Life Is but a Dream (23 page)

My mom reaches over the table when I slide into the booth across from my parents. She pulls my arm down softly. There is a wet stain where my mouth was. —
Not here, please
— she says. She looks so run-down and exhausted that I nod, putting my hands in my lap where they can hide under the table.

Every sound startles me.

Every noise is magnified.

A burst of laughter from the table behind ours explodes in my ears. The clinking of the ice cubes as the waitress pours us water echoes like shattering glass. A symphony of clattering dishes rains from the kitchen like a swarm of gunfire. Each sudden sound rises above the steady whisper of static and makes me flinch—each outburst is a warning that the storm is growing closer.

The cool feeling of the stone against my palm is the only thing keeping me from putting my hands over my ears and screaming. I’m glad my mom didn’t find this one—the stone I keep in my sweatshirt’s pocket, near my heart. I wouldn’t survive without it.

My parents pretend everything is normal. They talk about the things they’ll need to reschedule at work—the meetings they missed by coming to get me, the ones they will miss tomorrow and the tomorrow after that until they can find someplace new to put me. They discuss the problems they are going to have with our insurance. My dad says it’s going to cost a fortune because his mind calculates all things in dollars and cents. He knows the exact price he will pay the gas company for boiling water for tea or taking five extra minutes in the shower.

My mom talks about taking me shopping for new clothes. She says the ones I’m wearing look to be getting a little tight under my arms. She asks if maybe I want to go with her tomorrow to the mall and my dad asks her whether or not that is a good idea.

The one thing they don’t talk about is where they’ll put me next—but it’s there, just under the surface of their conversation.

I use the small tin of crayons to distract myself. There are only four colors—orange, purple, black, and green. They are scarred from being handled by the tiny fingers they were meant for. Three of them are broken in half, held together only by a ripped label.

The orange bleeds beautifully on the paper place mat as I press down violently, making lines heavy enough to cover the ads for lawn care and patio furniture printed around the border. My wrists move in big circles that grow smaller toward the center. Around and around. Over and over. This time it’s my dad reaching across the table to hold on to my arm. He wants me to stop, but my mom grabs him. —
Let her be
— she whispers.

The paper radiates heat from the center where the orange is brightest. That’s when I take the purple crayon and place its point in the middle and begin to trace tight spirals that loop into one another.

—
Sabrina? Honey, why don’t you tell us about this boy you met?
— my mom asks. When I glance up, she’s smiling but it’s the way people smile around sick people. A smile that she doesn’t really feel—asking questions she doesn’t really care to know the answers to because it’s her turn at attempting to be my friend. —
What’s he like?
—

—
I’m drawing a picture
— I say. —
It’s of him
.—

My mom arches her body up and leans over the table. Her eyes are focused on the purple shadows I’ve made against a crayon sun. She doesn’t see it though. Her eyes are too broken.

When the waitress comes back to take our orders, she looks to me first. —
What can I get you? Something to drink?
— she asks, but I don’t say anything. I press harder until the last crayon snaps in my hand. —
That’s a very pretty picture
— she says, changing her voice to sound like someone talking to a toddler. Then she looks at my parents and tells them —
My son’s autistic too. Where is she on the scale?
—

I glance over at my dad. Staring at him from the top of my eyes, I can see he wants to correct her but decides against it. His disapprovement of me comes through even louder in his silence.

—
She’ll have a grilled cheese
— my mom says before ordering for herself. The waitress clears her throat apologetically, realizing she guessed wrong about me. My mom sighs, letting her know it’s okay and that she shouldn’t be embarrassed.

Once we’re alone, my parents exchange looks. I can read their minds. They are wondering if this is how it will always be. It won’t though. I’ll be gone soon—sooner than they know. They won’t need to put up with me for much longer.

I slide out and stand in the aisle.

I take only half a step before my dad stops me.

—
Where’re you going?
—

I hold up my hands. The skin on the round part of my palms is stained with crayon wax. —
I need to wash them, if that’s okay with you
— and I do my best to sound snotty and aggravated like teenagers on television. —
I’m still allowed to go to the bathroom by myself, aren’t I?
—

—
I don’t know … you tell me
— my dad says—hours of driving showing through in his tone.

—
Just … let her go
— my mom says with a quick motion of her hand, chopping at the space between my dad and me. —
Sabrina, go on. It’s fine.
—

I feel bad about treating them that way. Or I will feel bad if they truly are my real parents and not copies of them—not brainwashed versions of the two people who used to take care of me. That’s why I left the drawing. Just in case it really is them, they’ll know where I went.

I walk toward the back of the diner.

Instead of heading to the right where the restrooms are, I turn left into the kitchen. Just like at the hospital, the people in there are too busy to notice as I wander past like a shadow they maybe only think they saw.

I see the door in the back. It’s already propped open to let a breeze in and to let the cooking heat out. I pass through as easily as a ghost.

It’s dark outside but not pitch-black. The sky is the same strange illuminated shade of purple it always is this close to Los Angeles. I stare up at it for a second. The storm is gathering. I can sense it wrestling above the smog.

I cross the parking lot and start to run. I leave the diner in the past—leaving behind the highway and the cars and the grilled cheese that is being made for me. I reach into my pocket and pull out the stones I’ve been keeping there. I’m not at all surprised that one wish has already come true—the stone I stole from my dad’s pocket has magically turned into his wallet.

*   *   *

I was lying on my bed.

My bedroom was bright.

I closed my eyes and felt the pull of a world different than this.

The wind approached like it always did—coming to set me free. All of the pictures tacked to my wall fluttered at the corners before they were blown away one by one like a swarm of ladybugs parachuting on polka-dotted wings. The walls became thin as bedsheets. They were blown into the distance too.

The wind touched me—my clothes evaporated.

I opened my eyes and the sky was perfect. I breathed in and the blue faded out. I exhaled swirling colors that scribbled across the clouds like rainbows on soapy water. The sun burned a hole through the center of it all and I followed it.

Dr. Richards always asked me why I left my room that day before I was brought to the hospital. —
I wasn’t in my room
— I told her each time she asked. —
I was in another place.
— She wanted me to describe the other place to her, but she never understood—the other place is nothing like California. The colors are all different like in old photographs where the oranges and browns are bright and the blues look purple. The houses aren’t the same either. Their paint is always peeling and the boards show through. If I stare hard enough, I can see the paint falling like snow because the houses are older there—nearer to the end of the world.

That day, the third day of my suspension from school, I really thought I’d make it to heaven. It was all around me—close enough to touch. I felt the ground shift under my feet as I walked. The concrete sidewalks turned to sand—the houses to dust.

There was a face in the sky like a smiling cat leading the way. There was the shadow of a face in front of the sun. I couldn’t make out his features but I knew I’d seen the boy before. I knew I trusted him. The stones on the ground glowed like shooting stars leading the way to him.

With one hand pressed to my mouth, I watched the colors change—flashes of red and pink and blue like electric fireflies. With my other hand, I reached upward. The sunlight touched my skin like golden water rinsing over me. I wanted so badly to slip through the warm center.

Behind me were footsteps falling on the ground like gunshots.

I concentrated on the bleached haze of heaven in front of me, ignoring the screams of thunder that called my name in a voice like my dad’s. I ran faster from it—ran until my heart felt as though it would explode inside of me. But I didn’t make it. The storm caught up with me. A cold hand came to rest so suddenly on my shoulder and all of the air rushed out of me in a gasp.

A brilliant blue color returned to the sky.

The stones lost their halos—dissolved into blacktop under my feet.

My dad was taking his shirt off and covering me with it as strangers stood and watched with dizzy eyes. They were all dressed. I was the only one naked in the sun. We were standing in the middle of my street, somewhere between my house and Lillian’s.

Twenty-four hours later, my parents left me at the Wellness Center. Forty-eight hours later, Dr. Richards was asking me if I had been trying to run away. The answer was no. But if she ever gets to ask me about this time—my answer would be different.

I am running away this time.

I’m running from hospitals and doctors trying to control my thoughts. I’m running from the storm. I’m running from sleepwalkers pretending to be people I know.

I run through parking lots and private lawns. I run across streets at places where there are no traffic lights. I stay to the side of buildings where the lights are dimmest to keep from being recorded and tracked. But I cannot run all the way to Alec in Los Angeles, so I scan the sky for a sign.

In the distance there are wings in the sky, waving like flowers in a field. I think at first that maybe they are fairies. When I get closer, I see they are only the blinking lights of buses parked in a bus station.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

—
Where to?
—

Heaven isn’t an answer that can be printed on a bus ticket. Maybe there used to be, but there are no buses that run there anymore.

—
I can’t sell you a ticket if you don’t tell me where you want to go. It’s as simple as that.
— From the other side of the Plexiglas, I watch the woman’s lips move. Her fingers tap impatiently at the keyboard and there is a rumbling of anxious coughs behind me. I don’t know how many times she’s asked me for a destination but I can tell she’s not going to ask again before moving on to the next customer standing in the growing line behind me.

I pull myself together.

I stop shaking long enough to focus on the sound of the words coming from her mouth and make myself understand what they mean. Then I force myself to answer. —
Santa Monica, please.
—

The woman uses the top of a pen to scratch her head. Her hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, streaked with gray. —
We don’t go there direct
— she says without taking her eyes off the monitor on the counter in front of her. —
You’ll have to transfer in L.A.
—

—
That’s okay
— I say.

She immediately starts to type information into the computer.

—
Name?
—

—
Mae
— I answer, using my middle name. I left the diner a few hours ago—long enough for them to be searching. Every computer in the world is connected to the static. I have to keep my name out of them.

—
Last name?
—

—
Parker
— I say, and the woman doesn’t even flinch. She has no idea that I’m lying to her.

—
Cash or credit
?— she asks.

There are six credit cards in my dad’s wallet. They all have his name on them. They are useless.

—
Cash
— I say, and count out the bills. I hand over three twenties and the woman hands back a boarding pass that will bring me to Alec. My grip on it is so strong, I’m afraid of tearing it.

As I turn around, the woman stops me. —
If you want to wash up, there’s a bathroom just over there
— she says, pointing to her own chin so that I’ll instinctively wipe at mine. My hand comes away with a trace of sick that I thought I’d cleaned off already.

—
Thanks
— I say with a sense of panic in my voice.

A few miles away from the diner, I made myself throw up next to a large green Dumpster in an empty parking lot. I had to get the medicine out of my body—they gave me so much of it the last day or so. Whatever was still inside of me, I left it a few miles back in a clear puddle that splashed against my shoes. Outside in the dark, I didn’t notice there were traces dried on my face and dribbled down the front of my sweatshirt. It has to be washed away as soon as possible.

The bathroom in the bus station has white tiles that are yellowing. The trash is spilling onto the floor and the walls are smeared with grime that seems to breathe under the flickering florescent light. There are rust stains in the sink basin but there doesn’t seem to be any static flowing through the faucets when I turn them on.

I splash cold water on my mouth. I swallow a sip and then wipe my chin. The smell makes me sick enough to want to throw up a second time, but I hold it back. I can’t stand throwing up. I hate the feeling of not being able to breathe. It’s the worst feeling in the world—worse even than burning.

I click soap from the dispenser until there is a small pink lake in my palm. I scrub my hands with boiling hot water until the skin is red and raw. The smell of puke is replaced with the smell of chemicals and then I am clean.