my robe and head out. A moment later I am pounding on my neighbor’s door, my blood swimming in adrenaline. “Aurora? Can you open up?”
I’m not sure how long I wait, but when the door finally opens, I’m glad I came. Aurora’s eyes are red and swollen; her hand trembles on the doorknob.
“What is it?” I study her face, pale above her flannel robe. “Are you all right?”
She hiccups the answer. “A nightmare—two of them. More real than anything I’ve dreamed before.”
I catch her cold hand and rub it between my palms. Her fingers are like marble. “Let’s go into the living room. We’ll sit and you can tell me about it.”
She moves like a sleepwalker, but I manage to guide her onto the sofa. I pull a velveteen throw from the arm of a chair and drape it over her shoulders.
“Comfortable?”
She nods.
“Warm enough?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I sit beside her and catch her hand, leaning forward so I can watch her face. “Tell me about it.”
She looks at our interlocked fingers as if she’s never seen clasped hands before. “The first dream wasn’t so bad—in the beginning. I dreamed old Booker brought me a package for Christmas. I’m sure it was a gift from my father. But Mother said it was from the devil, so she had Clara take it away.”
“Was that really a dream—or could it have been a memory?”
“I don’t know.” Her hoarse voice holds a note halfway between disbelief and pleading. “I think . . . maybe it really happened. Or maybe I want it to have really happened, I don’t know. My father never sent me anything for Christmas, so maybe I want to believe he did.”
“Or maybe he did . . . and you never received it.”
I feel a shiver run through her, but she doesn’t answer.
“What about the other dream? The worst one?”
The muscles of her forearm harden beneath my hand. “The box came back.”
“Which box?”
“The box from the first dream—the package from my father . . . or the devil.” Her face clouds with uneasiness. “I know I was dreaming the first time because I was little, but then the box came back. But that time I was awake, sitting up in bed, touching my sheets, looking at my furniture, and yet I saw the package! It was inside the doorway and it was moving and breathing while something inside was trying to get out. For the longest time I watched it struggling to get free, but when it broke through the tape and was about to climb out—well, that’s when I closed my eyes and screamed.”
“And you woke up?”
Her dark eyes move into mine. “If you say so. But when I opened my eyes again, I was still sitting in the same position. Everything was exactly the same, but the box was gone and you were beating on the door.” Her face twists, and her eyes screw tight to trap the sudden rush of tears.
“Shh.” I slip my arm around her shoulder and pull her to my side. She melts into me, dropping her head to my chest while I stroke her arm. For a long time she weeps, then her tears stop, but her trembling breaths tell me she is still terrified.
When her breathing slows to a steadier rate, I turn to look down at her. “Aurora,” I say, “I know Clara’s mentioned this before, but have you thought about seeing some kind of counselor? You’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks. A professional might be able to help you sort through some of these confusing emotions.”
She pulls her head from my shoulder and releases a hollow laugh. “So now you think I should see a shrink?”
“Maybe it’s a good thought.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve had these nightmares before—when I was thirteen, right after Uncle Charley died. When I started having dreams within dreams, Mother took me to a psychologist, Dr. Morgan. We had a standing weekly appointment for an entire year.”
“So . . . he must have helped.”
She shrugs. “Maybe he did; maybe I got better on my own. Now I think those dreams were my way of adjusting to Uncle Charley’s death . . . like I’m adjusting to Mother’s passing now. These dreams are terrible, but I don’t think I need Dr. Morgan to tell me I’ve been under stress.”
I nod without speaking. Aurora probably needs to see a psychologist for more than grief counseling, but she’ll never see anyone if it means having to leave the apartment. I squeeze her hand. “What if I went with you?”
Her eyes widen. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Why not? Sometimes I need a break from my work. I like taking long walks in the city. Fresh air is good for you.”
“I hate to tell you this, but the air in this city isn’t exactly fresh. You’re probably polluting your lungs walking around next to all those cars and buses—”
“It may not be fresh, but it’s the only air we have. If you’ll come down with me sometime, maybe we can walk over to the park—”
“I can get fresh air if I want it.” She raises her chin. “I can go up to the roof.”
I scratch my head. “Yes . . . but you hear voices up there.”
Something flares in her eyes. “I’m not crazy, if that’s what you think.”
“I didn’t say you—”
“And I haven’t heard the voice since I stopped taking those sleeping pills.”
“That’s good.” I smile, grateful she has moved from fear to irritation. “Now—are you ready to talk about your dream? Maybe we can analyze it.”
“I’ve never been able to figure out any of my dreams. The first dream could be a memory, but does it really matter? I got lots of presents at Christmas every year, from Mother and Charley and Clara. It’s not like I was underprivileged.”
I nod. “You might have gotten gifts from your father, too, if Charley and Clara didn’t throw those packages out. What if they gave you those gifts and took credit for them themselves?”
Aurora’s jaw drops. “Do you think a woman like Clara could actually do that?”
“Why not?”
“It just seems . . . tacky. It’s one thing to refuse a gift; it’s another to take credit for someone else’s.”
“But the gift isn’t what matters. The important thing is knowing your father remembered you. If your brain is conjuring up memories instead of dreams, maybe he thought of you every year but your mother prevented you from receiving his gifts.”
A shadow settles on Aurora’s brow. “Let’s say you’re right and my father did send a package or two. Then why would I be so terrified of the box that showed up in the second dream?”
“Maybe . . . the thing you’re most afraid of is the truth. Your mother and Clara have always said your father cared nothing for you, but your subconscious could be trying to set the record straight.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Maybe it makes all the sense in the world. Your mother was a formidable woman who demanded all your time and attention, especially in her last years. Now that she’s gone, you’re finally able to think about things you’ve repressed your entire life.”
Tilting her head, she looks at me from beneath her lashes. “What makes you such an expert on this stuff?”
I manage a laugh. “Psych 101. Required for all economics majors.”
“You may be right, but what does it matter? What’s done is done. I can’t undo the past.”
“But you can change the future. Earlier today you talked about writing him. Maybe it’s time you followed through.”
“I could finish that letter, I suppose. It might take me a week to figure out what to say, then it’ll take another week to get to England—”
“Forget the U.S. mail. That’ll take too long.”
“Why should I hurry?”
“Because we both need to sleep through the night. I’m pretty sure you can reach your father in hours, not days.”
Her brow wrinkles. “I assume you’re talking about the computer, but I’m not following you.”
“E-mail is a wonderful thing, Rosie.” I stand and extend my hand. “Want to bet I can find Theodore Norquest’s e-mail address within five minutes?”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. If I can’t find his address, I’m sure we can look up his publisher and they’ll forward the e-mail to him. Why should you wait a week when you could have a response in hours?”
She looks down, her long lashes hiding her eyes. “Do you really think I should do this?”
“Only thing quicker is a telephone. Your lawyer would have his number—”
“No, there’s no way I’m ready for that. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Then write an e-mail, send it to his publisher, and ask them to forward it. Nearly everybody has e-mail these days.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then you’re to be congratulated, because I think you were the last person in the Upper West Side to hook into the Internet. But if by some chance your father is among the holdouts, his publisher can print out the letter and fax it. He will get the message, I promise. Especially when you say you are his long-lost daughter.”
Her eyes are as wide and blank as mirrors when she meets my gaze. “Show me.”
A few minutes later I have taken a seat at her computer and navigated to the home page for Bleak House, publisher of sixty-five Theodore Norquest novels. I click on a link and smile as an e-mail form appears. “Right here,” I say, tapping the screen. Aurora is sitting beside me, her half-finished letter in her lap. “You can either type a note to your father or ask the publicist to contact you. Either way, your message will be on its way.”
Frowning, she looks at the screen, then touches it with her fingertip. “Wait—what’s that?”
I lean closer to read the tiny print. “Um . . . a link to sign up for the publisher’s newsletter. It’s probably designed to let readers know when the next Theodore Norquest novel is coming out.”
“Click that, will you?”
I do. A subscription box appears, and Aurora’s face relaxes as she drops her hand to the back of my chair. “Sign me up. For now, that’s all I want to do.”
“But Theodore Norquest may never look at this subscription list. Those things usually come from a publicist’s office—”
“Baby steps, Phil. I can only take baby steps.”
I look at her narrowed eyes, then sigh and type her e-mail address into the sign-up form. With a click of the enter key, the form disappears. Theodore Norquest’s reluctant daughter is now one of thousands of readers who receive his newsletter.
Still, she moved forward. Took a baby step.
“You may not hear anything for months.” I turn to face her. “I’ve a feeling they only publish a newsletter when he has a new release. How often is that—twice a year?”
She straightens her shoulders, unspoken pain alive and glowing in her eyes. “While I’m waiting, maybe I can think of a better way to approach him. I still don’t know what to say.”
I bend to pick up her legal pad, which has fallen to the floor. “Then you’ll need this. Might as well keep going.”
“I suppose so.” She takes the tablet, then yawns dramatically and taps her fingers over her mouth. “Oh! Excuse me.”
Taking the hint, I stand. “It’s late—and we both need to get some sleep.” I walk to the foyer, aware of her soft footsteps behind me. She catches my arm as I open the door.
“Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for coming. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come.”
As I walk back to my own apartment, the worn carpet slick under my bare feet, I remember the pounding Bangles music and how I was nearly tempted to move my bed into another room.
Now I can’t imagine sleeping anywhere else. My life has become intertwined with Aurora’s, a woman who has every quality I need—and a mountain to climb in baby steps.
Love is patient . . .