Waking Nightmares (10 page)
Authors: Christopher Golden
She looked up and saw the hurt in his eyes before he smiled to mask it.
“You banged it a bunch of times,” he said. “Did the doctor say if you have a concussion?”
Amber almost apologized—the words were on her lips—but then she would have had to explain aloud what she was apologizing for, and it would just get incredibly awkward. If Ben was willing to let it go, she wouldn’t argue.
“Actually, he said it was amazing I
don’t
have one,” she said, smiling and putting a hand to her temple. “I do feel kind of weird, though. Not myself, y’know?”
don’t
have one,” she said, smiling and putting a hand to her temple. “I do feel kind of weird, though. Not myself, y’know?”
Would that work? Would he understand what she was trying to say? Amber did like Ben, and maybe—despite Tami’s teasing—she had felt a spark here today, after all the time they’d known each other. But it had already been a long day and she was tired. Now wasn’t the time to act on emotions she might not still have when she woke up in the morning.
“Hey, you’ve had a traumatic day,” Ben said.
She rubbed his arm, smiling. “Thank you, again.”
For letting me off the hook,
she thought.
Today’s just not the day.
she thought.
Today’s just not the day.
“No problem,” Ben said. “Now, come on. Let’s get you back to campus so you can get your car, and you can figure out how you’re going to explain today to your family.”
Amber rolled her eyes as they walked toward the door.
“God, you had to remind me? My mother will be grilling me about it. But it’s all right. Mostly, I just didn’t want to talk to them until I knew what was wrong with me. I didn’t want them worrying until I found out if there was something to really worry about. My Gran especially. I love her, y’know, but she torments my mother about the way she’s raising me.”
Ben laughed. He had met Gran before and knew exactly what Amber was talking about.
“I’d invite myself over for some of your mother’s cooking, but I don’t think I want to be around there tonight.”
Amber smiled. “It’ll be all right. If I know my mother, she’ll keep the whole thing a secret from Gran. She doesn’t want to hear a lecture any more than I do.”
Gran had strong opinions about what was appropriate for a young woman, especially where wardrobe was concerned. It didn’t help that she spoke only a little English, even after all of her years in the United States. Gran—her mother’s grandmother—had been born in Italy, and everything about her was still “old world.” But Amber loved the ninety-four-year-old woman and indulged her as much as she could.
“Maybe another night, though,” Amber said, glancing at Ben. “Next week?”
He seemed to pause, as though to decide if he should read anything into the invitation. They’d known each other since the first week of classes, freshman year, but for the first time there was this odd dance going on between them. Amber knew it was dangerous—that it could threaten their friendship—but she liked it.
“Sounds good,” Ben said.
The doors shushed aside and the cool, late-afternoon breeze swept in, tousling Amber’s hair.
“Cool,” she replied, linking arms with him as she marched him out onto the sidewalk. “Onward, then. To my car, driver! With a Starbucks stop on the way!”
“I don’t think so,” Ben said as they headed for the parking lot. “Professor Varick said all the caffeine you drink might have caused your seizure. Did you ask the doctor about that?”
Amber could have said no and been telling the truth. She hadn’t asked, but the doctor who treated her had brought it up as a possible explanation.
“I don’t even drink that much coffee,” she said. “Only in the morning. Usually. They’re just saying that because it’s convenient when you don’t have any real answers.”
“Maybe you should stick with that story,” Ben suggested. “If you tell your family the doctors don’t know what caused it—”
“Oh, crap. You’re right. They’ll haunt me every second.”
Ben dislodged his arm from hers and fished out his keys. “I’ll stop on the way if you promise to get decaf.”
“Deal!” she said happily.
But her smile turned to concern when she spotted the figure leaning against the building ahead. Blond and tan, a Red Sox T-shirt stretched across his muscular chest, Tommy Dunne looked as unhappy as she had ever seen him. He took a long drag on a cigarette and blew out the smoke, radiating anger.
“Tommy?” Amber said.
The kid looked up, and in that anger, she saw that he wasn’t a kid anymore. He had been two years behind her in school, and their backgrounds were completely different, but he had dated her friend Alyss for a few months during his freshman year, and she had always enjoyed talking to him. Tommy Dunne had turned out to be pretty soulful for a pot-smoking skate punk.
“Amber,” he said. “Hey.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”
He took another drag and let the smoke come out with his words.
“My dad. We were out in the boat today and he had some kind of . . .” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Fuck if I know, really. The nurse kept using the word
episode
, like that really means anything. Now they’re saying he had a minor heart attack, but that’s not all that’s wrong with him. He’s not really talking.”
episode
, like that really means anything. Now they’re saying he had a minor heart attack, but that’s not all that’s wrong with him. He’s not really talking.”
Amber stared at him. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” she said, thinking maybe what had really happened to Norm Dunne was a stroke, and what a shame that was. The man was so young. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you need, from the house?”
Tommy’s expression softened, showing the sadness and worry underneath.
“I’m good. Thanks,” he said. “But it’s wicked nice of you to offer.”
“You have my cell?” Amber asked.
Tommy didn’t, so she gave it to him and he keyed it into his phone.
“Call me if there’s anything I can do. If your dad’s going to be in a while, my mom will want to make you some meals, at least.”
The suggestion that his father might not be released from the hospital that day seemed to trouble him deeply.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m sure he’ll be coming home tonight. Or tomorrow, at the latest.”
“I’m sure he will,” Amber said, because it was the sort of thing one said.
She touched Tommy’s arm and he thanked her, and then she and Ben set off for the parking lot again. When she glanced back, she saw Tommy flick his cigarette onto the sidewalk and hurry back into the hospital.
“Poor guy,” she said.
“How do you know him?”
“An old friend,” Amber told him. “It’s a small town. We’re all old friends around here.”
But as they drove back to campus, those words rang hollow. Small patches of chaos had erupted all over town. Somehow, the entire system of traffic lights in Hawthorne had malfunctioned at once, so that every single one of them had turned green simultaneously, causing dozens of accidents.
Police cars were everywhere, some cops directing traffic while others took statements and broke up arguments. As Ben drove carefully through the intersection of Franklin Street and Harbor Road, Amber watched a screaming woman slap a man across the face. She thought she recognized the woman as a pharmacist down at the Rite Aid. One stupid malfunction, and Hawthorne had started to unravel.
All in all, it had been a crazy day.
No matter how many times Tami asked, she was definitely staying in tonight.
CHAPTER 4
HERBIE’S
Beachside Diner opened its doors in the spring of 1957 and had been a landmark in Hawthorne ever since—more than fifty years of serving legendary breakfasts, passable burgers and fried clams, thick ice cream frappés, and possibly the world’s greatest onion rings. Herbie Barbour had passed away in ’99, leaving the business to his grandson, whom most people called Little Joe, and since the fire in ’01 and the relocation to Sandpiper Road, it wasn’t technically “beachside” anymore, but its reputation remained, mostly thanks to Little Joe Barbour’s skill in the kitchen.
Beachside Diner opened its doors in the spring of 1957 and had been a landmark in Hawthorne ever since—more than fifty years of serving legendary breakfasts, passable burgers and fried clams, thick ice cream frappés, and possibly the world’s greatest onion rings. Herbie Barbour had passed away in ’99, leaving the business to his grandson, whom most people called Little Joe, and since the fire in ’01 and the relocation to Sandpiper Road, it wasn’t technically “beachside” anymore, but its reputation remained, mostly thanks to Little Joe Barbour’s skill in the kitchen.
Little Joe had never been on a motorcycle in his entire life, unless he counted the little dirt bike his cousin Ronnie had owned when they were teenagers. But he knew that to the untrained eye, he looked an awful lot like a biker. Six and a half feet tall, barrel chested and bearded, he cut an imposing figure, and though he spent most of his time back in the kitchen, if local kids or just-passing-throughs started acting up in the diner, just an unamused glance through the serving window was usually enough to settle things down. Little Joe was unlikely to break anyone in half, but he most certainly looked capable of it, and he used that imposing presence to keep the peace when necessary.
Most of the time, though, people were too busy enjoying their food to raise any ruckus.
Which was why he frowned deeply that Wednesday afternoon when he heard shouting from the front of the diner. He had burgers and some chicken on the grill, clams and fries and rings all frying, and his kitchen help—Anthony and Bonita—were too busy with salads and sides and desserts to take over for him. He didn’t have time for distractions. Still, this was his place of business, and he couldn’t ignore it, so he flipped a couple of burgers, turned down the burner, and moved to peer through the serving window, over the tops of a couple of sandwiches Bonita had plated and left there, ready for pickup. One of the sandwiches smelled funny, and he wrinkled his nose and looked down at them, thinking that, actually, maybe both of them smelled funny.
“It’s not just the coffee,” a voice barked out in the dining area. “Yeah, the cream you brought me is fuckin’ curdled, but that ain’t it. This chicken salad tastes like shit. The mayonnaise is spoiled.”
Little Joe didn’t recognize the guy raising the ruckus, but he sized him up quickly. Short . . . graying . . . uptight. The guy’s wife looked embarrassed to be seen with him, and Little Joe saw their whole lives in that tiny sliver of a moment. She was trying hard, but they barely knew how to communicate anymore. They were married but couldn’t stand each other. Given the arrogant whininess of the guy, he sided with the wife immediately.
But he could read their dynamic well enough to tell that the husband would be paying the bill, so as long as the guy didn’t abuse anyone, Little Joe had to make sure he was treated like any other customer—and that meant fresh food and coffee with cream that hadn’t gone sour. Fortunately, Felicia was waiting on him, and though she wouldn’t take any crap, she also knew how Little Joe felt about the food they served.
It might not be good for you,
Herbie Barbour had been fond of saying in the old days,
but I guarantee it’ll taste good
.
It might not be good for you,
Herbie Barbour had been fond of saying in the old days,
but I guarantee it’ll taste good
.
“Sorry about that, honey,” Felicia told the man, putting on a sweetly mystified expression. “Never had that happen before. But we’ll get you squared away. They’ll make up a fresh batch of chicken salad, too.”
“I’ll pass,” the angry little man said. “Let me have a chicken Caesar salad instead. That should be safe enough.”
Little Joe thought he caught Felicia smiling, but things were starting to sizzle too loudly on the grill and he didn’t want to create more disgruntled customers by burning a bunch of dinners. He went to work, scraping and flipping and spicing, dousing some chopped-up chicken with teriyaki sauce. Quick as he could, he started plating some of the meals. Anthony appeared at his side to help out, the skinny little Honduran kid snatching order tickets off the line and supplementing Little Joe’s burgers and chicken with fries or rings. He added two huge orders of clams and started loading it all up onto the shelf of the serving window.
“Cassie! Order up!” Anthony called. “Brian! Order up!”
Bonita muttered something behind them, at the sandwich station. Little Joe didn’t catch it at first, but then she swore.
“Boss, you better come look at this,” she said.
“Just a second,” Little Joe said. He wiped his arm across his forehead to dry the sheen of sweat that had begun to build up there. Then he reached up to spin the rack above the grill where the wait staff clipped the order tickets and snatched the next order down. Western omelet and hash browns. Herbie’s Beachside Diner had been offering breakfast all day long for more than half a century, but Little Joe had never understood people who ate pancakes or omelets at dinnertime.
“Boss?” Anthony said.
His tone made Little Joe frown. The kid bent over to peer through the serving window. Little Joe could hear more voices raised out in the dining room, and he wondered if the little Napoleon out there was still bitching about the meal he’d already sent back.
“Just a second,” he repeated. He’d fallen a bit behind and now had to catch up in order to keep everything running smoothly. He wiped his hands on his food-stained apron and opened the fridge under the counter to his right, pulled out three eggs—fingers splayed like he might start juggling them—and banged the fridge shut with his knee.
He kept a section of the grill dedicated to breakfast foods. The last thing he’d cooked, maybe half an hour before, had been pancakes, but he always kept the heat on low so he wouldn’t have to start with a cold surface. He turned the burner up higher on that section of the grill, dropped a pad of butter in the center, and cracked the first egg—one-handed, the way his granddad had taught him when Little Joe was only nine.
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