The Gifting (11 page)

“Against their advice? You mean …?” I am captivated by his stare. Stuck, even. The hallway could explode with fireworks and I wouldn’t be able to look away. “What happened to the baby?”

“You’re looking at him.”

I blink. Several times. “But—”

“I’m healthy.” He pushes away from the wall. “The doctor was wrong. He made a mistake. If she would have listened …”

I shake my head, the motion sharp and decisive. I do not want to contemplate a world without Luka Williams.

“That first pregnancy,” he says, “haunts her.”

A Fighter

A
s I walk through the parking lot in afternoon drizzle, I cannot get Luka out of my head. I am so absorbed with replaying our totally unexpected, intimate conversation after class that I don’t process anything Leela says. She obviously has no idea Luka and I are partners for a project in World History, otherwise she’d be grilling me. I wonder how long her oblivion will last. Surely, among all the gawkers, one is bound to tell Leela that Luka and I were spotted walking and talking together.

I can’t stop thinking about my nightmare and the debate in Mr. Lotsam’s class and the things Luka
said
. If the doctors were wrong about him, could they be wrong about others as well? What does this mean about all the screenings that are happening right now—not just here in America, but all over the world? Are doctors curing women of perfectly healthy fetuses because of a glitch in the system? All the questions make my brain hurt.

By the time we reach my car, Pete is already there, earbuds in his ears. Leela waves at him and heads off to her car. When we get home, Mom asks about our day. I give her the shortest version possible, then lock myself in my bedroom under the pretense of
so much homework
. Only instead of cracking open any of my text books, I alternate between staring at my ceiling, writing in my journal, thinking about Luka, and trying to block out all the craziness that has conspired over the past two days.

I don’t say much over dinner. Neither does Pete. Mom tries her best to draw us out of our shells, but eventually gives up and talks to Dad about the latest Safe Guard recall, which is always a headache. I do the dishes, retreat back to my room, and fall asleep somewhere in the middle of doing all the homework I should have done earlier.

That night, I have my first dream about Luka Williams.

*

The ocean is silent. It’s as if somebody has pushed the mute button on nature’s remote control. I’m standing on the rocky beach, staring out at the waves and there is nothing. No caw of seagulls. No crashing of waves. No spray against the rocks. No sound at all.

A soft lavender paints the sky overhead, but the sun is nowhere in sight—not in the west or in the east—so I cannot tell if it’s morning or evening. And there, straight ahead of me, is Luka, wearing a faded pair of blue jeans that fit him perfectly and the same white t-shirt he wore on my first day of school. The silent wind ruffles his hair. Walking toward him, I feel brave, almost reckless, because this isn’t real. I know that much without even having to scratch at my eczema. Oceans are not silent in the real world. I’ve lived by one or another long enough to be well-acquainted with their retinue of sounds.

In contrast to my buoyancy is his posture of alarm. He looks left, right, up, down, taking in our surroundings, as if at any moment the boogeyman will jump out and get us both.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

His eyes stop their frantic searching and he cocks his head in that way I’m beginning to associate with him. “Are
you
?”

I look around—besotted by our gorgeous surroundings. Everything is brighter and more vibrant—the green of the trees and the granite of the cliffs, the briny sea air, the immensity of the silent ocean. It’s as though turning off the sound has heightened everything else. “I’m
more
than okay, actually.”

His posture relaxes, but only after painstaking hesitation. “Well, this is different.”

Yes, it is. Incredibly different—instead of a nightmare, I’m in a dream I don’t want to end. “But nice.”

He nods slowly.

“I was thinking about you before I went to sleep. That must be why you’re in my dream.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s my dream,” he says. “Not yours.”

“I don’t think so.” I sense something warm nearby, but I can’t see it. Even so, its presence is this palpable, pulsing, undeniable thing—an invisible sun come down from the sky to share some of its energy. Or maybe it’s not energy, but courage. Because a question I’d never in a million years have the guts to ask in real life escapes without any hesitancy. “Remember the homecoming pep rally?”

His green eyes smolder.

“Did you see something in the gym?” I ask.

“Did you?”

I nod.

So does he. “Me, too.”

Even though this is just a dream, even though I’m totally projecting, my relief is intense and immediate. In dream world I am not crazy. “I see things like that sometimes. It’s why we moved.” The memory of the séance makes me shiver. It’s an unwelcome feeling in such a happy place. “I’m going to the Edward Brooks Facility because my parents think I’m crazy.”

He takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.

I shiver again, only this time, the shiver is not due to fear. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.”

He steps closer. “You’re not.”

But his voice sounds far away and the rocky sand beneath my feet sinks. I’m sinking, sinking, sinking until the sound returns. Wind whips my hair about my shoulders. Gone is the beach and Luka. I’m standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. I know because of pictures, not because I’ve ever been there before.

A girl stands on the ledge—she can’t be more than fifteen. Fear surges through me, because surely one big gust of wind will have her plummeting into the water below. That man stands beside her. The one with the pale skin and the greasy hair and the emaciated face. He taunts the girl. He whispers in her ear. “You are ugly,” he says. “Nobody loves you. Nobody wants you. Everybody would be happier if you were dead.”

The girl’s mascara runs black down her cheeks as she scoots closer and closer to the ledge and suddenly, I am angry. Pissed off. Seething, even. Because this man has pulled me away from Luka and he speaks words that scrape too close to home. I do not want this girl to believe any of it. I do not want her to jump on account of lies. The anger that tears through me is fierce and hot and before I can stop myself, I lunge at the man’s throat. Using every bit of strength, I tear him away from the girl and the two of us are falling off the bridge.

Falling, falling, falling …

He wraps his cold fingers around my neck and smiles a smile that is terrifying. “I knew you were a fighter.”

Interrogation

I
t’s the first time I’ve fought in a dream. You’d think I’d wake up empowered. Instead, I feel jittery and weak, like a diabetic in need of sugar. I saw Dr. Roth on Monday. He hypnotized me. And now I have had nightmares two nights in a row. It can’t be a coincidence.

A faint throb pulses in my temples—the beginnings of a headache—as I shuffle into the kitchen, wearing the same ratty jeans from yesterday and a slightly more respectable purplish gray sweater.

“Your eyes look stunning in that color,” Mom says.

I grab a bagel from the toaster.

She cups my chin and rubs her thumb beneath my eyes. “Still having bad dreams?”

My throat tightens. I’m so ready for this to be over. To outgrow these nightmares, if they are something I can outgrow. I pull away from Mom and pick up the butter knife next to the opened container of cream cheese while Dad crosses his ankle over his knee and holds the paper open wide. “Hard to believe it’s been sixteen years since Newport.”

Mom pours me a glass of juice and shakes her head, like she doesn’t even have words. Dad reads snippets of the article out loud. For some reason, it settles me. Puts things in perspective. I was only one when the attack happened, when a terrorist group bombed the Naval Underwater Warfare Center in Newport, Rhode Island, completely decimating an entire city. More people died than in Pearl Harbor and 9-11 combined.

Dad mumbles something about learning our lesson, then turns a page. “Looks like there was a close call last night on the Golden Gate Bridge.”

A glob of white falls off my knife.

He clucks his tongue. “What can be so bad in this world that would prompt a fourteen-year-old girl to try and kill herself?”

I grab the paper out of Dad’s hand.

Both of his feet come to the floor. “Tess!”

But I am not apologetic. I’m too busy ravishing the paper, looking for a picture. And there she is. April Yodel. Fourteen years old. The same girl from last night’s dream. The same girl being taunted by the man I wrestled off the bridge. Apparently, authorities reached her before she could jump.

“Honey?” Mom pulls down the paper and looks me in the face. “Are you okay?”

Dad stands from his chair. “You’re as white as a sheet, kiddo.”

I hand the paper back to Dad with icy fingers, my body trembling like an earthquake.

“Tess, you’re scaring us.” Mom cups my forehead like she used to do when I was little, and the worst life had to offer was a fever. “Sweetie, you’re as clammy as can be.”

First Dr. Chang and that nurse at a fetal modification clinic and now this girl—April Yodel. What is going on? What is happening to me? I clap my hand over my mouth, then turn around and run up the stairs. I am going to be sick.

*

Mom tries to convince me stay home from school, but I insist on going. I do not want to sit at home by myself. I cannot give myself too much time to think about any of this. The more I can keep my brain occupied, the better. And despite my slipping sanity, I want to see Luka. I want to work with him today in History.

So I take two Excedrin and I force myself to eat some crackers. Still, my hands shake like I have Parkinson’s. Pete stares at them the entire drive to school, like he doesn’t trust me behind the wheel. He turned sixteen last week. Maybe he should drive. As soon as I get to my locker, Leela descends with a bagful of questions. Someone told her the news.

You are partners with Luka?

You were talking outside the main locker bay?

What were you talking about?

How are you not more excited?

When I don’t answer coherently, she asks if I’m okay. I nod, focusing all my attention on getting to class and sitting down. Sitting down will be good.

We arrive before Luka. I rest my head in the crook of my arm and take deep, calming breaths. I don’t let myself think about the dream or that girl. Instead, I focus on breathing. I tell myself I am a normal teenager with a normal crush on the cute boy in school. Then I smell fabric softener and wintergreen and any hope for calming breaths swooshes away. Luka has taken the seat to my left, his hair so messy it looks as if he spent the morning raking his hands through it. Only he’s Luka, so he pulls it off. He glances at me, his jaw tight, something intense flashing in his eyes when ours connect. He looks like he’s going to say something or ask something, but I curl my fingers around the back of my neck and let my hair fall like a curtain between us.

The bell rings.

Mr. Lotsam writes on the white board, the tip of his dry erase marker squeak, squeak, squeaking as he does.
Newport. 16 Years.
And that’s when I see it. Darkness at first, like a mysterious shadow in the middle of the room, expanding and blackening, until all of a sudden, it’s the same figure from last night’s dream. The skeletal, frightening man with white, unseeing eyes. His mouth stretches into a sinister smile and without warning, he lunges at me.

I suck in a sharp, loud breath, close my eyes, and rear back in my chair—so forcefully I slam into the wall behind me. When my eyes pop open, the man is gone. My heart flutters like the wings of a hummingbird.

Leela stares. Luka stares. I’m pretty sure every single person in the classroom stares.

Did I fall asleep? Did I have a nightmare in class?