Chapter Eight

 

The kitchen is warm and fragrant with coffee and melon. Jackson Connor peers at a weather website on Mom’s laptop. I try to camouflage my agitation by babbling about the rain, while Mom hands us a couple of next-to-useless dish towels.

“Here you go. Whew, it’s bad out there! I saw the truck and thought it was Una, but I’m really glad to see you two.” She smiles her kind Mom smile and extends her hand. The sudden humidity has spun her curly hair into a halo, and her soft, rosy dress makes her look like Glinda, The Good Witch of the North.

“You must be Lucas. I’m Vivian’s mother. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Lucas shakes her hand, rubbing the towel through his dripping hair with the other one. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hawk,” he says, sounding completely normal—as if the universe had not just threatened to unravel out in the truck.

“No, no, please call me Summer,” Mom protests, and turns toward her guest. “Jack, this is Una’s nephew, Lucas Wolfsong.”

“Hello, Lucas. Heckuva a storm here—we were just tracking it on the radar.” He gestures toward the laptop. There are mugs and plates on the counter, with the remnants of Una’s cantaloupe, feta crumbs, crackers, and a sliver of prosciutto on one of them. So, Jackson Connor has bumped it up from slushees to lunch. Irritation needles me. I do not like green fruit and ham, I think childishly, I do not like you, Jack-I-Am!

I scold myself: Act normal. He hasn’t done anything but be nice to us, and plus, he buys stuff. He’s only here for a while, anyway.

“Hi, Mr. Connor.” See? That didn’t even hurt.

Mr. Connor flashes his professionally whitened smile and shakes Lucas’s hand. “That makes me sound like some old guy. Jack,” he corrects, then displays all seventy-two of those shiny shark teeth again. “Your Aunt Una is very gifted with the loom. She really captures the spirit of your people so well.”

No. Way. “The spirit of your people”?

My gaze flies to Lucas’s face as he drops his eyes and Connor’s hand at the same time. “Thanks, Mr. Connor,” he says neutrally, “I’ll tell her you said that.”

I admire his grace under pressure, because I am barely able to control the sudden urge to smack Jackson Connor’s clueless face.

“So, you two ended up having class at the same time after all?” Mom asks, peering out the window over the sink, where the rain has settled into a steady shower. She seems to have not heard the patronizing remark, but her back is stiff, and her voice is a little too bright. Mom’s not likely to call out a customer for what he thinks is a compliment. She says there is a time and place for helping people understand. She clears her throat. “I’m glad you were there, Lucas. I don’t like Vivi riding that bike in the rain.”

She’s good at picking her battles, but I’m not.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” I squeeze one last bit of rain out of my braid, drop the towel by the offending dishes, and push through the heavy swinging door. I don’t want to look at Jackson Connor’s face another moment, and I have to get Lucas alone. He can’t just drop a bomb on me about dreamwalking and get away without explaining.

The store is deserted. Horn and Nakai’s flute notes patter through the air, mingling with the percussion of the raindrops on the roof and the smell of herbal tea. The spotlights over the shelves announce every crystal and carving and illuminate the paintings. Outside, Zia Square is empty; everyone has ducked inside to escape the storm.

“Well, here it is, my home away from home,” I offer with a quick wave of my hand. I want us to keep moving, keep talking, and get out of here as soon as we can.

Lucas stares at a painting, and I stop. My stomach flips over. My one and only attempt to capture Dreamland on canvas, with its deep piney shadows, jagged mountains, and a swirl of cobalt, violet, and gold stars winding through the twilight sky.

He tilts his head a little. “I like this one.”

My knot of impatience eases a little. “Thanks.” I hear them talking in the kitchen, and I make a beeline for the front door. “Come on out front.”

He tears his gaze away from the painting and follows me past the counter, saying, “That’s yours? It’s really good.” Then, in a low voice, “Where are we going?”

I open the front door to the sound of rushing rain. I turn in the doorway, determined. No more distractions. I grab his arm firmly. “We are going out here, and you are telling me what’s going on.”

Out under the front porch, the sound of the rain will keep us from being overheard. We sit on the long, low bench below the window. I can see the whole square and also keep tabs on Mom in case she comes out of the kitchen. Facing him, I force myself to look into those endless dark eyes. My heart pounds, and the lump in my throat is making a comeback. I say it quickly before I lose my nerve or start crying—or both.

“I know how it is about your dad, I really do.” Grief and confusion well up behind my throat, spilling into my eyes, but I plunge ahead. “I’ve been having weird dreams too, about my dad. And they’re getting weirder. And that word, dreamwalking… what’s happening? Why are you telling me?”

Miserable tears roll down my face. The scar that holds my grief is raw, threatening to rip open again and flood me with pain. And there’s the reason for it, right in front of me, irresistibly drawing me to him like a magnet. I scrub the tears away, determined to keep that pain locked up tight.

Lucas takes my left hand and tucks my arm in close to his. From elbow to fingertip, I’m nestled in his warm grip, and our shoulders touch as he leans close. My swirling emotions steady a bit, and his voice is low and fierce.

“Why you? Because you and I—we have a connection. It’s not just our dads, Vivian. It’s the dreams. It’s because you’re a dreamwalker.”

“What do you mean?” I whisper. “What is that? How do you know?”

“Una told me.”

“What? What does she have to do with this?” The rain slows down, no longer covering our voices completely. I’m clutching his hand like a vise, so I relax a microscopic amount. He does not let go but keeps looking at me steadily.

“She knew when she touched your palm.”

“I’ve seen those palm charts, and I’ve never seen any dreamwalker line. What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t exactly see it. It’s more like a feeling. Like I said, she just knows things sometimes.”

I let this sink in, remembering the look on her face when she was poring over my palm. Like she had found something she was looking for. She didn’t seem scared. In fact, she had seemed almost glad.

“What else did she say? What does a dreamwalker do?”

Across from us, Noonie’s door opens, and a few customers step out cautiously. The sky is still dripping, but movement around the square has begun again, and I can hear Mom talking. Time is running out.

“It means you can get into other people’s dreams. Like you can really be there,” he explains quietly. His radar is up too, and his solemn profile watches the square. He’s still holding my hand, and the sweet hum weaving through my fingers competes with the confusion in my head. “You can talk to them, and they’ll hear you. My dad said some dreamwalkers can even make people do things.”

“Like what?” Now I’m getting nervous again, thinking about the people and animals in Dreamland, the ones that do what I say.

“I don’t know exactly. I can’t really do that.” Lucas sighs, and his voice drops even lower. “I can control my own dreams mostly, but Dad made it sound like a dreamwalker can control someone else’s—wait—”

The front door opens, and Mom sticks her head out. I hadn’t heard or seen her coming, but Lucas had. Impressive—not many can detect Mom when she’s in stealth mode.

“It’s stopped,” I say, amazed my voice sounds normal.

“For now,” she decides. I’m sure Mom can tell I’ve been crying, and even though she doesn’t look directly, I also know her ninja-vision can see us holding hands. “Someone needs to go get Brian. The bus will be there in a few minutes, and I’m not sure this is over.”

“There’s a big red spot on the radar,” Jackson Connor announces, stepping up behind her and annoying me for the fourth time today. This must be some kind of record. “I’d be happy to pick him up in the Escalade.” The shiny, black SUV lurks in the small lot at the end of Zia Square.

“No, we’ll go, if that’s okay,” Lucas says suddenly, standing up. He runs his hands through his damp hair, making it stick out in random, choppy spikes. He looks at me. “Vivian’s bike’s in my truck, and we’re going that way anyway.”

My hand feels lonely without his. I stand up too. “Yeah, we’ll go.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble.” Jackson Connor’s smile is so charming. Too charming. I don’t care if he’s just here for a while, and I don’t care that he buys stuff. I’ll just save time and start hating him now.

“Brian wouldn’t know your car,” I say abruptly. “He only met you like once, right? He won’t get in a car with a stranger.”

Mom looks at me with an almost imperceptible frown. I don’t want to be completely rude, so I laugh a little to take the edge off. “Mom, you know even if you call him, he probably doesn’t have his phone on.”

She sighs. “This is true. Okay, see you at home.”

We slip back into Déjà Vu, leaving them on the front porch, and don’t say anything until we are out the back door and back in Lucas’s truck. A whoosh of air escapes from my lungs. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for a half an hour. I sink back in the seat, twisting the ends of my damp, disheveled French braid.

“Thanks. That was quick thinking,” I say. “I couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

“Yeah, me neither. Who is that guy, anyway?” Lucas maneuvers the truck out of the driveway into the narrow alley.

“Some customer. He came in a couple of weeks ago and turned into The Thing That Wouldn’t Leave. He’s remodeling the old gallery. Mom likes him, I guess.” Above us, the gloomy clouds are skittering away, and shades of aquamarine and gold streak the late afternoon sky. “But he’s practically a stranger. Maybe I’m being overprotective, but I don’t want him picking up my little brother.” The idea of Brian riding in Jackson Connor’s Escalade makes my blood run cold.

“Well, I don’t like it either,” Lucas frowns. “I don’t trust that guy. There’s something about him.” He shakes his head, lost in thought for a moment.

“Lucas. Oh my God. The spirit of your people?” We look at each other, and our faces dissolve into laughter.

He rolls his eyes. “Which of my people, exactly? Apache? Cheyenne? My mom’s French grandfather?”

“You know. Indians. What does he know, anyway—something he read in a book? He moved here like last month.”

“I’m sure it was his idea of a compliment.” His mouth twists into a sarcastic grimace.

“Are you going to tell Una what he said?”

“Hell yeah,” he laughs. “We’ve been getting back-handed compliments like that for a long time, so our people are used to it.”

We stop at the traffic light that will let us out onto Valley Road. Relaxing by microscopic intervals, I direct Lucas to the bus stop. The painful heart laceration that is my Dad seals up again, and I realize the idea that someone else knows about dreamwalking is actually pretty cool. I want to ask some more about Una, but before I can, Lucas looks at me and smiles.

“So, tell me about that painting. It reminds me of Starry Night, but with mountains.”

A jolt of pleasure flushes my face. My painting reminds him of a Van Gogh? I peek to see if he’s kidding. His eyes are warm and not kidding, and for once, I don’t have to look away. In fact, at this moment, I could look at Lucas Wolfsong for a really long time.

“Where is that place? Is it Whiteriver?” he continues. I snap out of my momentary trance and look at the road. The light turns green, and I point out the turn for Brian’s bus stop.

“Well, I thought it was imaginary. But I don’t know anymore. Not after today.”

He considers this for a moment, then asks, “What’s it called?”

“Naa tsaałe yu. Dreamland.”

“Wow.” He looks thoughtful but says nothing else.

“So,” I venture, “what exactly did Una say? I’ve never heard of this until a few days ago. I’ve always had lucid dreams, and my dad used to have me do things in them. Stuff like flying. He never called it anything.” Until now, that is. I spy the dream book peeking out from under the seat. “Is it in there? I looked online, but there’s really nothing. Lots of dream interpretation sites, but not dreamwalking.”

“No, nothing. I looked online too, but there wasn’t anything specific. The closest I found was astral traveling, out-of-body stuff. There are lots of books about that, so I guess it’s something that people from all over can do.” Lucas shrugs slightly. “It started with a lot of weird dreams. Canyons and hawks, someone calling me. Then last month, there was this one that was different. Really different. Usually I remember my dreams, but when I woke up, all I could remember was it was beautiful, with billions of stars—and Vivian, he was there. And when I woke up, there was that word in my head. Dreamwalking.”

Boy, does this sound familiar. “Me too,” I breathe, “almost exactly.”

“I looked in my dad’s stuff—you know, like there’d be a file labeled ‘Dreamwalking 101’—but it’s all just clothes, pictures, and his service file. So, I finally asked Una, because she always knows. All she said was it sounded like there was a dreamwalker trying to tell me something. It might not actually be my dad; it could just be about him. She wasn’t sure.”

“So, the dreams could mean anything.”

“I know, right? But then last week she said if I was still having the dreams, I should meet you. She thought you might be a dreamwalker, and maybe you could help. So I went with her to your house, and there you were—that same cute girl from the store with those green eyes.” He looked over at me, his own eyes gleaming. “I was hoping you remembered me.”

He thought I was cute? He hoped I remembered him?

I swallow. “I remembered you right away.”

“Anyway,” Lucas continued, his eyes returning to the road, “that’s it. I know it sounds crazy. But the only dreamwalker I’ve ever known was my dad. And now, you.”

“Same here. I think my grandmother is one too.” My head spins. Our fathers, the dreams, our research turning up the same things—maybe he is right. Maybe we really are connected.

“Can you ask her about it?”

“I would, but she doesn’t have a phone, and it’s not something I want to leave a message about with the neighbors.”

At the end of the block, the small gold and white Alamogordo Space Museum bus pulls to the curb, and Lucas slides in neatly behind it. I roll down the window and wave, calling, “Hey!” to Brian as he steps out onto the sidewalk. As he heads toward us, swinging his backpack, Lucas turns to look directly at me.

“I don’t know much about dreamwalking yet, but I don’t think you can do it when you’re dead.”

“So, this is why you think your dad—”

My eyes widen as the sudden possibility stops me cold.

“Both of our dads, Vivi. I think they might be alive.”