Something To Dream On (2 page)

The two women, the grass, and the star above—I know this picture all too well. “My dream,” I utter.

Her curiosity sparks. “Dream? You’ve had a dream about this? Tell me about it.”

“It ends with me flying into the stars.”

“Hmm …” Zolta muses. The tightening of her brow concerns me. “Grab another card and set it off to the side.”

With that Tower wildly freaking me out, I pray for a better card. My nerves make me sloppy, and the top few cards in the deck fall aside. I go to the ones that stayed behind.

Ice creeps down my neck and into my arms when I see the word Death. I drop the card like it’s about to bite. It lands next to The Tower, and my lungs forget how to work. I can’t die! I’m only twenty-four. What will happen to my babies at home? My brother can’t care for himself let alone a pen of chickens. What if they—

Zolta again pats my arm. The rapidness of her
thunks
shows she can’t hide how uncomfortable she is. “Don't be scared. The Death card means change. While it can mean physical death, it rarely ever does.”

She can say what she wants, but those Death and Tower cards are freaking the sugar out of me. Maybe it’s a warning about my weight. The doctor did say that I should dump a ton. Unlike some people with true medical issues, this weight is all me. I need to stop making excuses.

Zolta sweeps up the cards in haste while avoiding eye contact. Does she not want me to ask questions, or is something turning her blood into a Slurpee, too? “Some type of …
incident
is going to happen. Something will shake your world, like lightning has struck you in the head. In the end, it will bring you the ultimate joy.”

The ultimate joy? Isn’t that what they call Heaven? Unless someone changed the rules, you only get there by dying. “When will this happen?”

She scoffs. “The cards do not know any more than the universe does. Time only matters to us because we limit our minds so that our days here are all that exist.”

That’s it. I hear the exit calling. “Thank you for your time.” I grab my purse and start to head out. My fluttering nerves turn both of my feet into left ones and my hip smacks into the table, causing a stack of cards to slide off and spill onto the ground. The card that falls dead into the middle of the heap has a giant wheel on it. It spins to the left so that it lands with the top numbers pointing down. My mind reels along with it.

Griffin rubs my shoulder. “It’s okay, Baby Cakes. Catch your breath. Remember, she’s saying you will get the prize.” I shudder as he says it, and then grab a swift inhale. No wonder why I am dizzy. My freak out has stolen my ability to breathe. “Whatever happens, it’s finally going to explain everything.”

Griffin is right. My dream is going to come true, whatever the bejesus it means.

This bitch has lost it. Seriously, who the fuck does she think she is?

“Jensen, what has happened to you? You used to be such a wonderful person and now …” She sobs while mumbling something to herself. I guess it’s to herself. Shit. I don’t know. Women are weird. They only seem to be good for one thing, so why am I bothering with this one?

I take another swig from my friend, Mr. Jack Daniels. The crazy woman drops her head into her hands and the waterworks come on stronger. It’s a hell of a show. Let’s see what happens when I chug.

They must be making this stuff weaker, because the three shots worth go down like water.

The bitch screams at me. Like she lets loose as if she wants fucking China to hear. Then she has the balls to try to steal my buddy. She pulls at the bottle, and I laugh at her feebleness. She yanks and fails to get it, so she yanks again, and again. I have to give her a little credit for effort.

Finally, I’ve had enough, so I let her have it; not the bottle, but a lesson in the form of a body check against the wall. “Baby, please stop,” she begs.

She’s right. I should back off and give the old broad a break. I step back and laugh before taking another swig. She actually has the nerve to go for the bottle again. Fine, if she wants it so badly, she can have it. I toss the thing at her. Actually, it’s more of a calculated throw that is intended to scare her. Instead, I graze her enough for it to give a little bounce off of her temple. The thing reminds me of rubber, like I am in a cartoon. It’s the funniest fucking thing in the world, and I can’t stop laughing as she pulls her hand away from the spot I hit, checking for blood. It’s too bad there isn’t any. It would make a great pattern on the floor with the way she’s shaking her head.

“Get out!” she yells, again like she wants to be heard on Mars. “Get out, and don’t come back!”

Yeah, right. We’ve been through this before.

“Get out!” I’m shoved, hard, towards the door once, then twice. On the third time I’m done and rid myself of the control freak. I’ve got better places to be. “I mean it, Jensen. Don’t come back!”

I wave her off and head to my car. Whatever. She’ll be sweet as punch in the morning.

Dawn is cracking open as I return home. With my guitar strapped onto my back, I lug an amp up the walk and step on something soft. A T-shirt? Then I almost trip over a shoe. “The hell?”

The walkway is littered with clothes—
my
clothes! “That whore!” My feet hit the ground like thunder as I make for the door and fumble for the right key. I try to jam the thing into the lock, but I’m so fuming I have to try slamming it in three times before finding it won’t turn.

“Son of a bitch!” I yank the key out and stare, then draw the thing closer to bring it into focus so I can be certain. Yeah, that’s the right one. This time I brace on the door with my free hand and get the key in on the first shot. I try to turn it with so much force that my fingers hurt from the pressure when the lock refuses to budge.

“Shit!” I rattle the fuck out of the door. There is no way she’d have the balls to lock me out, so I start pounding. That’s when I notice the note taped above the bell.

Jensen,

If you want your stuff, you can come for it on Thursday. Uncle Rob will be here to help you. Do not contact me again until you are clean for at least ninety days. I know you can do it. Until then, we are done.

Mom

The fuck!

The thing gets ripped down and then crumbled into a tight wad. How fucking dare she? My own mother! Moms are supposed to always have faith in you and thus put up with your shit. What kind of lame ass mom turns her back on her fucked-up kid? Doesn’t she know she’s the only real family that I have left?

The paper gets slammed down onto the porch. In a flash I’m driving off without looking back. Screw picking up my stuff on Thursday, and screw grabbing my stuff that she threw on the lawn like it’s crap. I don’t want to bother to even look at the mess she made because—

Because looking at it will be too much like looking at myself.

SIX MONTHS BEFORE DESTINY

Saturday, October 13

Griffin and I sit in our usual corner booth at Daddy Bear's Lair. I'm not a drinker, but I am a fan of the atmosphere—despite the fact that the music is always a little on the disco side. Then again, isn’t there a law that states gay bars must play dance music; else their license to be fabulous is revoked?

It’s still early, so even though I am tucked in the shadows, where I can see everyone who flashes in, the only things worth watching are the three male damsels on the dance floor. Griffin and I toast to the sparkling trio who are whooping it up and playing ride ‘em cowboy without a care. People should live every moment like that.

Across the room, a group of college bro-types sit at a table. The way they shift in their seats while watching the boys dance clues me in that they are likely looky loos with no desire to “make friends.” One of them catches my eye. His short, sandy hair and hazel eyes are attractive, but he's a little … shall we say, military looking, for my taste. That’s cool though. All that matters is a guy’s heart, and I’ll never find what I am looking for if I’m not open to whatever package it may come in.

He smiles and raises his shot glass to me. I return the gesture with my Coke. Just because he's not my type, is sitting in a gay bar, and for some reason that I can’t place, creeps me out a bit, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give expanding my horizons a shot—again. If he won’t refuse this book by its cover, I owe him the same courtesy.

Shoot, I don’t care if he has three eyes; I only care about his soul. My man of compassion has to be out there.

He takes a swig, sets down his glass, and heads over. A friend follows him while snickering. Now I'm really uncertain. The closer they get, the more I notice the staggers in their walks. “Hi,” the flirty guy says. I return the greeting and smile. He is kind of cute, despite being wasted. Tipsy I can handle, but I really dislike being around anyone who is hardcore wasted.

He nods. “What’s your name?”

“Lizetta.”

“Hi, um,
Liz
. I'm Denny. This is Jerry.”

Jerry steps forward so that he is now by my side. Once I get the up/down full body glance from him, I accept what the game is. It’s proven when Jerry snickers. Even if I do stand a chance with Denny, Jerry’s judgment will likely convince his friend that I am not worth it.

Jerry motions to Denny not to bother and says he wants to go for another drink elsewhere. Denny steps up to shake my hand. He takes a good look at my body before saying it was nice to meet me and then makes his way back to his friends.

My eyes close off the scene. You’d think I’d be used to this by now. You’d think it would no longer rape my self-esteem, yet it does. This is so unfair. I have so much to offer. There is so much inside me that I long to share. My shell may not be perfect, but is it really all that bad? Doesn’t my heart matter? What about my soul?

The rap of Griffin’s fingers on the table creates a roll of thunder. He’s tireder of this happening to me than I am. Still, he sits in the shadows with the light barely catching the skin on top of his head and lets me handle it. He may not allow that for much longer though.

“Bye.” I give a friendly wave while trying to hide that my ego has been stomped on and smeared like a spider.

“What did you expect?” Jerry says. “Fatties turn into hags because they can't get anything else.”

Griffin slams his hands onto the table, commanding their attention. When he steps out of the booth, Denny and Jerry turn to face a monolith. It's like the scene in
2001: A Space Odyssey
where the apes worship a wall of onyx; only instead of caressing it in wonder, these monkeys freeze in fear. Griffin’s voice sounds like God’s vibrato is rippling through Heaven and he is challenging them to a smack down. “I believe you meant to say, ‘It was a pleasure to have met you.’” Despite Griffin having muscles the size of machine-guns, that voice may be his scariest weapon.

I’m wished a nice day before the jerks grab their friends and flee the bar. Griffin sits, and his voice goes back to the way I am used to hearing it in casual situations—moderately flaming and laced with hospitality that makes you expect him to have a Southern accent. “You okay there, Honey Boo?”

I look Griffin in the eyes and tell him in no uncertain terms that I am fine. We both know I am full of it, but it is either that or do what I really want—give Denny a piece of my mind and then feel like an even bigger fool as I break down in front of him. I shouldn’t have to get used to childish people who have issues with
my
body, but that is what it comes down to. I can tell myself that their opinions don’t matter, but that doesn’t stop incidents like these from happening. I don’t know how many more times I can pick my shattered self-esteem off of the ground before I vow to never leave the house again.