I sat down on the thatched area, the closest thing to a bed, and watched Hester sew. Pearl took off her dress and put on a white nightgown. Without the brilliant red dress and cap, she looked even younger than before.
“Mother,” she said. “There is a girl here, even if you can’t see her.”
“Hush, and cease these fancies,” Hester said. “The girl is in your head.”
“That doesn’t mean she is not real,” argued Pearl.
Hester sighed, exasperated. Then she set down her sewing and lifted Pearl from off the floor, placing her on her lap. “Where do you come up with such stories?”
“It is not a story,” Pearl said. “Emma is real. She belongs here.”
I felt a tremor in my stomach at her words. What did she mean?
Pearl giggled when she saw my reaction and grabbed her rose from the floor, plucking off its petals and tossing them at me, one by one. Then she began humming the playful melody that had lured me across the bridge, only now it sounded dark and foreboding.
Hearing it gave me an eerie chill, and I backed toward the door, anxious to leave.
“She is leaving now, Mother,” Pearl said.
“Who?”
“Emma.”
“Pearl, I told you—”
But Hester stopped mid-sentence. Her eyes grew wide as if she were seeing me for the first time. Pearl came to stand by her side, and the two of them stared at me like I was a ghost.
Looking directly into their eyes, I realized why Pearl had looked so familiar to me, why my reflection in the water had merged so seamlessly with hers. Because Pearl was me. And now that I could see her face clearly, so was Hester. They were reflections of me at different stages of my life—Pearl, my little girl self, and Hester, my future self.
An icy chill enshrouded me. Without thinking, I tore out of the cottage and began running, back down the hill and through the forest until I reached the place I knew so well—the bridge that lay across the boundary between these two worlds. I flew across it faster than I’d ever dared and didn’t stop until I was safely back at the dorm, wondering how long I’d been gone and if anyone had even missed me.
C
HAPTER
11
I
t was dusk, and once again my room was empty. I had to talk to someone about what had just happened. And while that someone probably should have been my father, I didn’t want to worry him or bring on the inevitable doctor’s appointment, even if I was beginning to wonder if I might not be crazy after all.
I tried to rationalize what had happened. Maybe I’d run too long and had gotten dehydrated. Or my runner’s high had made me hallucinate. Maybe I just needed sleep.
Maybe everything would make sense in the morning.
Only, when I woke and saw Michelle lying in bed with her back to me, nothing made any more sense. Later that day once Michelle had left for the afternoon, I called Owen. I hadn’t planned on telling him about my bizarre experience in the woods, but as soon as I heard his voice, I knew I had to confide in someone.
Owen had believed me last year when I’d told him about my travels into
Jane Eyre
. At the very least, he’d hear me out and wouldn’t rush me off to the nearest psych ward.
When I finished telling him my story, he said, “Jeez, Emma! You sleepwalked to Braeburn?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Because I wasn’t really asleep. It happened when I was running. I fell into a sort of trance, and then suddenly I was across the log bridge and in this other world.”
“So it’s kind of like you were dreaming while awake?”
“Sort of.”
“Were you lucid?” he asked. “I mean, did you know you were dreaming?”
“Vaguely,” I said. “I knew I was conversing with fictional characters, but I couldn’t shake myself out of the fantasy.”
“It sounds like some form of narcolepsy,” he said.
“Isn’t that where you fall asleep at unexpected times?”
“Not necessarily. I heard of this woman who fell asleep every time she laughed. The trigger is different for everyone. In your case, it seems to have something to do with running. Your body’s moving, but your mind goes on autopilot. It’s kind of how dolphins sleep.”
“Dolphins?”
“Yeah, half of their brain shuts down to let them rest, and the other half stays active and alert so they don’t get eaten by predators. They never stop swimming even while they’re sleeping.”
“So what you’re saying is, I’m part sea mammal?”
He made a few dolphin clicks and squeaks. “Did you understand that?”
“You are so mean,” I said, laughing.
“Here’s what I recommend,” he said. “A day away from Lockwood. Let’s go to Boston this weekend. We’ll see the Christmas decorations, maybe go ice-skating.”
“Ice-skating?”
“Yeah, it’ll be fun.”
I agreed that maybe I should get away from a place that was so stressful it was causing me to sleepwalk or hallucinate, or both.
On Saturday morning, I dressed warmly in a soft, chunky-knit sweater and wool skirt with boots and waited for Owen to pick me up in front of Easty Hall. When he got out of the car, I saw that he was wearing jeans and a plaid shirt under a blue V-neck sweater, the shirttail hanging out so he looked sort of disheveled in an intentional way. Instead of his usual jokey T-shirts and dirty jeans, Owen looked like he had dressed for a date. It was then that I realized, so had I.
Owen drove us into Boston, where we did some sightseeing and Christmas shopping and bookstore browsing. We stopped for lunch at a Revolution-era tavern that touted the best lobster roll in Boston. All biases aside, I had to admit it was better than Melville’s greasy version.
After lunch, we went to an ice-skating rink in Roxbury since the local ponds weren’t frozen yet. Owen was a good skater, having played ice hockey as a kid. I was anything but graceful as I wobbled around the rink, but Owen grabbed my hand whenever I was about to fall.
Despite some near collisions with the wall, the cold air and exercise made me feel better, and Owen’s presence reassured me that I wasn’t as alone as I felt.
As we were getting back into his car he said, “Hey, aren’t we close to Darlene’s bakery?”
“Aunt Darlene?” I said.
“Yeah. I could go for some of those pumpkin fritters right now. And some hot coffee.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d feel weird going to see her when I’m not even talking to Michelle.”
Owen persisted. “Darlene’s not like that, and you know it. Come on. Let’s pay her a visit. Besides, she might have some advice about your dreams.”
I gave him a suspicious glance. “Was this your intention all along?”
Owen smiled sheepishly and blushed. He was always looking out for me.
We drove to Darlene’s neighborhood and parked on a side street. Bec d’Or was an adorable French-Haitian bakery whose specialty was the namesake golden pastry in the shape of a bird’s beak. When we entered, the bakery was mostly empty except for a middle-aged couple sitting in the back.
As soon as Darlene saw us, she came out from behind the counter and extended her arms. “Oh, Emma, how are you, child?” She gave me a rib-breaking hug, then moved on to Owen. “And look at you,” she said, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “Boy, you get more handsome every day. Doesn’t he, Emma? What was Michelle thinking giving up this pretty young thing?”
I laughed, feeling embarrassed for Owen. “I guess Michelle told you about the breakup?” Owen said.
Darlene frowned. “I knew something wasn’t right the last time I saw her. Sometimes I know a shadow’s falling on her before she does.”
I wondered if Michelle had told Darlene about me kissing Owen. It seemed unlikely given how friendly she was being to us. “Are you too busy to talk?” I asked.
“Never too busy for you, child. You two sit down there, and let me make you some cremas. And I got a batch of those fritters you love, Owen. They’re just about to come out of the oven. Sit and take a load off.”
We sat as instructed, and Owen fidgeted with his shirt sleeve. Darlene was right. Owen was looking really cute these days. The lines of his face were becoming more angular, less boyish. Until he smiled, of course, and his dimples broke the illusion.
Darlene came back out of the kitchen a few minutes later and brought us our coconut cremas and an entire platter of fritters with a selection of other pastries thrown in. She pulled a chair up to our table and sat with her legs spread, elbows on her knees, hands clasped in front of her.
“So tell me what you’ve been up to lately,” she said. “I haven’t seen you both in ages.”
Owen and I looked at each other self-consciously. Briefly, we caught her up on school and asked her how the bakery was doing. But she seemed to sense we hadn’t come for small talk.
“Is there something that’s bothering you?” Darlene said.
I hesitated, unsure how to explain what had been going on.
“Actually,” Owen said, “Emma’s been having those dreams again.”
“You still chasing after something in your dream world?” Darlene said. “Tell Darlene what’s going on.”
I explained to her how I’d gone running a few times and had crossed the log bridge, only to find myself moving as if in a trance and waking up in the woods.
“Well,” she said, “you’re not the first person to go wandering in your sleep. I heard of a well-respected businessman who got out of his bed every night and broke into his neighbor’s houses to steal from them, only he’d wake up the next morning with no idea how all that loot got in his house.” She laughed heartily, but I must have looked a little scared because she reached across the table and took my hands in hers, rubbing them in a consoling way.
“I remember everything,” I told her. And then I started babbling, trying to explain about running across the bridge and hearing lines from
The Scarlet Letter
and meeting Hester and Pearl and noticing they both looked just like me.
“And what did this woman, this Hester, say to you?” Darlene asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I got scared and ran away.”
“Why did you get scared?”
“Because the look she gave me was so . . . penetrating, like she could see into my soul.”
Darlene paused and studied my face. “Darlin’, dreams are the place where your subconscious works out its problems. And what it sounds like to me is your soul is doing some stretching.”
“Stretching?”
She smiled. “The Haitian people believe you have two parts to your soul—le ti-bon-ange, or your little angel, and le gros-bon-ange, your big angel. Now, the little angel is like your shadow soul. It’s only visible in dreams or visions, and it helps you communicate with the spirits or the loa, kind of like your conscience. But the big angel is your fate soul, the one that determines your destiny or prophesies your future. That’s the soul that makes you
you
.”
“So what you’re saying is that in my dreams, I’m meeting the two halves of my soul?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “Most people are too literal to understand the loa. It’s more like you’re at the crossroads of your own spiritual growth. When a person communicates with the two parts of her soul, it’s a metaphor for transformation, metamorphosis. Understand?”
“I guess so,” I said. “Then how come only the little girl could hear me at first?”
“Because the woman represents the part of yourself you’re still becoming. Your future self.”
“But I’m nothing like Hester,” I said.
“Are you sure?” she said. “Maybe that’s why you ran from her. Maybe you’re not ready to face your future.”
I frowned as I acknowledged Darlene had hit on the truth.
“But it’s not dangerous, right?” Owen said. “She doesn’t have to worry about this?”
“So long as no one buries her alive,” Darlene said, laughing. My stomach lurched.
“You’re joking, right?” Owen said.
“Well, it is a form of dark magic in Haiti. Certain voodoo priests use potions to put people into trancelike states, and then they bury them alive. When they release their victims from the grave, they steal their ti-bon-ange, thus depriving them of free will and conscience. That’s how zombies are created.”
“Zombies are real?” I said.
“Mind you, I’ve never seen one myself. But I’ve seen plenty of folks wandering around like they don’t have a conscience, that’s for sure.” She laughed again, but I was feeling anything but cheery. Darlene grabbed my hand again. “Darlin’, you need to take control of your dreams just like you do everything else in life. There are voluntary trances in which the person is an active seeker of truth, and then there are possession trances, in which a person is controlled by the spirits. It sounds like you’re searching for something out there in the woods, maybe for some truth about yourself. I don’t think the spirits are controlling you.”
“But how do I make sure they don’t?”
“Whenever you notice something unusual, something you know comes from your dream world, just remind yourself that it’s only a dream and that you’re in control. And don’t let your body go wandering. I’m going to give you a technique to make sure it doesn’t. Think about riding a stationary bicycle. If you close your eyes, it feels like you’re moving, right? But you don’t actually go anywhere. And yet you still get all the benefits of exercise. It’s the same with your dreams. Once you realize you’re in a dream state, you can control what happens. So the next time, I want you to create a mirror image of yourself, and send that version out into the dream, letting your body remain where it is. That way no harm can come to you. The dream will still be illuminating, but much less dangerous.”
“So you don’t think I’m going to become a zombie?” I said.
She laughed. “You could never become a zombie, Emma. There’s too much strength in that ti-bon-ange of yours. Now, I’m sorry to do this to you after scaring you silly, but I need to get back behind that counter. The afternoon rush is starting.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, noticing the line of customers that had formed. “Thank you so much, Darlene, for taking the time to talk to us.”
“Any time,” she said. “And I mean that.”
She packed us a bag full of snacks and pastries. Just as we were about to leave, she came out from behind the counter and grabbed my shoulders. “And, honey, don’t give up on my Michelle, you hear?”