Chapter Twelve

 

The worst part about making a dramatic exit is that eventually you have to go back. You feel like an idiot, you’re all awkward and say you’re sorry, and even though everyone’s still kind of mad, there’s this uncomfortable understanding that everyone has to chill and at least try to act like everything’s okay. You know, fake it ’til you make it.

I can’t sit here crying miserably under a tree forever. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to look at my phone, which hasn’t stopped buzzing for ten minutes. Sooner or later, I’ll have to face Mom and try to get her back on my side again, which will mean apologizing to Jackson Connor. Sooner than later, actually, because her first reading is in fifteen minutes. Reluctantly, I peek at my phone, and I’m not surprised to see I have missed three calls and a text—but they’re not from Mom.

“Call me right away!” Lorena’s message insists. I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days, which seems like a lifetime ago. I suddenly need to hear her confetti-like laughter and her uncomplicated view of life. I press call sender.

She answers before the first ring stops, urgent. “What’s going on?”

“What? Nothing,” I blurt out. “I’m okay.”

It’s true, I’m fine—it’s just that the universe is imploding.

She sighs impatiently. “Yeah, right. What’s wrong? Just tell me.”

She gets these clairvoyant flashes now and then, like Mom. I’ve given up trying to explain them. Just because people don’t know why or how this happens doesn’t mean it’s supernatural or magic. They are a lot alike, Mom and Lori. They even look alike, enough to be a mother-daughter team. Right now, I’m sure my mom wishes this was the case—that her daughter was the friendly, open, bubbly one, and this stubborn, angry Vivian-girl was the friend in California.

“I had a fight with my mom.” How much can I tell her? The Knot, silent until now, nudges me. Tell her. Maybe she can help somehow.

“It’s a long story, and I can’t really talk now, but there’s a chance my dad might be alive.” I’m too wrung out to do anything but just blurt out the bottom line.

“Who-o-o-o-oa.” Lorena pauses. I can feel her digesting this, and then puzzling. “But this is good news.”

“It—it’s a secret right now. I’m not even sure about it, and it’s dangerous. Brian—all of us—it’s not safe.” My voice wavers. “I might be able to do something, but I don’t know what, yet, and I’m scared.” This is totally incoherent, I know. How can she make any sense of what I’m saying?

She takes a breath, activating her BFF Translator. “Hmm. Well. What I think is that if you don’t know what to do, don’t do anything yet. See what’s happening first? You know, be still.”

“I don’t know how much time I have. And I just made her really mad at the worst possible time,” I groan. “I yelled at this guy. A client, her friend—I don’t know what he is—but I totally hate him, and I was really rude. Then I walked out.” Just telling her is embarrassing.

She brushes that aside. “Been there, done that. She’ll get over it. Especially if it’s true about your dad.” She laughs a little. “Hmmm. What sucks right now is you have to walk back in. But you better own it, you know? Cuz you are sorry for the rudeness. And don’t be all quiet and sulky, like you get sometimes.”

I do not sulk. What I do is retreat and regroup. But I suppose it could look like sulking to the untrained observer.

“Okay, I’ll try. I gotta go, but thanks for the phone-a-friend therapy. I feel a little better about this now.” And I do. She’s right, and she’s on my side, even though she doesn’t know half of what’s going on.

“Good. And you better call me. I want to hear the whole thing. And this Lucas guy too. I want a picture. How can you have this hot boyfriend, and I don’t even know what he looks like?”

“We aren’t at the selfie stage just yet. He’s amazing. It’s… hard to explain. But I’ll call you tonight, I swear.” I pick up my bike and swing my leg over, getting ready to go back to Déjà Vu.

“You better! And, Vivi?”

“Yeah?”

“Be safe.”

Two minutes later, I hitch my bike to the post in the back. As a warm-up, I apologize silently to the screen door I slammed, and then slip into the kitchen. Mom murmurs pleasantly to the customers out front. I stop at the sink and splash cold water on my face, then tuck a few errant strands back into my braid. There is no mirror to check, and I hope my face doesn’t look as ravaged as my heart feels. I open the ice cream door a few inches and peek out. Two women stand at the register with Mom, and I’m relieved there’s no sign of Jackson Connor. Yeah, I’m a total coward, but I have to make things right with her first.

She looks over when the door opens, nods to me slightly, then turns back to finish ringing up the sale. I step through the door and nonchalantly rearrange a few large crystals until the women leave.

“Mom, I—” That’s all that comes out before my throat dries up and closes.

She sweeps out from behind the counter and looks at me with neutral, unreadable eyes. I wonder what she sees in mine, before I drop my gaze to the floor. The Knot twitches deep in my stomach.

“I’m glad you’re back. My ten o’clock will be here any minute.” Smooth and cool. Waiting.

I take a deep breath. “Mom, I’m really sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I was so rude to Mr. Connor. I guess I’m just really worried about Brian.” Is there a certain percentage of an apology that has to be pure and true, like sterling silver, in order for it to count? Because even though I totally meant what I said to him, I really am sorry I said it.

Her eyes are two chilly, green oceans. “I certainly hope you are, Vivian. That man is not just a client. He’s trying to bring some business to this town, trying to make friends and get this renovation off the ground, and you made him feel like an unwelcome intruder.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but she holds up her hand to silence me. “I know what you’re going to say, how it’s about Brian and your dream, but we’ll talk about that later. It’s no excuse. He’s a nice man, and he didn’t know what he was walking in on. You had no reason to do what you did.”

Jackson Connor is not a nice man.

I know this is unreasonable—as in, I have no actual, concrete reason to believe this—but I feel it from my head to my toes, and I have since he first walked in the door. No, even before that, out on Valley Road. I also know I have hurt and embarrassed my mother for that exact same lack of a reason. Opposing forces of shame and hostility struggle with each other briefly in my head, but I close my mouth without saying anything. Like Lori said, Be still.

“I’ll apologize to Mr. Connor,” I offer, subdued. You’d better, hums The Knot, or we’re getting nowhere.

“You’d better,” Mom says, completing the You’d Better Trifecta, just as an eager-looking, hipster couple comes through the door. The ten o’clock. “But it will have to wait ’til lunch.”

Crap. I was hoping to talk to Lucas at lunch. “Okay, Mom. I’ll make it good, I swear.”

“I know you will, Vivi.” She gives me a thoughtful look. Do I detect a slight defrosting around the edges? I hope so.

 

 

High noon arrives, the hour of my penance. I stride quickly across the grass, heading for the vacant store that is Jackson Connor’s latest project. The square bustles with tourists, and a road crew is repairing the asphalt in the parking lot. Construction noises reverberate from across the way, pulsing though the noon heat, and I’m glad our store is away from all the racket. I may love loud, heavy music, but noise is something else.

The smell of freshly cut boards, oily power tools, and old coffee greet my nose when I knock on the half-open door. I push it open and see no one.

“Hello?”

The former gallery is smaller than Déjà Vu and much brighter. There’s no covered porch or even an awning to block the sunlight, and I know this place will be roasting by mid-afternoon. An old air conditioner cranks valiantly in one window, but there’s no way that fossil can defeat the New Mexico sun in June. The wood floors are bleached from sun and neglect, and a fresh layer of sawdust covers everything, including the blueprints spread on the ancient desk and the plastic yard chairs serving as office furniture. An old milk crate acts as a Styrofoam coffee-cup graveyard, and a few Riverbend Construction business cards are scattered on the floor.

“Hello? Mr. Connor?”

Masculine voices in the back room, then the high–pitched “REE-AARR-RRR” of a circular saw assaults my ears as Jackson Connor steps in, closes the door on the din, then turns and sees me. Surprise flickers across his face but evaporates immediately. He smiles pleasantly, only displaying about thirty teeth this time. His crisp white shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, an Omega watch gleaming on his tanned wrist.

“Well, hello there, Vivian. I was hoping to see you. Would you like some water?” He waves his hand toward a water cooler in the corner.

“No thank you, Mr. Connor. I know you’re busy and all, and I have to get back soon. It’s about this morning.”

He runs the watch-hand through his hair and nods thoughtfully. “Yes. This morning. I think an apology is in order, don’t you?”

Really? I shouldn’t be surprised by anything about this guy, but really? How pompous can he get? Resentment ignites in my stomach but is extinguished quickly and smoothly by The Knot. He’ll get his. Karma is a bitch, remember? This is for Brian, not him.

I take a deep breath and nod in agreement. “Yeah. I really—”

“I know, Vivian. You and your mother were having a private talk this morning, and I just barged in. I should have waited out front. I didn’t mean to intrude, and I’m sorry I upset you.” His blue eyes are earnest, his smile kind, and I am completely dumbfounded.

I have been struck dumb with anger. I have been tongue-tied with embarrassment and stupefied by Lucas’s magnetic warmth and easy smile. But I have never been made speechless by someone’s politeness. This is a new one. Even The Knot is silent.

My cheeks are hot, but I recover quickly. “It’s okay, Mr. Connor. I came to apologize to you. I was totally rude, and you didn’t deserve it.”

“Apology accepted.” He perches easily on the corner of the desk, resting his hands on his knees. “I really like this town, Vivian. I like the history and the people here. Your mother has been very gracious about helping me get started, and I really enjoy her company.”

“Everyone does.”

Mom is really good at making you feel like you can do whatever you set your mind to, whether she’s reading your cards or signing you up for a surprise painting class. I feel another twinge of guilt for being such a pain-in-the-butt Drama Daughter.

“Well, I plan on being here a little longer. I’m even buying a summer cabin up in Pacheco Canyon. I’d like for you and me to start over, if we can?” He stands up and extends his hand.

“Ummm, sure, Mr. Connor.” I hold out my hand almost automatically.

“Please. Call me Jack. Or, J.C. Some of my friends call me that.”

I don’t think we’re quite at the initials-only stage in our new relationship, but I can at least concede his first name. I’m pretty sure it won’t kill me, and if it will make Mom happy, I’m willing to call a truce.

“Okay, Jack.”

His grasp is warm and firm this time, with no trace of the cold lizard grip.

“I’m glad we’re back on track.” He beams.

“Me too.” This is not actually a lie. I need to focus on Brian and dreamwalking, and I need Mom’s help. I can’t let my temper get in the way again.

The power saw in back grinds and screeches up and down the scale. Jackson—er, Jack—stands up, tips his head toward the racket and shouts over the noise, “Well, back to work.”

I nod pleasantly, and shout back, “See you!” Satisfied, I head out the door, thinking about a sandwich from Noonie’s and a Coke.

As I step out the door and stroll down the sidewalk, the burning, oily smell of power tools follows me. I can only imagine what kind of overblown castle Jackson Connor would call a “cabin,” but who cares? Pacheco Canyon is over three hours away—an acceptable distance.

Once inside the bakery, I breathe deeply, happily replacing the construction smells with fragrant muffins and Macaroonies. I order sandwiches for both me and Mom. She eats very little meat, but she loves Noonie’s chicken salad as much as I do. It has a ton of celery, plus grapes and pecans. Drinks and homemade organic potato chips complete the order.

I dig in my pocket, looking for more change for the tip jar on the counter. All I have is one of those two-dollar bills no one ever wants. I drop it in the jar and hurry back to Déjà Vu. The apology went well, and I’m bringing Mom an excellent peace offering.

Smooth sailing, I text Lorena. Call u tonight.

My phone buzzes back immediately, but it’s not Lorena. It’s Lucas. A dart of happiness spears through my chest.

LW: When are you off? You gotta see this Stargate stuff ASAP.

V: Hopefully early. Can you come over?

LW: Yep, txt me when you’re out.

V: I have a lot to tell you. Last night was crazy. I saw my dad again, and I think I saw you.

LW: I definitely saw something. Hope it was you.

“My heart skipped a beat” sounds so lame, but that’s exactly how it feels. I guess some clichés are true, which is why they are clichés. I scour my brain for the perfect response and get… crickets.

V: be there or be square. Yup, if you can’t say something lame, say something even lamer.

 

 

Tuesday afternoons are always slow, so Mom and I are usually able to eat lunch at the same time. I’m hoping for the right moment to bring up Dad and Brian again, but by the time I put our plates on the counter, I’m not sure exactly how much I want to tell her about Lucas. I want to see what he found out today, and I want to talk to Mom when there’s no chance of us being interrupted. So maybe Connor’s not the total douchebag I thought he was, but I still don’t like him—and Mr. Clueless has a way of showing up just at the wrong time.

We sit at the counter with the ice cream door propped open, listening for customers, but no one comes in. While we exclaim over the luscious sandwiches and crispy chips, I give Mom a play-by-play of my apology, including Connor’s new place in the canyon near Santa Fe. She is still a little stiff, but when I get to the part about him apologizing to me, her face thaws completely and she says, “See?”

Washing the last bit of pride down with my Coke, I admit, “You’re right, Mom, he’s… not that bad. I guess I’m a little too protective of us. You know how I hate new people.” I’m joking, but as they say, many a truth is spoken in jest. My whole life, I have trusted only a few people outside of our tiny family.

“You are fierce. Just like your dad.” Mom smiles as she wraps up half of her sandwich for Brian. “But you have to let people in sometimes.” She raises one eyebrow in a speculative Mom Look and adds, “Like Lucas.”

The Knot sits up immediately. Yes! The perfect segue.

“He’s different,” I begin cautiously. I don’t want to just blurt out that Una thinks I can get into people’s dreams, and Lucas came looking for me to tell me our dads are alive and they’re sending us dream messages. Even though that’s exactly what’s happening, saying it like that makes him sound like some kind of psycho freak. Besides, what Lucas told me is about his dad. I don’t know exactly how this all fits together with mine.

Or with Brian, nudges The Knot. That’s what she needs to know about, not Lucas.

“Mom, he has the same kind of dreams. He calls it dreamwalking, just like Dad.”

“You mean lucid dreaming?” she ventures. “Like when your father used to coach you when you were little? That was so you could move yourself out of nightmares. You’ve always been good at that.”

“It was way more than that, Mom. He taught me how to go places and do things. Talk to people, even. But these dreams are different. It’s because of the jacket—and there was this feather in it. A hawk feather. It was like Dad found me. I felt him with me. I could hear him breathing.” And for just a moment, I feel him again, warm and solid, surrounded by the smoky turquoise-gold of his dream desert.

She has stopped cleaning up lunch. She stands completely still, looking at me intently, wheels turning. “Really? It sounds like astral traveling. Tell me the part about Brian. Do you remember it clearly?” This is the Mom I know and love, the Mom I need so badly. I need her steady, calm voice. I need her listening carefully and thoughtfully. I close my eyes briefly, determined not to screw this up.

“Everything, Mom. I remember everything. He said men from the Stargate Project are looking for Brian. They want to use him because they think he’s a dreamwalker.” Like me, I add silently. And possibly, like Lucas.

Mom takes a deep, even breath. “Did he say anything else?”

“No. But he said I can protect Brian’s thoughts somehow, by getting into his dreams.”

A group of women come down the sidewalk, chattering as they pass by the kitchen window and head toward the front door. Another interruption, but unlike this morning, my emotions and temper are under control. Smooth sailing.

Mom notes the arrival of customers with a quick nod. She stretches her hands above her head, sending her bracelets twinkling down her arms. She smooths her hair thoughtfully, puts her arm around my shoulder, and kisses my forehead gently. Her eyes are troubled for only a moment before clearing to their usual smooth jade.

“Okay, honey. We’ll talk more tonight.”

“Will you tell me about Stargate?”

She nods, and pauses before replying, “I was hoping I’d never have to.”

 

 

[FILE 201 200614 SANTA FE (15:13)]

Black Sky: Raven, what’s your status?

Raven: SNAFU with sister and mother.

Black Sky: Were you made?

Raven: Negative. Mission secure. Diplomacy prevailed.