Kissing Midnight (13 page)

“Saintly! Saint!”

Someone is shaking me. I try to fight them off, but something is pinning me down, holding me tight. I cry out.

“Saintly, it’s me!”

I open my eyes.

Delia is standing over me dressed in her bathrobe, her blond hair damp, her blue eyes wide. “You were yelling in your sleep again.”

“I was?” I sit up, disoriented. I’m in bed, the blankets tangled around me. I kick them off.

“You were! I came back from the showers and I could hear you two doors away. God, girl, what were you dreaming?”

“It was a kids’ game.” My voice sounds distant. My mind is still in the meadow.

Delia laughs uncomfortably. “Remind me not to play Candyland with you.”

“No, not that kind of game. It was What Time Is It, Mr. Fox. Do you remember that game? We used to play it at the park?”

Delia turns to the mirror and picks up her hairbrush. “Was it like kick the can?”

“No!” It feels important. “Remember? Someone was Mr. Fox and we would ask him the time—”

“Oh, like Mother May I, right? Or Red Light, Green Light?” Delia studies me, her head tilted to the side.

“Yes, but more intense. You had to get him before he got you.” My whole body is still shaking. I pull the covers up over my shoulders.

Delia sighs and turns to the mirror. “I never won at those games. I always took these huge steps and got way close, and they always tagged me out.” She picks up her brush and starts running it through her hair. “You were the one who always won.”

I hug the covers tight around me. “You mean I never got tagged out.” I was always so timid, I played it safe with baby steps and never got too close. “But not getting tagged out isn’t the same as winning. To win, you’d have to get him first.”

Delia pauses, mid-brush. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Her eyes find mine in the mirror. I can see the concern on her face.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” There’s no way to explain the feeling of the dream: the strange seriousness of the girls. The panic on the little girl’s face when he caught her, like it wasn’t a game at all.

Delia turns to face me. She looks tired, and she keeps her voice low. “Are you sure it’s all helping, Saintly? The therapy and everything?”

“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it. In the five days since my planetarium date with Dev, I haven’t had any more episodes. The strange dreams continue—I’ve had the dream about the door almost every night this week—but my daylight hours are reassuringly normal. It’s as if Dev, with his carefree sense of humor, repels anything strange.

I shrug off he blankets and untangle my feet. “It was just a weird dream, that’s all.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “And speaking of therapy, I’ve got to get ready.”

A few hours later, Dr. Sterling sits across from me in what must be his “casual pose,” leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. I think of these positions like yoga poses for therapists: “Steepled Hands of Thought.” “Downward Face of Sympathy.” “Chin Up Tiger.” I keep imagining entire classes of therapists moving through the poses in unison while an instructor barks criticisms: “More turn out, Dr. Sterling! We want open! We want receptive!”

“Mariana?” Dr. Sterling cocks his head to the side, concerned. “Did you hear me? I asked how you’ve been sleeping.”

“Oh!” I snap back to reality. “Fine. I’ve been fine.”

“No more dreams? No more disruptions to your sleep?”

“Nope.” It’s a lie, but I don’t see the sense in bringing up last night’s dream. Sure, it disturbed me at the time, but now that I’m here in Dr. Sterling’s very normal office, it seems silly to be upset by a dream about a kids’ game.

“And your waking life? How was your Christmas?”

I shrug. “Fine. Good.” Christmas was actually a non-event. Aside from exchanging presents with Delia and a brief long-distance call from my mom, it was a lot like any other day.

He nods. “And how are things with Dev?”

“Good.” I can’t help smiling. In the five days since our date at the planetarium, Dev and I have spent almost all of our time together. Sure, a lot of that has been spent painting sets and organizing costumes with Delia, but he and Delia get along well and the three of us are having fun.

And Dev and I have managed to steal some moments alone, too. Things haven’t gone any further than they did in the planetarium, but only because I want to take it slow. There are still a lot of things we don’t know about each other—I still haven’t told him about my brother or said anything about Westgate, and he hasn’t told me much about his past, either, but right now I’m enjoying living in the moment. “It’s going well.”

“Good.” Dr. Sterling smiles encouragingly. “I’ll be honest, Mariana, I had my hesitations when you asked to scale back your medications. I knew you were capable of handling it, but I wondered if our timing was right. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by your progress this past week and, now that you’re feeling in a more stable place—” he pulls himself up a little straighter in his chair, “—I was hoping we might go a little more in depth. I’d like to talk about your brother.”

Crap.
The bottom falls out of my good mood. Talking about Enrique is the last thing I want to do. I mean, it’s not like I want to forget him. I just don’t want to talk about him now, when the ground has finally stopped shifting under my feet.

But I can’t say that. I have to cooperate with therapy.

I shrug one shoulder. (That’s my patient yoga pose: Downward Shrugging Shoulder. It’s very Zen, like “What is the sound of one shoulder shrugging?”) “What do you want to know?

“Well…” He puts both feet on the floor and leans forward, elbows on knees. “Whatever you want to tell me. We haven’t talked much about—” He has to glance at the notes on his desk to remember my brother’s name, and I mentally detract points. “—Enrique, and in light of the dream you told me about before, the one with the door, I feel we should.”

“But that dream wasn’t about him.”

He holds up a cautioning finger. “Let’s not pass judgment on that just yet. At the time, we discussed the significance of the clock ticking in your dream. Did you, by any chance, read the books I recommended?
Peter Pan
? Poe’s
Tell-Tale Heart
?”

I nod. “Sure.” I’ve read them both several times before.

“Very good.” He gives me an approving smile. “And do you understand why I suggested them?”

One-shouldered shrug again. “The crocodile in
Peter Pan
has swallowed a clock. Captain Hook hears it whenever the croc is near.”

Dr. Sterling nods sagely. “Hook—the only adult, the only one who grows up—is pursued by the constant passage of time, by the threat of his own mortality. Does that mean anything to you, Mariana? Do you identify in any way?”

“Ummm…” You always have to be so careful how you answer stuff in therapy. “I guess anyone would identify. I mean, no one lives forever.”

“Good dodge.”

I look up suddenly. “Excuse me?”

Dr. Sterling looks surprised. “Excuse what?”

“I… I thought you said something.” I mean I thought
someone
said something. It didn’t really sound like Dr. Sterling. But there’s no one else in the room. “Maybe I heard someone in the lobby.”

Dr. Sterling nods, but he’s watching me closely. “You’re right about that: No one of us is immortal. But most of us are able to forget that fact, yes? At least, people your age are. Previously, I suggested the clock in your dream is simply the passage of time as you mature, and the door you fear is a symbolic portal to adulthood. But, taking it one step further, I wonder if that ticking isn’t an awareness of your own mortality.”

An awareness I didn’t have until Enrique killed himself. That’s what he means.

I really don’t want to sound uncooperative, but I just can’t handle this today.

“I don’t really want to talk about mortality,” I say quietly.

“Me, either.”

I freeze. I know I heard the voice this time.

But Dr. Sterling didn’t. He smiles at me sympathetically. “I just would like to hear your thoughts about the door in your dream.” He gives me a leading-the-witness look. “What do you think it might represent?”

“What?” My eyes scan the room for anything that might have made the sound I heard. A radio? A phone? Is there a window open?

“Mariana?” Dr. Sterling’s look is concerned, but I can tell, underneath it, he’s eager. He thinks I’m getting twitchy because he’s on to something, because he has struck a nerve.

I look down at my hands.

“You mean,” I say, “do I think the door represents death.”

“Bingo!” a girl’s voice says. It’s so close and so clear now, I can’t pretend it away. I look up in spite of myself.

And there she is, standing behind Dr. Sterling. I recognize her from somewhere, although it takes me a second to remember that I’ve seen her around campus. The only reason I remember at all is the fact that she’s dressed the same now as she was then: same red and white striped T-shirt, same denim jacket, same flop of bleach-blond hair hiding the same gray eyes. Except now I can see that she is transparent, like a ghost.

She smiles at me, and I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate.

“Exactly.” Dr. Sterling smiles, too, like I’m a seven-year-old who just read a hard word. “Death. I’m wondering, Mariana, if your brother’s death didn’t make you hyperaware of your own mortality. In the dream, you are afraid to follow someone through a door, perhaps in the same way you are afraid you might follow Enrique into death.”

“It’s not him in the dream,” I say. “It’s a girl.” I’m staring at the girl standing behind him. She doesn’t look like anything to be afraid of. She has a bright, genuine smile, and she keeps bouncing on the toes of her sneakers and blowing her over-long bangs out of her eyes with nervous little puffs of breath. Very normal.

But I know these things have a way of turning on me. They are almost never what they seem.

“We often substitute one person for another in dreams. You said the woman in the dream was young? About the age Enrique would be right now?”

Would be
, not
is,
I think.
Because people who die are gone. Because there is no such thing as ghosts
. I can feel the cold sweat pooling at the back of my neck. The hair on my arms prickles as if the room has dropped ten degrees. The air feels charged with electricity. This is what I get for thinking things were getting better. My psyche is rebelling on me. God, if only Dev were here! He has a way of making me feel grounded, of making the strange go away.

The doctor is busy jotting something on his legal pad, but when he looks up, his brow stitches with concern. “Mariana? Are you all right?”

I could say no. I could say, “I see someone standing behind you.” I could say, “I heard a voice.” I could say what I’m really thinking, which is, “It’s happening all over again.” Dr. Sterling would call my mother, who would cry all the way back from Mexico—if she could bring herself to come back at all. He would put me back on the medication, maximum dose, and then he would send me to Westgate again, where they would assure me that I would never see people who aren’t there again.

Except I know it won’t work. I know the things I will see at Westgate are a thousand times worse than what I’m seeing now. I know the only thing they’ll keep
me
from seeing is my friends. No more Delia. No more Dev.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “It’s just…hard to talk about.”

Dr. Sterling gives me a sympathetic nod. “Of course. But that’s often a sign we are getting at the heart of the thing, so let’s back up and come at it in a different way. Describe Enrique to me—physically, personality, anything you want.”

The girl sits in the extra chair off to one side of Sterling’s desk. It’s facing away from us, so she straddles it backward, her arms resting on the chair back. She’s watching me with soft gray eyes. “Who is Enrique?”

“He was my brother.” I answer her without thinking.

Dr. Sterling picks up his legal pad again. “Good. Start with the basics. What else?”

I hesitate. I really can’t talk about this.

“Just tell me,” the girl says. “Ignore him. Therapists are kind of a pain in the ass.”

“What do you want?” Again, I say it out loud without meaning to.

“Anything you want to give me,” Dr. Sterling says patiently.

“I want to talk to you,” the girl says. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s important. But I don’t want to interrupt your session. Go on.”

“Mariana?” the doctor prompts.

“Ummm…” I can’t bring myself to look at Dr. Sterling, so I focus on the girl instead. It feels strange to talk to someone who isn’t there, but she’s clearly listening intently. “He wanted to be an artist. I mean, he
was
an artist, really. He was always drawing. He was very smart, but some of his teachers didn’t believe it because he didn’t do his homework, or even take tests most of the time. He didn’t believe in standardized tests, so he just drew all over the test sheets.”

“So, a rebel. A troubled student.” Dr. Sterling writes something down.

“A non-conformist.” The girl smiles. “What all did he draw?”

“He wanted to be a tattoo artist or a graphic novelist. He drew tattoo designs all the time, on paper for his friends or on his arms in sharpie. It freaked my mother out. She thought tattoos were for gangs.”

“And was he involved in a gang?” Dr. Sterling asks.

The girl rolls her eyes behind him. “Did he have any real tattoos? I’ve always wished I got one.”

“No.” I say. “I mean, yes.”

Dr. Sterling looks at me quizzically. “He was or wasn’t involved in a gang?”

“No, of course not. I mean, yes, he got a real tattoo, but no, he wasn’t in a gang.”

The girl smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, I’m messing you up.”

“And how did your mother feel about the tattoo?”

“She was angry.” I look down at my feet. “He was too young to get one without a parent’s permission. He snuck out and got his first one god knows where, then got his second when he visited my dad after my parents broke up. My dad gave him permission, I think just because he knew it would freak my mom out. It was like he was getting some sort of revenge on my mom, which is ridiculous because he was the one who had wronged her, you know? He was the one who cheated on her and left her for someone else.”