Red is for Remembrance (17 page)

Coming from Little Miss Label Maker, it's an unlikely excuse, but I nod anyway since I really don't feel like getting into another argument right now.

"Do you always write down the stuff that you want?"

I shrug. "Sometimes I just meditate on it."

"Sort of like praying."

"It 15 prayer to me."

Janie lets out a tiny sigh. "I'm sorry if I've been all icky lately. There's just a lot I don't quite get."

"I'm not like Sage."

"I know that." She nods like she does know it.

"Then what?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "I was just talking to the college chaplain about some things. We can talk about it sometime."

"I'd like that."

"Hey, look," she says, peeling the eggshell away. The splinter has worked its way out through the skin. Janie plucks it out completely, a huge, beaming smile across her face. "It totally worked. Thank you SO much."

"You're welcome."

She dries her foot off with a Pink Panther towel, sticks a Barbie bandage to the wound, and then rewards me with her mouse-ear headband, pushing my hair back and slipping it in place.

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"Thanks," I say, peeking up at the ears. They dangle just over my eyebrows.

"Next time you need to do a spell," she says, scooting into bed, "why don't you just do it here?"

"What about our agreement?"

She shrugs and pulls the covers up.

I wait several moments for her to say something else, but she doesn't. It's a huge milestone, I think, like maybe she's starting to figure it out-- that my way of life has nothing to do with anything evil.

The phone rings a couple seconds later. "Hello?"

"Stacey hi," my mother says. "How's it going?" she asks.

"Okay," I say, my voice cracking over the word.

"There's something going on, isn't there?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, almost thankful that she can read me so well-- even through a phone.

'Are you having nightmares again?"

Instead of lying, I spend the next several minutes spilling my guts out. I tell her all about Porsha and how I need to help her, how the little girl in my nightmare said it was the key to seeing Jacob again.

"Jacob is
gone,
Stacey."

"He'll never be gone."

"You're not hearing me," she says.

"Yes, I am. You want me to forget him."

"No," she insists. "I know Jacob will always be with you, just like Grandma-- in the magic you do, in your ability to love."

"There's more to it," I say. "I'm dreaming about him."

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"What about?"

"He's going to appear in my dreams," I explain. "Soon. I just know it; I feel it. There's something he wants me to know."

'Are you sure?"

I nod, as though she can hear it, and peer over at Janie in bed, wondering if she's listening.

"I think you need to reflect on your intentions," my mother says after a pause.

"What do you mean?"

"Your intentions for helping Porsha. She obviously
needs
your help, but it sounds like you're helping her for selfish reasons, not because you truly care about her."

"I
do
care," I say.

"Really?"

I take a deep breath, knowing in my heart that she has a point. I mean, yes, I feel for Porsha, for what she's going through, and I
want
to help her. But I want to see Jacob again so much more.

My mother tells me she'll call me tomorrow and we say our goodbyes. Meanwhile, I change into my fleecy sweats and sink down into bed, knowing there's no
way
I'm going to fall asleep tonight. I mean, what if my mother is right? What if I am acting out of selfishness?

I glance over at Janie to make sure she isn't looking-- she isn't-- and pull open my night table drawer to snag a tranquilizer from my stash. I sift through bottles of lavender and tangerine oil, a eucalyptus-scented eye bag, and a couple packages of cinnamon incense cones, but for some reason I can't find my bottle of tranquilizers. I look under my 187

pillow-- empty. I jump out of bed, checking my coat pockets, my backpack, and my spell supply suitcase, but I can't find them anywhere.

"Janie?"

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Did you go into my night table drawer?"

"No."

'Are you sure?" I ask, wondering if she did a bit more snooping than she's letting on.

"No way," she says.

"Did Amber?"

She thinks about it a moment, her roundish face puckering up. "I think so ... to look for a pen, maybe."

I bite my bottom lip and peer over at Amber's corner of the room.

'Are you missing something?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Go back to sleep."

When she finally does, I check through Amber's stuff. I open her night table drawer, rifle through her dresser, her bed linens, and even check in all her shoes. I find several unmentionables, including ajar of banana-flavored body balm and a pink leather thong with a matching whip.

But no pills.

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should call PJ at his motel room to see if that's where Amber went. It's obvious that Amber nabbed my bottle of pills, that that is why she wants to chat with me. She thinks I have a problem.

Even though I don't.

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She's just up ahead, but swimming at full speed. I paddle hard so as not to fall behind. It's dark down here at the bottom of the sea, but the soft, glowing light emanating from the girl's body, from her long and flowing gown, makes it easier to maneuver.

She swims past clusters of pink coral, schools of glittering fish, and treasure chests spilling over with bright yellow gold. She looks back at me, making sure I'm still following 189

maybe, and tries to say something, but the words are just bubbles. It's bubbling all around me, making it possible to breathe underwater.

She rounds a corner by a lost life preserver bobbing at the ocean's floor. I pause at it, wondering if it's Jacob's, if she's taking me to see him.

There's a smallish structure up ahead of us, in the shape of a house. The girl enters in through the front window, but I stop at the front door. It comes up to my waist, like a child's playhouse or fort. The door edges open, inviting me in.

"It's dry in here. Take a seat and have no fear."

I bend down to enter. It's just a box inside, barely enough room for two people. The girl is sitting cross-legged in the sand.

I sit down across from her, noting how the house
is
completely dry, how it has a sort of submarine feel. You can see fish swimming by outside the windows.

"Are you ready to know the truth, or will I have to let you sleuth?" she asks.

She looks so much different up close-- long wheat-blond hair that goes straight down her back; pale, grayish eyes; pointed chin; and a tiny curl of a mouth. She's like a younger version of Porsha.

'Are you Porsha's mother?" I ask.

"Close your eyes and I'll show you a surprise," she says.

I close my eyes and she takes my hands. Her fingers are cold; they quiver slightly in my grip.

"Okay," she says after several seconds. "I'm ready."

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I peek my eyes open. Sitting before me is no longer a little girl. It's a grown woman. I gasp and try to pull my hands away, but she squeezes them, holding me in place. "Don't be afraid," she whispers.

I scoot back to give her room, noticing how much she's grown in the past few seconds. She's still wearing her long and flowing gown, only now it fits her, and, aside from the obvious age difference and growth spurt, she doesn't look so much different than her little-girl version.

'Are you Porsha's mother?" I repeat.

She nods. "You can be any age on the other side."

"The other side?"

"I haven't quite made it there yet." She tucks her feet up under her legs to avoid kicking me.

"Where is
there?"

"That's up to you to decide," she says, angling her neck forward so her head doesn't bump against the ceiling. "I can't tell you what to believe."

I shake my head, growing more confused by the second.

"It's hard to explain," she continues. "Even though I haven't crossed over, I still have some of the other side's privileges-- like changing my age at will."

"Will you ever go to the other side?" I ask, noticing how she's no longer speaking in rhyme.

"I hope so," she says. "With your help. You need to help my little girl."

"I'm trying."

"You need to try harder."

"She won't listen to me. She doesn't want to talk to me."

"You have to
make
her listen."

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"How?"

Porsha's mother thinks about it a moment, tapping against her teeth with her fingernail. "Tell her the onyx bracelet is in her pillowcase."

"What onyx bracelet?"

"It was mine. A sterling silver chain with diamond-cut onyx chips. Porsha will know; she wears it sometimes to feel close to me. Last week, she misplaced it. Tell her it's in her pillowcase. She wore it to bed and it slipped off."

"That's amazing," I say, feeling a chill run down the back of my neck. "People who have passed on really can see us down on Earth?"

She nods. "Another privilege."

I bite my bottom lip, wondering about Jacob.

"So, let's get down to business," she says, extending her hand to me for a shake. "My name is Jessica."

"Jessica Wallace?" I ask, shaking her chilly hand.

She nods. "I was killed."

"How?"

"It was an accident. I don't blame anyone, especially her."

"Porsha?"

Jessica nods and looks away. "When you see her tomorrow, tell her that. Tell her that I shouldn't have gone out like that. I should have stayed around to talk. I knew she was hurting, but I wanted to punish her by leaving. I tried to communicate all of this to her on my own." She sighs. "But Porsha took it all the wrong way and thought I was trying to haunt her dreams . . . silly girl."

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"Wait, what does all of this have to do with the nightmares she's having now?"

"The nightmares she's having now are different. She's dreaming about a boy. If she doesn't help him, he's going to die."

"Who
is
he?"

She shakes her head. "I've said enough for tonight."

"Please," I say. "Just tell me. Is it Jacob? I have to know."

"What do
you
think?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Follow your instincts. He's a lot closer than you think." Jessica draws the letter the in the sand.

"What does that mean?"

She draws an invoking pentacle over it. "I've said enough for tonight," she repeats, looking toward the window.

I follow her gaze, wondering if Jacob's out there somewhere, swimming in this sea.

"Go now," she whispers. "Tell Porsha what I said."

"Tell me about Jacob first," I demand. "What does the letter the stand for?"

Jessica turns away and closes her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Please," she whispers.

I reach out to comfort her, to touch her forearm, but, this time, my hand passes right through her.

"I'll do all I can," I say, finally.

And, with that, she disappears.

193

After class, I head straight over to President Wallace's for my meeting with Porsha. On the way there, I review all the details in my mind-- everything that Porsha's mother said to me in my dream.

I'm still all jittery over it, not only because of her mother's obvious grief but also because it seems Porsha and I are more alike than I realized. She blames herself for 194

the death of her mother, just like I used to blame myself for the deaths of Maura and Veronica.

And Jacob. I focus toward the president's house, trying to put him out of my mind, trying to remind myself that Porsha's mom told me that I need to trust my instincts, that he's closer than I think.

But what about the letter the?

I take a deep breath, grateful that I was even able to dream last night, since dreaming has been sort of sporadic for me lately. But so has sleeping-- at least sleeping without having to take a pill or two.

And then it hits me. I didn't take a tranquilizer last night and I was able to dream. The same thing happened the other night, too-- no tranq and I had a full-fledged nightmare. Is it possible that the tranquilizers are funking up my ability to dream?

Of
course
it is. A gush of excitement rushes over me, having figured it out-- knowing that the key to helping Porsha's mother, to dreaming about Jacob, is to stop taking tranquilizers.

To stop taking them completely.

I swallow hard, trying to digest the revelation. I mean, I couldn't be happier about it, but, at the same time, it also scares me. It's just so easy popping a pill-- the quickest route to Sleepy Land.

And now I won't be able to.

I reach into the pocket of my coat for the crystal cluster rock and wrap my hand around it, reminding myself of strength. The college's presidential mansion is at least the distance of two full parking lots back from the street. With the snow and the wind and the mistake of wearing rubber

195

soled sneakers instead of boots, it takes me a lot longer to get there than I intended. I ring the doorbell, and a girl not much older than me, with bottle-blond hair tied back in a ponytail and silver hoop earrings the size of bracelets, answers the door.

"You must be Stacey," she says, flipping the gum in her mouth back and forth with her tongue.

"We've been expecting you."

"Are you Tamara?" I ask, remembering how Dr. Wallace said they had a live-in helper--

whatever
that
is.

She nods and takes my coat, stopping a moment to cringe at my snow-drenched shoes.

"I can take them off," I offer.

Tamara tells me she'll toss them in the dryer and see that I get a ride home, and then points me up the stairs to Porsha's room. "It's the third room on the right, love," she says, faking a British accent. "She's been expecting you. Just give me a shout if you need anything."