Gasp (Visions) (9 page)

I nod. He smiles.

When I get a text message, I look at my phone. “It’s from Tori,” I say. I open it and read:
I’m so sorry.

That’s all there is.

I raise an eyebrow and mutter, “Jules is not impressed.” I shove the phone back into my pocket.

“What was that?” Sawyer says near my ear.

“Tori says she’s sorry.”

“Good. Maybe she understands it now. What did you say back?”

I grunt.

Sawyer shifts so he can look at my face. “Jules,” he says, “I know how you feel, but there are a few factors here that you’re not really considering. One, she couldn’t see the phone screen because of the vision playing out on it. Two, her mother dictates absolutely everything.”

“Her mother ought to be the one saying sorry,” I mutter.

“And three,” Sawyer continues in a louder voice, pretending he didn’t hear me, “Tori has been heavily medicated this entire time. Do you even remember when you were on your pain medication in the hospital? Do you happen to recall Trey on pain meds?”

“I do,” Ben offers from across the room. “He was . . .
emboldened
.”

“Whoa,” Trey says. “We agreed not to talk about that.”

I glance at Nick, who is playing some game on his phone and ignoring us.

“Anyway,” Sawyer says, “you can’t judge her equally with someone who can actually stay awake for a four-hour stretch and doesn’t appear to be stoned all hours of the day and night.”

I sigh. “You’re right, I know. I just don’t want to forgive her.”

“That’s up to you, I guess,” Sawyer says.

“Yes, it is,” I say. But I know Sawyer is the one being reasonable here. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

•  •  •

Dad and Mom say they can’t afford to hire us to help them quite yet. We say we’ll work for free, but it’s like they’re having some sort of weird bonding time or something and they don’t want us along. So while they head off to the public market Saturday morning, Trey bolts for the shower, and Rowan and I are supposed to pack.

“Pack what?” Rowan asks from the middle of the living room floor, where she’s sitting like a pretzel with her hair all messed up from sleep. She’s cranky. “We don’t own anything.”

I look around the living room, realizing we’ve managed to collect a good deal of stuff since the fire. “I don’t know. All this stuff, I guess.”

“What are we supposed to put it in?” she whines.

I glare at her. “How about we shove it in your face hole?”

“How about we cram it up your butt . . . nose.”

We stare each other down. Finally I concede. “Buttnose is funny.”

“Thank you. It was an accident.”

“Oh, really?”

“You can cut the sarcasm.” She gets up and kicks me in the shin with her bare foot.

I snort my mockery in her direction.

She kicks me again and I grab her by the back of the neck and shove her to the couch and sit on her.

She pokes her fingers at me, trying to find a sensitive spot, so I’m forced to bounce up and down on her while giving her a noogie. Then she hits her mark. “Whoa!” I yell, and jump off of her. “Out of bounds, loser. That was totally my buttnose.”

She sits up and smooths her hair, trying not to laugh.

I back my way toward the kitchen in case she plans to try something else, and scrounge around for some shopping bags to pack our junk in.

Somewhere during the scuffle I got another text from Tori. I glance at it:
I really am sorry and I need to talk to you.

I groan and shove the phone back into my pocket. “Great. Tori’s feeling guilty now,” I call out to Rowan. I skirt a small cousin in the dining room and head back to the living room with the bags. I throw a few at Rowan’s head.

“How can you tell?” she asks.

“She just sent me another text. Says she really is sorry and that she wants to talk.”

Rowan puts her clothes into a bag. “What did you tell her?”

“I haven’t responded.”

She shrugs. “She’s probably trying to deal with the shock of it.”

I feel a twinge in my gut, but I’m not giving in. “She could have prevented all of this.”

“Yeah, I think she probably knows that now,” Rowan says with a smirk.

“How would you know? You don’t even know her.”

“It’s a logical guess. Besides, you two aren’t exactly BFFs either.”

“Yeah we are. We’re BFFs. I know everything she’s thinking and you know nothing.”

Rowan rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying you’re not being very gracious. She practically died. This is a lot to take on from a hospital bed.”

I put my index finger in the air. “But! She didn’t die. Because Sawyer and I risked our lives for her. And she did not do the same for her fellow humans of Chicago.”

Rowan sighs and gives up. And for some reason I don’t feel very triumphant about my win.

Sunday is a day of
joy. We have a new place. Not just an apartment—a whole little house in a neighborhood across from my old elementary school. And there’s no restaurant attached. It’ll be months at least before I have to go to school smelling like pizza. Mean people will cease to recognize me. I may survive high school after all.

Ben and Sawyer show up at the new place, surprising us with a pickup truck full of used furniture. My dad stares from the garage (yes, we have a little garage!) as they start unloading it onto the driveway (because yes, we have a driveway, too!), and walks over to them.

“What’s all this?” Dad says.

“We brought you some furniture,” Ben says. “Thought you could use it. Is it okay if we show you what’s here?”

Dad’s stern gaze sweeps over the scene.

“You don’t have to keep any of it,” Sawyer replies. He stops unloading, looking uncertain. “We just thought . . .” He wipes a bead of sweat from his temple and stops talking, likely scared to death.

My dad shakes the hard look off his face and clears his throat. “We can use it. At least for a little while until our new stuff comes.” He lifts his chin slightly. “Thank you.” But we all know our “new stuff ” hasn’t even been decided on, much less ordered. We’re being extra cautious with the insurance money since we don’t know how long it’ll take to get the new restaurant running.

I leave Sawyer outside to bond with Dad (har har) and follow Rowan into our new bedroom, where we each currently have two bags of clothes and toiletries and basically nothing else. We will have new beds to assemble later today, and I’m hoping there’s a dresser on that pickup truck.

“Where’d they get all that stuff?” Rowan asks.

“No idea,” I say. I’m not sure I want to know.

•  •  •

By evening, the house is starting to feel like a home, and the best part is that there are no little cousins running around. It’s a little bit bigger than our old apartment above the restaurant. Or at least, it feels that way without all the piles of junk. I worry that this place will fill up too. And I
don’t know how to prevent that from happening, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

Sawyer returns later in his car, having taken the truck away, to see if we want him to pick up some burgers, and then he’s gone again with our orders. When he returns with the food, I watch him as he ever so slowly works his way into the good graces of my dad. And I think that makes Sawyer a good, quality guy. I will just have to keep him.

Before Sawyer heads home for the night, he and I sit together in the dark on the front step of my new house, and he tells me that he found an updated article about the carbon monoxide poisoning. He says the old couple who died were both receiving hospice care, which means that they were already dying. And that the man’s sister is fine now, and her husband is improving and should be okay.

I’m quiet for a moment. And then I say reluctantly, “It doesn’t excuse what Tori did, but I guess that’s a pretty good outcome under the circumstances.”

“You know, there’s a chance that this even spared the old people from a pretty miserable ending to their lives,” Sawyer says. “I mean, I don’t know that for sure. But it’s possible. And maybe it’s okay to think of it that way.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Is there a funeral planned?”

“Just a private memorial service for the family.”

“Well. I guess that’s that.” I draw in a deep breath of
the fresh spring nighttime air in my new yard (because I have a yard!) and I blow it out, trying to get rid of all the anger that was stored up inside me. I imagine it escaping my lungs and leaving my fingertips. And it feels like all the negative crap is finally beginning to clear out.

“It’s like a fresh start,” I say, more to myself than to Sawyer. “We have a nice new home. My dad is getting out of bed every day. The parentals are back to work with the meatball truck. I no longer smell like pizza. We experimented with sexy time.”

Sawyer laughs. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Yeah.”

“And let’s not forget that there are no more visions to deal with.”

I smile in the darkness. “Right on,” I say. I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back. And for the briefest of moments, I feel like all is well in the world.

When my phone vibrates, I am reluctant to pull it out of my pocket for fear of disturbing this new perfect universe. And when I see who’s calling, I’m tempted to ignore her. But I don’t. Maybe it’s because the old people were already dying, and maybe it’s because I’m feeling fresh and full of love, and maybe it’s because I know deep down I’ve been too hard on her, but this time I decide to answer.

“Hi, Tori,” I say.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. She’s crying.

“I know. I get it. It’s in the past.”

“No,” she says. “Let me explain—”

I sigh. She needs to say things. She needs to help herself heal. I can handle that. “Go ahead.”

And for the second time in a month, three little words change everything. “Jules,” she says, her voice faltering, “it’s happening again.”

My mind doesn’t compute what
Tori is saying.

“Hold on,” I say. “I’m putting you on speaker so Sawyer can listen too, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sawyer’s face is a question. I press the button. “Go ahead. Start from where you said ‘It’s happening again.’ ”

“Well, it is. And I’m so sorry—”

“I know you’re sorry,” I say impatiently. “What do you mean—are you seeing the vision again? How is that possible?”

“It’s not the same one,” she says. “It’s a new one now. Totally different.”

“What?” Sawyer covers his face with his hands and shakes his head slowly, swearing under his breath.

“Wait. How are you suddenly allowed to talk to me
now?” I demand. “What about your mother?”

“She’s right here—she’s the one who made me call you. I knew you’d be mad, but—and she’s sorry too. She wants me to tell you that.”

I roll my eyes to Jesus in the sky. “Sure. Of course. You’re both sorry now. Little late for that.”

“I
know
,” she says. “Just please, you have to help us. I promise we’ll do everything right this time. I mean it! My mom says she won’t interfere.”

I stand up and start pacing along the sidewalk. What am I supposed to do here? Say no? I can’t. I’m ethically bound. Personally responsible.

I close my eyes and rub my left temple, where a sudden headache has sprung up.

“Jules?”

“I’m still here,” I say. “I’m just processing.”

“Sorry.”

She needs to stop saying
that
now too. I take a breath and blow it out, and then sink back to my spot on the step. “Okay. When did this start?”

“Saturday, I guess.”

“Is that why you sent me the apology text message?” My blood starts to boil.

“No, I sent that text on Friday night. I swear. I feel terrible about the people dying. I wish I could go back in time and fix it. I mean it.”

Sawyer pats my knee. “Let it go, Demarco,” he whispers.

I shoot him a look, but I know he’s right.

With a whoosh of air from my lungs, I let it go. “All right. Tell me what’s happening. Sawyer’s going to take notes on his phone, so please try to be very specific about everything.” I glance at Sawyer, who quickly gets his phone out. “Let’s hear it.”

“Okay,” she says, and I hear her mom saying something encouraging in the background. “There’s a ship.”

“A ship?” both Sawyer and I exclaim. We look at each other in alarm. “Wait. Where? In Chicago?”

“I—I don’t know. It’s in the water. It looks like the ocean.”

“The ocean?” Sawyer and I exclaim again. We need to stop doing that.

“I mean, I don’t know. There are huge waves and rocks. And the ship is sinking.”

This time Sawyer and I are silent. “Are there people on board?” I ask after a pause.
Of course there are, dumb shit.

“Yes. Lots of people. And they’re jumping and sliding and falling off . . .” She chokes on a sob. “Some are hurt. A bunch of them are going to drown.”

We are silent.

“The looks on their faces . . . ,” Tori says in a near whisper. “The panic and fear . . .”

Sawyer springs to life after the initial shock and starts typing everything into his phone. I wait for him to catch up, and I try to pull my thoughts together.

“How big is the ship?” I ask, my voice more gentle now. I know how horrible it is to see death over and over.

“I don’t know. Pretty big. Not like a giant freighter or cruise ship or anything, but yeah. Kind of big.”

“What color is it?”

“White. And some blue.”

“How many people do you see?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I think she might be counting. “Twenty or thirty,” she says. “It’s hard to count them because the scene goes by so fast.”

Sawyer mutters an expletive.

“And do they all . . . drown?”

“I—I think so.”

“Dear God,” I say. I slump against the step and stare blindly at the phone. I can’t comprehend. How are we supposed to save that many people? “Hey, Tori?” I say after a minute. “I’m going to have to call you back once I come up with a list of questions for you. Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay? I know this is horrible.” All my anger toward her and her mother has now evaporated.