Red is for Remembrance (14 page)

I ask Porsha if she'd like to have a seat in the sitting area toward the back of Dr. Wallace's office.

There's a long glass coffee table surrounded by a couple creamy leather chairs and a short velvety couch.

But she doesn't answer me. She just resumes drawing lines down the pages of her book.

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I approach her slowly, taking a seat on the floor in front of her. "What are you working on?"

She still doesn't answer me, so I take a few moments to inspect the books surrounding her.

They've all been damaged-- pen lines and blade incisions carved deep into the covers. "Do you want to tell me about your nightmares?" I ask.

More silence.

"Maybe you want me to leave," I say, with no real intention of going anywhere. Instead of answering, she scribbles something down the margin of her book page.

I angle myself to look. A gasp escapes my mouth before I can stop it.

"I know you're alone," it reads.

Just like my nightmare.

"How did you know?" I ask her, my heart beating fast.

She doesn't answer.

"That phrase was in my dream," I continue. "I hear that you have dreams, too . . . something about a camp . . . about a girl named Lily. Are those things true?"

She continues to ignore me.

Are you the girl with the burning arm?" I ask.

Porsha looks up at me, finally. Her eyes are a silvery gray color, highlighted with thick dark rings-- a mix of sleeplessness and eyeliner pencil, maybe.

I concentrate hard, trying to remember the little girl's voice in my nightmare. "Is one of your burns heart-shaped?"

Porsha doesn't answer. She stares at me, not blinking.

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"There's another burn, too, isn't there?" I go on. "Is it shaped like a capital the?" I reach out to touch her arm, the one I suspect has the burn marks. "Will you tell me what 'I know you're alone'

means?"

Porsha pulls away and shakes her head, her hair hanging down over the pages of her book, the tips still dyed a deep olive color. "Haven't you heard?" she whispers. "I'm crazy."

"That's not what your father thinks."

"Yes, it is," she says, the rims of her eyes all crusty and red. "Part of him thinks that you're crazy, too . . . and that he's crazy himself for putting us together."

"I don't think that's true."

"Who cares what you think?"

"Your mother does," I say. "She wants me to help you."

"My mother is dead."

"I know. I dream about her."

"That's bullshit."

"It's true," I whisper.

"Then prove it."

"How?"

"Tell me something only she and I would know."

I shake my head, picturing the little girl in my dreams, with her flowing hair and drapey dress, wondering why she appears to me as a child rather than an adult. "I can't."

"I didn't think so." She looks back down to resume her scribbling.

I take a deep breath. "What does the "T" on your arm stand for?"

"Toasty," she hisses, snapping her head back up to look at me.

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"Toasty?
Toasty
what?"

"Trouble,"
she continues. "Tuna fish, tomato, tasty, tiny terrific, tarantula, tricycle-- "

"Porsha," I say, interrupting her list of T-words. "This is serious."

"Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead,"
she sings. She goes to draw on her bandaged hand, but I reach out to stop her.

"No!" she shouts, tugging her hand away drawing a deep black pen line down my arm.

I pull away to inspect the damage. She managed to break the skin near my wrist.

"Go!" she shouts, the pen raised high above her head like a knife. "I don't want to talk to you."

I keep my eye on the pen and lower my voice to a whisper, refusing to give in to her so easily.

"I'll go if you want," I say, "but first, listen to me." I take another deep breath, reminding myself of courage. "It's happened to me, too. I've dreamt about my best friend's death, about my own death, the death of a stranger, and of the little girl I used to babysit."

Porsha lowers the pen to her lap. 'And, aside from you," she asks, "did any of them die?"

I nod.

"Why?" Her eyes are wide. "Was it because of you? Because you weren't able to save them in time?"

I bite my bottom lip and look away, trying to get a grip, wondering why I wasn't able to predict Jacob's accident, why I was able to save Clara-- a virtual stranger-- but not the person I loved most in this world. "I did my best," I whisper.

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"But it wasn't good enough, was it?" She smiles slightly, inching her way closer to me, knocking down her barricade of books. 'And now you have to live with it all."

"I've forgiven myself."

"Not completely," she says, still studying me.

"No," I say swallowing hard, still trying to get a hold of myself. "Not completely I did the best I could . .. predicting things, but I haven't been able to get over everything."

"Which one eats at you?"

"Look," I say, remembering Dr. Wallace's warning about not letting Porsha get control of the conversation, "we shouldn't be focusing on me. We should be talking about you, about your experience with nightmares."

"Was it your best friend that died? Or was it the little girl?"

"Stop," I say inching back from her.

She locks eyes on me a moment. "It was the little girl, wasn't it, the one you baby-sat?"

I look away

"But that's not the one that eats you," she continues, still staring. "It's not the one that's sucked all your blood ..." She makes a slurping sound for effect.

"Porsha-- "

"It was a lover, wasn't it? What was his name?"

"Let's talk about something else."

"What was his name?"
she hisses.

"Jacob," I whisper.

"Jacob,"
she repeats, overly enunciating the two syllables of his name. "You weren't able to predict
Jacob's
fate soon

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enough and now he's dead.
Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead,
she sings.

"I have to go," I say. I get up and head for the door.

"Go!" she shouts, standing now. "Or you'll be dead, too.

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I'm still shaking after my meeting with Porsha. I glance down at my amethyst ring, the one my grandmother gave me, and remind myself that what I'm doing is important. Maybe if I had someone to talk to when I first started having nightmares, I wouldn't have been so afraid of them.

Maybe I would have been able to deal with them better.

I whip the door of the Library open, dreading the next couple hours. Tim has graciously volunteered to be my study

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buddy for Sociology. Turns out we're both in the exact same 300-person section. We've arranged to meet at the back of the reference room to study for a quiz. I probably wouldn't be so nervous if I could stop thinking about what Amber said-- how she claimed to have "set him straight" about my dating situation.

Before I even reach the reference desk, it suddenly dawns on me that I was supposed to call Porsha's father-- as if things could get worse. I turn on my heel to backtrack to the lobby pay phones, but then I spot Tim. He's all ready for our study session-- books spread out on the table, two steaming coffees somewhat concealed behind his backpack, and a gleaming smile across his face. He waves me over.

"Hi," I say, forcing a smile and making my way over to join him.

He gestures to one of the coffees, pulling a bunch of creamers and sugar packets from his pocket.

"I didn't know how you like it, but I assume caffeine is okay . .. since we're studying..."

"Thanks," I say. "It's perfect."

"And,
since I can't drink coffee without sweets ..." He points toward the floor, where he's got a wax-paper bag full of doughnuts hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias.

"Don't tell me," I say "You have an in with the lady at Dunkies."

"Smart girl like you shouldn't be failing Sociology." He slides the chair out beside him for me to sit.

"I have to make a phone call first." I pull out my wallet and go fishing for my phone card.

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"Use this," Tim says. He pulls his cell phone out of his bag and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say, pausing at him, feeling a completely genuine smile sneak across my lips. "I've been meaning to get one of these."

"Welcome to the twenty-first century," he says, gesturing to his phone. "Complete with video games, wireless e-mail access, cool ring tones, and text messaging."

I let out a laugh and the reference lady gives me an evil look. "I'll be right back," I whisper. I move out into the lobby, plucking Dr. Wallace's contact info from the pocket of my jeans. I dial his cell phone number and he picks up right away.

"Dr. Wallace?"

"Stacey," he says, obviously recognizing my voice.

"I meant to call earlier-- "

"How did it go today?" he asks, practically cutting me off "Did she talk about her nightmares . . .

about the camp?"

"We talked," I say, fishing for words.

'And?"

"Did
she
say how it went?" I ask.

"Not really"

I pause a moment, the anxiety mounting in the pit of my stomach.

"Stacey?"

"I'm still here."

"Do you have some time tomorrow?" he asks, dropping the question. "I'd like you to come to the house, though, if

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that's possible. She's home-schooling with her tutors most of the day."

"I guess. I could come over after my Sociology class."

Dr. Wallace is delighted. I can hear it in his voice. He offers to have the school van drive me to his house, located on the drag across the street from the main campus.

"I'll walk," I say.

"Very good. Tamara, our live-in helper, will be there if you need anything."

We say our goodbyes and I hang up shortly after, telling myself that this is a good thing, that if I ever want to see Jacob again-- even if it's only in my dreams-- this might be the only way.

When I get back to the table, Tim is munching a chocolate cruller. He's set one out on a napkin for me as well.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

I nod, somewhat reluctantly, not exactly sure
how
I'm feeling. I take a seat beside him.

"Something's bothering you, isn't it?" he asks.

I shrug. "Don't worry about it. There's just a lot going on for me right now." I pull out my Sociology text.

"I think I know what it is."

I bite my bottom lip and look at him, knowing that he doesn't know-- that he couldn't possibly--

but not wanting to go into it either.

"It's about your boyfriend. Amber told me. I'm really sorry, Stacey. I can't imagine ..."

"What did she say?"

"That you guys were in love-- the real thing."

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I nod and look away, fighting the urge to get all emotional in front of him. "She also must have told you that he's not around anymore."

Tim nods. "Don't worry about it. It's totally cool; we can just hang out... no strings." He slides my cruller closer toward me.

"You're really nice, you know that?"

"It's easy being nice to you." He smiles.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Why do you even like me?"

'Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I mean, I haven't been the most friendly person to you-- to anybody for that matter."

"I hadn't really noticed," he jokes.

"Come on." I roll my eyes at him. "I mean, I can't even imagine why you'd want to be in the same room with me, never mind help me study and buy me coffee."

"Okay, totally serious?"

I nod.

"You know how you just get a feeling about somebody, like you just know that you have to get to know that person better? It's sort of like that with you. I mean, maybe that sounds cheesy, but I like you. I can't help it-- despite your sour grapes."

I nod and smile, taking a bite of cruller. Tim pauses a moment to glance at my mouth as I chew.

The moment is completely sweet and awkward. I feel my cheeks heat up, my heart thump inside my chest.

Luckily we have PJ to interrupt us.

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"Hey there, sweet thang." He comes and kisses me on both cheeks.

"Hey," I say back, almost relieved by his presence.

'And who Shell I say is calling?" he asks, gesturing to Tim.

I introduce Tim as my study partner, but PJ totally isn't buying it. He winks at me, grabbing the cruller from my napkin and inspecting it with a sniff "Nothing like a long, dark study snack, is there?" He purposefully bites the tip, following up with a couple yummy-good groans.

Completely humiliating.

Tim's pale peach complexion has turned just one shade lighter than five-alarm red.

"So," PJ continues. "I'm Shady-8-ing it again tonight."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"My humble abode, lest we forget. Last night I thought my walls were going to come caving in on me-- total earthquake-material."

"Why don't you find an off-campus apartment?" I ask him.

"Like it's so simple, pimple," he says.

"You need a place to stay?" Tim asks.

"Do I detect a man with connections?"

"My roommate just moved off campus with his girlfriend. I can ask him if there are any units available where he's renting."

"Wait," PJ says. "Did someone take his pretty-boy place at your pad?"

"Not yet," Tim grimaces.

"Perfectamundo," PJ says. "When should I move in?"

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"It isn't that easy," Tim says. "The Resident Life Office probably already has a replacement lined up."

"Details, schmetails," PJ says. "I'll take care of everything. I have my own connections, you see.

Now, tell me, where is this cozy nest of ours?"

Tim reluctantly gives up the whereabouts of his on-campus townhouse, reiterating Resident Life's probable plans for placing someone in there, probably someone on the wait list for a room-- someone exactly like PJ.

PJ bids me farewell by chomping down on my cruller, stuffing the entire thing in his mouth. "I'll see you later, roomie," PJ says to Tim, between chews. He flashes us the peace sign and heads on his way.