In Your Dreams (23 page)

Her
smile flipped to frown. “Isabelle’s fate has been cast and cannot be changed.
Much like your defense of her character, your offer to sacrifice yourself for
her and the child, while admirable, is not necessary.”

And
there went hope, snuffed out before it could fully ignite into a dream. But he
wouldn’t surrender without a helluva fight. “Why? If she’s proven herself
worthy of great love, why can’t she gain some kind of reward? Hasn’t she suffered
enough for one lifetime? Give her a break. Please.” That argument oughta be
worth something. He’d never before begged for anything from the Board, and he
silently prayed this unusual turn of events would reflect the gravity of the
situation.

“I’m
sorry. That’s not your decision to make.”

“Is
it yours?”

“No,”
she admitted with a grimace.

“Okay.”
He rose. “Who do I have to convince to change the rules?”

Verity
placed her teacup on its saucer with a loud clink. “Sean, did it ever occur to
you that you don’t get to dictate terms here?”

He
shrugged and gave her his most self-deprecating grin, hands spread wide near
his waist. “My mother always said, ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’”

“In
this case, your mother’s wrong. You’ll have to take my word for it. We do
appreciate your willingness to sacrifice your own future for hers.” She cocked
her head to the side, her expression reflecting pride. “Such a heroic gesture
won’t go ignored. The Board will, no doubt, reward you for your generosity. I’d
suggest you return to work now. You have other offenders to see to. Let us
worry about Isabelle.”

Before
he could form an argument or ask about his so-called reward, the kitchen
disappeared, replaced by his desk in the middle of the room at the Probation
Department with his co-workers, focus honed on their clipboards.

“Sean?”
Xavia stepped out of her office. “Come talk to me. Now.”

Like
he needed to wait for an invitation to find out what happened with Isabelle. If
he’d had his way, he would have asked Verity to beam him directly into Xavia’s
office to save time.

He
covered the distance in three long-legged strides and closed the door behind
him. “So? Did you talk to her? What’d she say?”

“Slow
down, cowboy. Take a seat. Let’s talk.”

“What’d
she
say
, Xavia?”

“She
said she knows what she’s doing and she’s at peace with her decision. How’d the
meeting with Verity go?”

He
couldn’t stem the tide of sarcasm any longer. “Great! She said she and the
Elders recognize Isabelle’s huge capacity for love.”

“That’s
good.” Xavia must have caught the brittleness in his reply because she stared
at him with open concern. “Right?”

On
a sigh of defeat, he sank into the chair across from her. “It doesn’t change
her fate. I even offered to let them tack Isabelle’s time onto my service
here.”

Her
eyes nearly popped out of her skull on springs—like in those old cartoons from
his childhood.
Awoooooga!
“You did what? Are you crazy?”

“I
just want Isabelle and the baby to be happy.”

“At
your expense?”

He
flipped a hand in the air, as if to say, “No big deal.”  But it was a huge
deal. They both knew it. “I can’t be there for her in any other way. But if I
can give her a chance to see our child grow up—give her a life worth
living—I’ll gladly spend eternity here for all our sakes.”

She
laughed.

“What’s
so funny?”

“You
sound like a parent.”

“I
am
a parent—or, at least, it seems I will be.”

“You
okay with that?”

“Everyone’s
telling me I should be…so, yeah…I guess I’m okay with it. I just wish the
Elders would let Isabelle stay alive long enough to watch her child grow up.
She deserves that benefit for her sacrifice.”

“Gee,
I never thought I’d see Sean Martino, badass cop, feel sorry about anyone but
himself.”

“Look
who’s talking,” he scoffed. “You’ve come a long way, baby, from the abrasive
Xavia, Warrior Princess, I first met here. Contel’s influence, I assume?”

Her
laughter grew louder, rippling her aura in colorful waves. “Aren’t we a pair?
Two miserable old souls enjoying a momentary lapse of happiness, thanks to two
strangers. I have Contel; you have Isabelle. Weird, huh?”

“Yeah.
Weird.” But he didn’t want to talk about attitudes, or Contel, or anything
weird. Only one topic mattered to him. “Seriously,” he said, leaning forward to
close the gap between them. “How is she?”

“Isabelle?
She’s fine. Looks good. Healthy so far. Little baby bump.” To demonstrate, she
arced a hand over her own flat belly. “Looks cute on her. I can see why you
like her, you know. She’s sharp and prickly, but with this soft gooey center.
Kind of like a milk thistle. Or maybe just a female version of you.”

“Funny,”
he remarked with a grin, “I thought that more closely described you.”

“Okay,
so we’re three of a kind. Maybe that’s why I like both of you so much.”

The
compliment slid off him like oil. Baby oil. “You sure she’s okay?”

“Health-wise,
or are you looking for my approval to take her to prom?” A snort of derision
escaped her lips.

“Health-wise,
you idiot.”

Xavia
leaned back in her chair, swiveled from side-to-side. “I’ll avoid the whole
‘glowing’ crap most people use to describe pregnant women. I always thought the
glow came from heartburn anyway. But in Isabelle’s case…who knows? Maybe the
glow’s leftover astral dust from her time with you. Do you ever think about
what this baby might be like—with a living mother and a father who’s nothing
but excess energy? Think he’ll have any weird qualities like a visible aura or
some kind of superpowers? Maybe she’ll be able to project between realms or
have an unusually high threshold for pain. Or—”

“Enough!”

Xavia
flinched, then smoothed her ruffled exterior. “Sorr-ree. I was just
speculating.”

“I
get it, but the truth is I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen with
this baby. That’s why I’m asking you. How is Isabelle? Really? Is she okay?
Anything unusual going on?”

“She’s
got hyperemesis. That means she constantly throws up. Sucks for her, but it
actually means the baby’s strong. My grandmother always said the hormones and
stuff flooding the mama’s body ratchet up the nausea. The sicker the mom, the
stronger the baby. Other than that, she’s fine. Happy for the most part. She’s
at total peace with her choice on the matter—though, she
is
worried
about you.”

“Worried
about me? Why?”

“She
knows you were punished by the Elders for traveling to her during that
radiation session. Thinks it’s her fault. She said she told you she didn’t care
what happened to you if it meant you’d be with her when she underwent the gamma
treatment. Now, she feels guilty.”

“She
shouldn’t.”

“I
told her that, but she don’t listen. Another thing we’ve all got in common. A
trio of stubborn asses, that’s what we are.”

“What
else did she say?”

“I
don’t frickin’ know. Why don’t you just pass her a note in study hall and leave
me out of it?” She waved him off with the cacophony of bracelets. “Go on. Get
out of here. I’ve got work to do and so do you. I promise I’ll keep an eye on
your girl. And the baby. And the tumor.”

After
Dr. Regalbuto’s quick departure, Justin returned to sit at her bedside,
wringing his hands, and staving off any hope she might return to slumberland
and Xavia.

“Are
you mad at me?”

“Let’s
just say I’m disappointed,” Isabelle replied, sitting up again.

“You
scared me,” he whined. “All that talk about d-dead p-people and g-ghosts.” His
voice shook with an overload of emotion. “I d-didn’t know what to d-do. I
d-didn’t even t-tell Tony what you told me.”

“And
yet, you called Dr. Regalbuto.”

“I
had to tell
somebody
. You were talking crazy. I was worried about you.”

“You’re
right.” She plucked a stray thread off the sheet’s hem and twisted it round
until she formed a complicated knot.
Crazy to think anyone would believe me
.

Well,
really, what did she expect? If the situation were reversed, would she believe
him?

Not
a chance.

She
never should have told him the truth. Secure in his under-forty age, he
couldn’t fathom death as a pending future and not as a faraway finality. Not
that she blamed him. Before her diagnosis, she wouldn’t have believed a dead
person could come back to Earth at all, much less come back and impregnate a
stranger.

After
her fatal prognosis, though, she’d undergone a dramatic one-eighty regarding
her coming demise. If Santa Claus popped up and told her life after death
existed, but only if she licked all the elves’ boots, she’d get on her knees
and tell those critters to line up. Mortality trumped pride—hands down.

A
sharp pang of loneliness struck her. Despite being surrounded by people who
cared about her, she’d never in her life felt so isolated. She had to face
facts. If she couldn’t get Justin on her side—Justin: her bestest bud for
decades, who knew
all
her secrets and loved her anyway—no one would ever
believe her. No one alive, that was for sure.

And
yeah, okay, Xavia was a hoot to hang with. But Isabelle didn’t need a stand-up
comic these days. She needed Sean. Sean, with his Pacific blue eyes and strong
presence. Calm, funny, wonderful, sexy-ass Sean. Sean, who came to her aid when
she needed him, even though he knew he’d get in trouble for it. Sean, the
ghostly father of her child, who, although a dead man, made her feel more
passion than any man alive.

Wow.
Talk about unlucky in love. She sure could pick ‘em. Her ex-husband was a
cheat, and the current man in her life was a spirit, locked in some other
world, forbidden to see her.

Jeez,
no wonder Justin got scared. Her revelations about ghosts and dead cops must
have totally freaked him out. Now, she’d have to backpedal away from this
situation and keep her mouth shut about Sean.

No
reason to talk about him anyway. He was gone. For good.

“It
was just a joke, you know,” she told Justin. “I was punishing you for being
nosy.”

The
relief easing the tension lines around his jaw and brow only alienated her
further.

“Well,
I didn’t find it funny. You scared the hell outta me.”

Yeah,
we pretty much covered that already
.
“Okay, binky. I get it. I’m sorry.” She struggled to look contrite.

He
chewed on the corner of his lower lip. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

So
much for contrite.
“Let’s
talk about something else. How are things in the antique biz?”

“Good.
In fact…” Brightening to his usual mischievous puppy self, he shot to his feet
and held up a hand. “Stay there. I’ll be right back.”

“‘Stay
there,’” she muttered, then shouted out to him. “Where am I gonna go?” Her gaze
traveled from the tube in the back of her hand to the infusion system, pumping
fluid into her body to keep her from dehydrating. “I’m on a pretty short leash
here, you know.” And an even shorter fuse.

The
squeak of rusted wheels rolling on the hardwood floor sounded, growing louder,
until Justin returned, pushing an old-fashioned pram. “Ta-da!”

She
studied the white wicker carriage with its heart-shaped cutout window and scads
of eyelet dripping from the edges. Skinny wheels the size of bicycle tires
would make pushing a child in this nineteenth century transport an unwieldy
chore. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Isn’t
it adorable?” He preened.

“It’s
prissy and impractical.”

“So
am I.”

She
laughed. “True. But you’re also too big to ride in it.”

“It’s
for the
baby
, silly!”

“Oh,
right. The baby. Little Justin. Or little Tony.”

“Little
Isabelle,” he countered while leaning into the pram. He pulled out a pink
balloon-shaped rattle and shook it. “Koochie-koochie-koo!”

That
easily, the world renewed its revolutions and, for Justin, their friendship
returned to normal. For Isabelle, on the other hand, the distance between them
broadened.

~~~~

Sergeant
Tim Hobart, USMC, wore his full dress uniform to court, although one pants leg
dangled, empty, from the knee down. Even civil formalities called for dress
blues. An hour ago, his divorce became final. Life didn’t get much more formal
than that. Of course, Sheila had packed up and left ten months earlier. Now, a
quick swipe of the pen across documents, and he would, from this day forward,
be known as somebody’s ex-husband. Another door in his life, not only slammed
shut, but dead-bolted.

Tonight,
to celebrate his newfound freedom, Tim planned to get rip-roaring drunk with
his buddies one last time. Tomorrow, he’d shove his sidearm in his mouth and
end all his suffering in one final blaze of glory.

“Not
if I can help it,” Sean grumbled at the image on his board, that of the
soldier—a war hero, for fuck’s sake—rolling his wheelchair through a crowded
hallway in some anonymous town hall. Alone and forgotten.

Sean
knew the symptoms of PTSD all too well: the night sweats, involuntary jumping
at loud noises, the quick turn to anger, reluctance to leave the house for any
reason, the feelings of numbness and alienation. The aftereffects of horrific
experience were responsible for the majority of offenders in Probation. The
insidious, crippling reaction known as post-traumatic stress disorder was especially
heinous to war veterans. Tim Hobart was no exception.

Sean
watched him go through his day, reviewing the repertoire of messages he’d
considered possible to turn the man around. When, while maneuvering his
wheelchair out of a pub, Tim paused to pet a stray cat near a dumpster, Sean
had his game plan.

Later
that night, Tim collapsed on his bed, still clothed, nearly delirious from too
much bourbon.

“Okay,
pal.” Sean rubbed his hands together. “Let the games begin.”

He
weaved the dream the way a writer builds a great story. He created a get-well
get-together, inserting Tim into a room filled with other handicapped veterans
and dozens of fluffy kittens. One animal in particular caught Tim’s eye, a
long-haired smoke gray kitten with topaz eyes. The kitten kept knocking its
head against Tim’s chair, almost as if the tiny beast demanded the marine’s
attention.

“I
got you, little guy,” Tim said as he scooped up the ball of silver fur and
placed it in his lap. The kitten rose on its haunches to chew on Tim’s shirt
buttons. Tim pried the claws out of his garment without tearing the fabric and
rapped the cat’s front paws with an index finger. “Forget it, cutie pie. You
ruin this shirt, I’ll be using your fur to make a new one.”

“That’s
Diamond.” An aide, one of the young ladies who’d brought the animals, handed
Tim a plastic mouse. “Here. Squeak this for her. It’s her favorite toy. We’ve
sprayed it with catnip.”

Sure
enough, the kitten went nuts every time he squeaked the mouse, rubbing her
furry face against the toy nose, purring loud enough to rival a jet engine.
After a while, Diamond tired of the game, grabbed the toy with both paws to
tuck it underneath her chest, and curled up on Tim’s lap, content to allow this
new human to rub her head between her ears.

“Aww,
how sweet,” the aide remarked on her second go-round through the room. “Diamond
really likes you.”

“Yeah,”
Tim said, surprised at his growing affection for the kitten. “She’s a pretty
little thing.”

“I’d
promise to bring her back next week,” the aide said in a sorrowful whisper,
“but she’s scheduled to be put down tomorrow.”

Tim’s
heart cracked. “Why?”

“Diamond’s
blind. No one’s ever gonna adopt her. Nobody wants a blind cat.”

“She
may be blind, but she’s gentle, and pretty, and smart. Look at her. She’s the
cutest ball of fur I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s
not enough,” the aide said. “Most families want a ‘normal’ pet. Between jobs
and kids and extracurricular activities, there aren’t enough hours left to take
care of a special needs cat. Humans are generally too stressed to deal with a
handicapped animal. We get pets all the time that have become ill or
handicapped and now the family no longer wants them. A lot of those injured
animals have to be put down, due to space constraints and medical bills. We
don’t have enough room or money to house them all. It’s a shame, too, because
so many of them—like Diamond—just need a little love.”

He
glanced around at the other so-called normal kittens. Some were aloof, some
were a little too aggressive in their play, some were too docile. Diamond, in
his opinion, was perfect. Why couldn’t anyone else see that?

Maybe
it wasn’t the cat who was blind. Maybe it was the people who would allow this
tiny creature to be destroyed because of a minor flaw that didn’t make her any
less of a good pet.

“What
if I wanted to adopt her?”

The
young woman shook her head. “That’s nice, but really, there are much better
cats here, if you’re interested.”

“No.
I want Diamond.”

“But...she’s
blind.”

“So
what?”

“So
she’ll never be a normal cat.”
          Tim’s temper flared.
“Lady, do I look like I need a normal cat? I want to adopt Diamond. Right now.”

After
much wrangling, he completed the paperwork and brought Diamond home. She slept
at the foot of his bed, curled up where his leg ended at the knee, content and
forever loyal to the human who appreciated her true worth.

When
Tim woke up the following morning, he was disappointed to discover there was no
Diamond near his knee. Tabling his plan to commit suicide, he came up with a
better idea. He would leave the decision to fate. He would visit the local
animal shelter. If he found a blind kitten there, he’d know he was meant to
live—to adopt the poor animal and give it a good home. If not, the dream meant
nothing—just a side effect of too much booze and his own self-pity.

A
few hours later, he rolled into the local shelter and mentioned to the
pimple-faced youth behind the counter that he’d heard through the grapevine
they had a blind kitten, and he wanted to adopt it.

The
clerk stared at him blankly. “Sorry, sir. We don’t have any blind kittens.”

Tim
sighed. Stupid. He should have realized it was just a dream. Still, he wanted
to cover all his bases. Maybe the animal’s blindness was a metaphor. “Any
handicapped cats at all?”

“No,
sir.”

“Thank
you.”

Dejected,
he turned to leave when the clerk added, “We do have a handicapped dog.”

He
stopped, rolled his chair around again to face the kid. “A dog?”

“Yes,
sir. A German shepherd. Had to have his left rear leg amputated when he got hit
by a truck. No one knows where he came from. We found him tied to the fence
outside one morning. But he’s a happy guy. Likes to run. Smart. His name’s
Sergeant. You wanna see him?”

An
abandoned dog with an amputated leg. Like him. Named Sergeant. Like his rank.
He lifted his gaze skyward. Someone up there was sending him a definite
message. How could he not answer the call? That’s what marines did.
Semper
Fi
.

“Yes,
I think I do.”

Leaning
back in his chair, Sean grinned. Another satisfied customer would forget about
suicide, saving two lives in the process.
And that, my friends, is how it’s
done
. A movement to his left caught his eye, and he turned to see Xavia
rushing toward him.

“Congratulations,
Daddy,” she exclaimed, her smile wider than his. “It’s a girl.”