The Gifting (23 page)

“Mind if I join you?” he asks.

I look at his table of friends, most of whom stare along with Summer. “Are you sure
they
won’t mind?”

“I don’t care if they mind.” He sweeps his hand toward Leela, an invitation for me to lead the way. So I do. Leela fidgets the closer we get. Like me, she is unused to all the eyes. But they come with Luka. The entire student body seems to be constantly aware of his location. It’s like he’s the moon—a physical force of gravity—and people can’t help but shift toward him. I don’t blame them. I’m just as guilty. In fact, I feel like his brand of gravity affects me more than it affects anyone else.

He pulls out my chair and sits beside me. Pete, who I’ve barely given any thought to over the course of the morning, walks past Leela with his tray and flicks her ponytail. He winks at her over his shoulder as he walks off to find a seat, and even though it’s with Wren and Jess, a flicker of hope breaks through the oppression that is today. The action was so reminiscent of the Pete I used to know that for the briefest of moments, my heart warms. If only the warmth would stay.

Thankfully, Leela does most of the talking with Luka filling in the gaps. I keep my eyes on my tray and pick at my food, trying hard not to shiver. Luka laughs at something Leela says and takes a swig of his water and I don’t understand how he can be
that
good at acting normal. An intrusive thought bullies its way into my head. What if this coldness I can’t shake is coming from him? I push the idea aside, angry that it came at all, desperate to forget it altogether. But the question lingers, dredging up another that is equally unwelcome.

If he’s this good at acting, how do I know what’s real and what’s not?

The question fans my doubt into flame.

After the three of us put our trays away, the track coach corners Luka, trying to cajole him into trying out for the team. Luka watches helplessly as I walk myself to my next class. The coldness doesn’t follow me. By study hall, it’s nothing more than a residual chill. I put my head down on my desk. I don’t want to doubt Luka. I hate that Summer, of all people, is the one who placed the doubt there to begin with.

Somebody walks past and shoves my desk. Hard. So hard, in fact, that all my books topple onto the floor.

“Whoops. Didn’t see you there.”

The class erupts in giggles.

I look up to find the smug face of one of Summer’s groupies, her expression filled with such abhorrence, I’m too flustered to respond. Is my association with Luka really cause for such hatred? She steps on my pencil. It snaps in two. The class giggles again while I clean up the mess.

Right before the end of final period, I text Pete that I’ll meet him at the car. I need to get out of here, away from all these bodies, away from the whispers and taunts. I’m so spent from the inner battle occurring in my mind and the outer battle occurring with my classmates, I can’t imagine going through another day like this one. The bell rings. Mr. Lotsam calls out Luka’s name and asks to speak with him. I take off toward the door, but Luka grabs my arm. His fingers are hot, almost feverish. “Can we talk?”

Students file past us, out the door.

Luka pulls me aside. I want to close my eyes and go to sleep, but I’m worried if I do, I’ll have more dreams.

“Tess, whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.” Saying the words seems to cause him physical pain. He looks as tortured as I feel. “You can trust me.”

I’ve never wanted to believe someone more, but I don’t even really know him. “I have an appointment with Dr. Roth.”

The last of the stragglers file out of the classroom, but not before I catch one giving me a nasty look. I don’t understand what I did wrong. Mr. Lotsam clears his throat loudly and watches us. Luka rakes his hand through his hair. “What are you going to tell him?”

He’s talking about Dr. Roth. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’ll be able help.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Everything’s going to be all right.” He squeezes my hand, bringing warmth to my freezing fingers. “Call me when you’re done, okay?”

I nod glumly, then head to the car. Maybe Luka is right. Maybe hope lies at the Edward Brooks Facility.

Drugs

D
r. Roth hands me a glass of water. I hug it between my palms, thankful for the respite. There is no creepy man here in this office. No black mist or flashing lights or unexplainable temperature changes. I want to stay here for the rest of the evening and shut off my brain.

“You don’t look well,” Dr. Roth says.

I take a long sip. The coolness of the water soothes my throat. Dr. Roth waits, forever patient, never pressing, always waiting for me to reveal something of note. Was it really just last week that he tried hypnosis? It feels like an entire lifetime ago. The clock on the wall ticks away the seconds as I tap my pointer finger against the cup. I count twenty seven of them before I respond. “What do you know about my grandmother?”

He folds his hands over his knee. “Why your grandmother?”

“Because I’d like to know where she is. And I’d like to know what her records say.”

“Do you think knowing those things will change your situation?”

“I don’t know. It could help.” I set the glass of water between us. “I want to talk to her.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“She’s in one of the highest-security mental facilities in the country. There’s no way they would allow you to see her. And even if they did, I don’t think you would like what you saw.”

“Where is this facility?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with
you
?”

I pause, considering. Surely I have nothing to lose. He’s not going to report me to the government and have me locked up. If that was his goal, he could have had me committed a long time ago. I’m not worried about my safety with Dr. Roth, not anymore.

“Does it have anything to do with your dreams?” he asks.

I don’t respond.

“Did you bring your dream journal?”

I stare at him for an expanded moment, then slowly remove the journal from my bag and set it in front of him.

He raises his eyebrows. “May I?”

I nod.

He puts on his glasses and opens the notebook to the first page. I study his face while he reads, tapping my finger against my wrist while he reads the only dream I’ve recorded. I printed out the news clipping from the internet—a family man who committed suicide, leaving behind his surviving wife and children—and taped it inside. Dr. Roth finishes reading, his face expressionless, then unfolds the printed piece of paper.

“Hmmm …” A simple noise. A common one. It could mean any number of things. Or it could mean nothing at all. “Who do you think the man is? The one with the scar.”

“I don’t know.” I jiggle my leg, pinch my bottom lip, shake my head. I’m a fidgeting mess. “At first I thought he was my grandmother’s doctor.”

“So you believe that woman is your grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Who else would she be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s a reflection of your fear.”

“Meaning?”

“Perhaps she was a projection of who you think you’ll become.”

“Sounds like psychobabble.” I glance around his office, taking in the fancy degrees framed and mounted on his walls. “Is that what you think it was?”

Dr. Roth picks up a pen and taps it against the news article. “You’re sure you wrote your entry before you saw this?”

“Yes, but if I’m suffering from psychosis then I guess that could be one of my delusions.” I stare down at my hands. They are clenched into fists over my knees. “What would you say if a patient told you that she was starting to believe she could alter reality in her dreams? That the choices she made while sleeping had an effect on what happens in real life?”

He scratches his chin. “I’d probably tell the patient that must feel like a very frightening thing.”

Frustration builds. I don’t want to be placated. I want him to tell me what he’s really thinking. I want to know if I’m crazy. “My grandmother thought the same thing, didn’t she? And she was diagnosed with schizophrenia.”

“Have you had any other dreams other than this one?”

I take a drink of water, then rest the cup in my lap and stare into the clear liquid. “Yes.”

“You didn’t write them down?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to remember.”

“But you do remember?”

I nod and take another drink. “I dreamt that I was in a garage.” I skip the part about Summer and Luka. There’s no need to drag him into this. Not yet. Especially when Dr. Roth no longer thinks Luka is experiencing symptoms of mental instability. “There was a woman and this guy.”

Dr. Roth leans forward. “Go on.”

“There was a car too, and it was running. The man went into the house and came out with the woman’s kids.”

“Where were you in the dream?”

“I was standing off to the side, like a spectator.”

He gets out a pad of paper and starts writing. He pauses for a moment to scratch his chin, then writes some more. “What was the woman doing?”

I imagine her blank, glossy eyes. Her expressionless face. “She just sat there. It was almost as if she was in some sort of trance.”

“And the man? Can you describe him?”

A shiver runs up my spine. “He looked like a living corpse.”

Dr. Roth adds the description to his notes. “What happened next?”

I relay the dream as best I can, including the article I found online the next morning. “So the kids miraculously survived.” Although doctors were very careful not to use that word—
miracle
. “I got them out of the car in my dream, and somehow, they are alive in real life.”

Dr. Roth writes down every word. When he finishes, he bites the end of his pen and scans the paper, as if checking for missing details.

My restlessness grows. I don’t want to be his next project. I don’t want my misery and torture to be his next mental illness breakthrough. “Is there medicine I can take for this?”

He sets the pen down. “I’m not sure that would be in your best interest.”

“Why not?”

He turns around, opens his filing cabinet and removes a manila folder. He reads something inside, sticks in the notes he took about my dream, closes the folder, and puts it away. “I want you to try something for me, Tess. If it doesn’t work, we’ll consider medicine.”

I narrow my eyes.

“I want you to record every single one of your dreams. I want you to write down as many details as possible. The people. The faces. All of it.”

“How will that help?”

“I have some theories, but before I’m comfortable sharing them, more evidence is needed.”

My eyes narrow further.

“I need you to trust me.”

“How do I know I can?”

“Because I’m a doctor, Tess. And I want to help you.” He opens the front drawer of his desk and removes a prescription pad, scribbles something on the first page, tears off the sheet and holds it out for me to see. “If in a month, you still want medicine, then I will talk with your parents and I’ll prescribe what’s on this sheet.”

“I don’t understand why I can’t have it now.”

“I told you why.”

“Because it isn’t in my best interest?”

He nods.

“That’s not an adequate explanation.”

Sighing, Dr. Roth folds his hand. “How about we make a deal, then?”

“What kind of deal?”

“You give me one month. You write down your dreams. Every single one. And at the end of the month, I promise to tell you more about your grandmother.”

His words hit their mark. I’m so desperate to know more about her, a month could almost be worth it.

*

If I wasn’t crazy already, Dr. Roth’s deal makes me so. My dreams turn into an obsession. The harder I fight in them, the darker my waking hours become. There seems to be a direct correlation—the spiritual and the physical. The fact that I call it spiritual at all may be proof of my insanity.

On November 4th, I dream about an overweight man with bad breath, idling in a rundown van while students file out of an elementary school. He looks like a regular man, except his eyes. They are all white. No irises. No pupils. When a small girl with curly brown hair approaches, he rolls down his window and beckons her over. When she’s close enough, he grabs her and drives away. I wrestle him away from the wheel with a strength that shouldn’t be mine and the car careens off the road. The next day, there’s a story on the news about a kidnapping gone awry in a town nearby. The kidnapper was apprehended by police after his car ran off the road. The child was unharmed and reunited with her parents.

I write everything down in my journal.

Somebody spray paints
Freak Show
on my locker. Luka is furious. Principal Jolly is appalled. Summer and her friends whisper and laugh whenever I walk past. Nobody gets in trouble. My dark circles grow darker. My parents worry. And my headaches get worse.

On November 16th, I dream about a sick woman in a hospital while a man with a receding hairline weeps by her bedside and a doctor shakes his head, as if there’s nothing he can do. Neither the doctor or the husband see the skeletal man standing on the other side of the woman’s bed, pressing his cold, pale hands against the sick woman’s skull. I sweep his legs and fight him away and the next morning, there’s a story on the news about a woman suddenly healed from the final stages of brain cancer.