Chapter Eleven

 

It’s waiting for me as soon as I step out through the front door of Déjà Vu. Like a coiled snake slithering up my spine. That feeling of being watched. Again.

At first, I ignore it, because there is a low-level humming in my head that won’t go away and just about everything feels off. I’m out here at the crack of dawn, trying to feel normal—or at least act normal—but there is no normal anymore. Not now, and maybe not ever again.

I told Mom I was going in early to work on enlarging the “Dreamland” painting to fit the front wall. She looked at me, and her clear green eyes registered both everything and nothing before she said, “Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”

I’m hoping that going through some artistic motions might give me a handhold on the planet. I clutch my small sketchbook and some pencils in a death grip, battling the feeling that if I let go, I am going to fly right off and spin out into space or back into Dreamland.

Dreamland.

The place that is not just about my dreams, but everybody’s. The place where a poisonous knot of dread has embedded itself in my gut because my brother is in danger, and I’m supposed to be able to save him—from I-don’t-know-exactly-what—by jumping into his dreams. The place where Dad is—alive?

In a safe place, he said. As scared as I am about Brian, I’m also insanely happy because no matter what happens, that place is where my father walks.

Brian knows right away that something’s up. He looks at me quizzically as we pass in the hallway this morning.

“Whatcha been dreaming about, Vivi?”

OMG. Does he know?

“Your new boyfriend?”

I glare at him and punch him in the arm, relieved as he smirks and dances away from my empty threats.

Never have I been so glad to see his annoying, smartass-little-brother grin. But I can’t tell him anything. What would I say? Be careful bro, some ruthless government thugs are trying to get into your head and use your non-existent powers to turn you into some kind of dream-warrior? Oddly enough, Brian would probably believe that. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him purple and yellow make brown. He demands proof. But something crazy like dreamwalking and evil government conspiracies, he would turn over in his head, chewing on it in his mind like a lemon Macaroonie, then nod and say, “Okay.” I can’t do this alone, but Brian isn’t the one I have to tell about this.

Not yet.

Whatever “this” is.

I ignore the slimy feeling of surveillance as it slithers up past my neck and into my scalp. I need to talk to Mom. Dad said they tried to hide us, so that means Mom knows something. Maybe that’s why she keeps us living so far off the grid. Maybe that’s why she uses the name Hawk professionally, instead of our full name, Night Hawk. I always thought it was so she wouldn’t have to explain her last name and her dead husband to every curious customer, but maybe it’s because Hawk is so generic. Easier to hide.

Maybe Dad can’t talk directly to her, but I can—and I have a feeling I need some Ninja Mom skills on my side.

Lucas. I need Lucas too, and not just for the obvious reason of him being totally hot or the fact that he turns my heart into a sweet, warm ache that leaves me speechless and turns my brain into a puddle. Not just that. I need him because when he took my hand, it was impossible to tell where his ended and mine began; as corny as it sounds, they fit perfectly, as if our hands belong together.

I need him because when he didn’t even know me, he was looking for me. Because he trusted me enough to ask me to help open the door to a miracle—a miracle that feels like it may be true but might escape if I think about it too much. You can’t hold a miracle hostage.

I need him because he texted this morning, and when I asked him to find out about the Stargate Project, he said he would. I know I can trust him to do whatever he says he will do.

I need Lucas because, even though right now the dread-knot in my stomach is small, I think being really terrified really soon is a distinct possibility, and for all of my bravado, I don’t know if I can do this alone. Lucas is brave. And when I’m with him, I feel brave too.

Well, braver.

Who is looking at me? I whirl around, my heart thumping, but I don’t see anyone out in the square. The souvenir shop and the fudge place are still closed. Noonie’s is open though, and I need to replenish our stash. I glance up and down the walkway, and there’s no one.

Wait.

Something twitches in the parking lot, the tiniest ripple of movement. Sandwiched between a couple of trucks, a large shiny black roof catches my eye, just like the roof of Jackson Connor’s Escalade. Why would he be lurking over there, staring at me? I wouldn’t put anything past Mr. Jackass-Spirit-of-Your-People-Douchebag Connor. I put on my “I see you” face and narrow my gaze, then wait for any trace of movement. Nothing.

Sigh. Okay, Vivi, quit being so paranoid.

The dread-knot reminds me that it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.

I cut across the square to Noonie’s before the day gets away from me and I forget to buy the Mmacaroonies. Tiny dream-sparks of turquoise and diamond seem to dance just outside my line of sight. I pretend to peek nonchalantly at the parking lot as I go by, but there’s no one there, in the lot or the cars. The Escalade turns out to be some other black SUV thing I don’t recognize, and I feel both stupid and relieved. See? I scold myself. It was probably just one of those heat shimmers that ripple up from the road when it’s really hot. One of those.

Hmmmph! says The Knot, unconvinced.

When I get back to Déjà Vu, it’s almost time to open, and Mom is in the kitchen, setting up the customer coffee tray. Her sky-blue peasant blouse is edged at the neck and sleeves with those little crystals that look like rainbows; tiny, glittering echoes of my jewel-edged dreamwalk.

I position the cookies around the plate, creating a perfect galaxy of chocolate and orange planets surrounding butter-lemon suns, not looking at her. The Knot pokes at me, Tell her! so I take a breath and ask, “So, what’s it looking like today? Is Una coming?”

“She’s still in Albuquerque until tomorrow. Maybe Thursday.” Mom sips her coffee and delicately selects a chocolate planet from my galaxy, declaring, “These are the best ones,” and bites it in half. Every now and then, Mom indulges in what she calls ‘mental health food,’ usually involving chocolate or something with butter and salt, if not all three. Her relaxed, cheery smile is encouraging.

“Mom, can I talk to you about something? If you don’t have a reading right away?”

“There’s nobody until ten. I was going to work on the books, but they can wait a few minutes. What’s up?” Her face is kind and expectant, and I feel super guilty for what I’m about to dump on her. I’d better be careful. There’s no easy way to say all of this, and I don’t want to sound like a mental case right off the bat.

“Do you ever dream about Dad?”

“Of course, honey,” she says, setting down her cup. She pauses wistfully. “All the time.”

“Mom… ever since I got the jacket, there’ve been weird things happening. A lot of weird things.”

“What kind of things?”

Where to start? A feather made of lightning? An amazing artist who fits my hands and my heart, who knows about my dreams? Dreams where I can talk to my not-so-sure-he’s-dead father? I hesitate because it sounds crazy and she will never believe me.

If she believes stuff about auras, this won’t be too hard, argues The Knot. She believes in dreams.

This is true, I concede. I better start talking before I lose my mind completely.

“Things about Dad. Dreams. First, though, I need to know something about the jacket. What happened to the one he had?”

“His jacket? He lost it.” She rests her chin on her slim hand and reconsiders. “Well, he didn’t exactly lose it. You know how he was; he’d help anyone who needed something. He was up at Fort Apache, visiting Grandma Lily before he went back to Iraq. He lent it to his friend one night and never got it back.” Mom looks at me closely. “Are you thinking it’s your dad’s actual jacket?”

I nod. “I know it sounds crazy. But it’s the same one in the picture on his web page. It looks exactly like it, except for this one thing on the collar. There’s a snap or a pin or something in the picture, and on mine there’s a pin hole. Did Dad have a pin there?”

Her face softens. “I can see why this has got you wondering. But you know they probably made thousands of jackets like that.”

“I know, but Mom.” My throat is suddenly a painful ball, and tears are threatening. “It just feels like him. It—it even smells like him. And there’s more, but I have to know. Was there a pin?”

She looks close to tears herself as she slips her cool hand across the counter to mine. “He wore his caduceus.”

“Cadu—what?”

“Caduceus.” She pronounces it ca-doo-see-us. “That medical symbol of a snake winding around a pole with wings at the top. Medics and doctors wear them in the field. I’m sure you remember it—it’s in my jewelry box.” She’s right. I have seen it: small and gold, a sharp masculine bird gleaming in her feminine nest of silver. How can I have forgotten?

Mom shrugs, smiling gently. “Maybe the jacket is his and it found its way back to you. Stranger things have happened.” She pauses, in no hurry. “You said there was more.”

“Okay, but you have to promise you’ll listen to the whole thing before you say anything.” I glance at the clock over the sink. Can I explain this in twenty minutes? There’s so much, and I haven’t sorted it all out yet—the feather, how Lucas fits into all of this, and Lucas’s dad. The Knot elbows me hard.

Brian.

“Mom, it’s about Brian. I think he’s in trouble. Or, might be—” Words spill out crooked and fast, an avalanche of speech. “You know how my dreams are, right? I had a dream about Dad—no, a dream with Dad. He called it a dreamwalk, but it was really him, not a dream. He was really there with me—and he said they are trying to get Brian.”

“Hold on, slow down!” Concern flickers across her face. “Now, what about Brian? Did you dream he was in trouble?”

“Yes. No. Dad told me it’s some project where they get into your dreams and make you do stuff, you know, like I can do sometimes? Like Dad and Grandma Lily? It’s called dreamwalking, and Lucas knows about it. They think Brian can do it.” It’s coming out all wrong, and an odd little shadow of doubt touches her eyes.

“They? Who are they?”

“What do you mean, Dad told you?”

“What is it exactly you can do?”

All these possible responses, and what does she say as she lets go of my hand?

“Lucas? Is he the one giving you these ideas?” Mom tilts her head uncertainly, a slight furrow appearing between her brows.

The Knot groans. You’re blowing it.

“No, Mom, it’s Dad. Lucas just knows about dreamwalking.” My thoughts are drowning, flailing desperately for something to grab onto to keep her with me.

Get a grip, Vivian, warns The Knot.

Panic bursts out of my heart, and I’m almost shouting. “I know you know something about this. Dad said you guys tried to hide us when we were little. He said it’s that project. The Stargate Project.”

Her face wavers, and she goes very still. “Stargate?” she whispers, and her ashen face belies her calm voice. She takes a deep, ragged breath. “You had a dream about Stargate?”

This is exactly what I was dreading. This stunned look, as if someone has just slapped her in the face. Her mask of serenity and patience crumples completely, and she closes her eyes, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter, swaying a little. I’m horrified at the power that word has over my mother, but I could also weep with relief because finally she’s going to listen.

Jing-a-ling. The silver bells on the front door.

“Hellooo, anyone home?”

A furious cross between a groan and a growl escapes from The Knot. Every murderous cussword known to mankind floods my head as the cheerful, hearty voice of Jackson Connor rings out in the front room.

“Mom!” I glance desperately at the clock. It’s five minutes until opening time. Can’t he ever leave us alone?

“Vivian.” Mom’s voice is quiet and deadly serious. Her normal, serene face has mostly reassembled; only her bright pink cheeks give her away. “We’ll talk about this later. I don’t know what you think, but—

“What I know is that Brian’s not safe. Dad told me,” I whisper fiercely. I can barely speak, and I can’t even deal with that pest out in the store. I turn toward the back door, hoping to escape, when Mom grips my arm and leans in close.

Her voice is calm, but her eyes are urgent as she warns me, “You are not to say anything to anyone about this. Not to Lucas, and especially not Brian.”

“I won’t tell Brian.” I fume. She must think I’m an idiot. “But if it wasn’t for Lucas—”

“Knock-knock!” The ice-cream door taps and swings open as a manicured hand waves a lumpy brown paper bag filled with what smells like bagels, followed by J.C. Douchebag’s grinning face.

“Good morning, ladies!” He steps through the doorway, then hesitates, his smile fading as he glances from my mother to me, then back to her. “Everything okay? The door was open… I hope I’m not interrupting.”

I can’t help it. My eyes fling daggers at him while I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling his stupid, pompous face that I hope he drives that Escalade of his right off a cliff.

“No, it’s fine,” Mom says smoothly, picking up the customer tray of Macaroonies. “It’s time to open anyway.”

I can’t stand this for another minute. I am not Mom, and I can’t just take a few breaths and act normal when my whole world is splintering and rearranging itself like some kind of terrible kaleidoscope

“It is not fine!” I snap, whirling to face him, and the word avalanche roars out before I can stop it. “This is a private conversation, and you are interrupting. Why are you always here? Don’t you have a life somewhere? You’re supposedly here on business, so why don’t you take care of your business and stay the hell out of ours!”

“Vivian.” My mother’s stern face and sharp tone tell me what I already know, that I’m way out of line.

But I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m out of line? He’s out of line! My whole stupid life is out of line!

“Just leave!” I yell wildly. “Stay away from my mom, stay away from my brother, and stay away from me!”

Jackson Connor’s snobby mask of a face is blooming thirteen shades of crimson. Awesome. Seeing Mom’s eyes blazing at me is definitely not awesome. I have never seen her this angry with me.

Oh, way to go! sneers The Knot, kicking me hard in the gut, scattering shame and fear like shards of glass from my ribs to my knees. Just when you need her the most.

I freeze, stunned at what I have done—even though this is all Jackson Connor’s fault—and ugly words seethe in my head, ready to explode in a war of brains versus mouth. A wave of nausea rolls over me, threatening to erupt with more than words, and I need to get out of here before I vomit all over his Top Siders, which, come to think of it, would give me enormous satisfaction right about now.

Vivian, warns The Knot, echoing my mother.

Screw you, too, I spit at The Knot. I stomp out the back door, slamming the screen so hard the hinges rattle. I hop on my bike and pedal savagely up the alley, away from Déjà Vu, away from Mom and that worm, Jackson Connor. Angry tears blur my vision as I jump off and drop my bike under the deep shade of the enormous mulberry tree behind the Slushee Stop. My side hurts, my lungs are on fire, and I can go no further. I collapse under the tree, drawing my knees up to my chest. Tears scald my cheeks as I rock back and forth, ignoring my ringing phone, while fear and frustration roar over me in deep, shuddering waves.