We Awaken (4 page)

Ashlinn looked stricken. “I think I’ll just tell him the first bit, about her being great.”

I nodded in accordance. That was probably for the best.

That devastated look would not leave her face. It was obvious she was fond of me for some unknown reason, but this sadness seemed oddly intense considering she felt like a stranger.

“Victoria, I…,” she said, reaching out to me, but I turned my face from her with an upraised hand.

“Don’t.”

She nodded and gently asked, “And what of your father?”

Don’t make me say it.

“Dead,” I croaked out toward the floor. She gasped.

“I visit his grave every week. Reeves wasn’t the only one we lost that day.” I turned my head up toward her.

“I am so sorry—”

“I don’t want to talk about it please. And—” I stopped, ashamed of what I wanted to ask her to do for me. It would have been nice to demand she not tell Reeves, so he could remain in blissful ignorance, but that just wouldn’t be fair. If he were out there somewhere, he deserved to know the truth. Actually, so did I.

“You know what? Never mind. But now that I’ve answered your question,” I continued, with some deserved ire, “will you please tell me how the hell you’re talking to my brother?”

She was obviously still upset from hearing about my father’s mortality. That got to us all. It made me wonder what she had heard of him from Reeves. I wished I hadn’t stopped her from reaching out to me. It was just her pitying words I had been attempting to cut off.

Ashlinn was obviously reluctant to answer my question but seemed to feel a bit guilty.

“Okay, your brother has been in a coma for a little over a year, asleep. I’m not sure if you’ve figured out what I do yet, but you must have deduced that I can wander through dreams. To be more precise, I create the dreams.” She took a break and I nodded for her to continue.

“When I look at the sleeping mind of a human being, their happy memories, aspirations, and wishes float to the top, and I make situations out of them. Settings in which their minds can work out whatever the day threw at them. Now that you know what I do, it can’t be too difficult a leap to figure out how I have been communicating with your brother. He has little else to do but live in the worlds I create for him. We’re actually quite close, and he has said marvelous things about you. Definitely meeting expectations up to this point, dearie. There are blank spots in his memory, but you’re in many of the snatches of his past I’ve had the privilege to work with.”

I didn’t even want to start thinking about what memories she had seen, but apparently they had to have been nice ones. If her words hadn’t been so shocking, maybe I would have been able to appreciate how low her voice was. Those were the most words I’d heard her speak thus far. Ashlinn was her voice: sedate and calm, an oasis from our explosive world with its sobs and clattering metals.

“So you make the good dreams?”

“Not exactly. I just knit together the nice backgrounds and fill them with people. You guys dictate the rest of it.”

I remembered what she had said last night about The Kingdom. “Are you really the sandman? That was one of the stories I used to tell Reeves when he was younger. He adored it. The man who gave children beautiful dreams with a rainbow umbrella.”

I looked accusingly into the seat next to me at the parasol she still had on her arm, now propped up on the armrest of another chair.

“I’m not a man, and I have yet to get involved with any sand. Well, apart from the beaches I bring people to, as you should recall. Reeves asked me a similar question. Whoever wrote that tale probably based it on me.” She sounded charmed, verging on smug.

“That story has got to be centuries old. Aren’t you a teenager?”

She looked like a sixteen-year-old, with flawless dark skin and no sign of any wrinkles. Again I lamented the hood as I couldn’t see the color of her hair but had every confidence in it not being gray.

“I have no idea. Time passes differently in dreams. How else would you be able to fit so much in one night? It’s been a while since I’ve looked in a mirror, but not much has been changing for as long as I can remember.”

There was so much to ask her. The more questions she answered the more they inspired. Queries were popping up like daffodils in my mind, but before I could ask another she clapped her hands as if to signal a subject change.

“So,” she exclaimed loudly, interrupting any words I was about to speak, “we are in a theater with a wonderful stage, and I have been reliably informed that you are a ballerina. Now, I have a certain affinity for watching ballet. Dance a little something for me. We should have time.” Her demeanor shifted, and excitement brimmed in her voice and gestures.

Someone was definitely looking for a diversion. Too bad she also seemed extremely genuine.

“I don’t have my outfit or my music, and that stage is pitch black.”

She almost seemed disappointed in my excuses, like she expected me to do better. With a snap of those elegant fingers, every qualm I had voiced was attended to, and I looked down to see skin-tone pointe shoes, much nicer than my actual pair, already tied on with ribbons crisscrossing over nylon-sheathed legs. There was a leotard composed of the same fabric as her dress, and likewise it couldn’t decide on a color. Looking up revealed the stage to be brightly lit, although the source of such light was a mystery, and it was pristine. Far too new in comparison to the rest of the building.

“What about the music?” I asked in a last-ditch effort to avoid performing for an audience of one extremely distracting individual.

“You don’t need it.”

She pushed me out of the chair and toward the stage while extending her own legs out to recline.

The shoes were so comfortable it was actually alarming. The pain that came with pointe was worrisome but grounding, and I had the veins to prove it. Now I could hardly even tell there was anything on my feet.

At first I inched toward the stage, feeling exposed in my outfit, even though I often donned less in front of much larger crowds. Determined not to make a fool of myself, my steps became more sure as I trod up the three stairs to the stage. Ashlinn gave me an encouraging thumbs-up from where she sat.

God, I was about to perform for the freaking sandman.

Who was probably magical.

And may or may not have a crush on me.

It really shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise that I began making excuses for what she was about to witness, even though my dancing was the one thing I felt confident about.

“I only have about twenty seconds choreographed, and it’s gonna look really stupid without the music. I’m working on it now for my conservatory auditions, which aren’t for another two weeks, so I have reason enough to not be done.”

I was babbling, but the words wouldn’t cease. My voice might not even have been reaching her side of the theater. Thankfully, she interrupted me.

“I’m sure it’s fantastic, and if it isn’t, rest assured that I’ve seen worse. Just dance before the morning interrupts this lovely date.”

Date?

I closed my eyes, pretending I was preparing to dance, but honestly my brain just needed to recuperate from her last statement. Every thought was ringing with the word
date
on repeat, and I could only hope that my nervousness over that single syllable wasn’t overly apparent. I took a deep breath and began.

With fluid motions my legs carried me over the stage, and silence permeated the air save for my footfalls.

Am I ready to date? What if she expects me to kiss her?

My eyes met the ceiling and the walls, but I never dared to look down to the seats below.

Do I even really know her? She seems to know me.

With liquid arms I went up into my first arabesque, and then they became rigid with downturned elbows as my leg lifted up behind me.

She isn’t even real.

Balance. I already felt idiotic without the music guiding every step, and my movements seemed increasingly inelastic without the external notes to focus on.

The dance continued, and I transitioned into a chassé. My mind kept wandering to who was watching me, and I was struck once again with the realization that she had called this a date, something I had never experienced before and obviously did not know how to handle. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, my feet faltered and I fell to the black floor.

The stage was even beneath my hands, unnaturally so. There were no ridges or bumps, and it was impossible to differentiate the planks of wood. The paint was perfectly intact with no sign of any chipping, which just didn’t seem right. Kneeling on the stage, I lifted my palms expecting them to be inlaid with grit, but they were perfectly clean. This whole scenario was horrifying, something that could send anyone sane into a fit of wheezing, but before any such hysterics could begin, I found myself prostrated before a shadow.

My gaze crept up from the floor and toward Ashlinn, who was reaching out for me. The golden light around her was so bright it masked her face and every expression on it, leaving her disappointment to the imagination.

When did she get on stage?

I moved to start standing on my own when she lunged forward and grabbed both of my hands, hauling me up. We tottered backward but managed to remain upright.

“Sorry,” I murmured, staring at where she held my limp hands.

“What for?” she asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

“I mean, I messed up.”

“Messed up?” she said with impressively feigned confusion. “Why, I thought it was all part of the performance. A signal for me to cut in.”

With that, she repositioned my hands onto her waist while hers found its way to my shoulder. Before I even knew what was happening she began dragging me around like a whirlwind, and I finally understood what Dorothy made all the fuss about at the start of
The Wizard of Oz
. I half expected to see a woman on a bike fly by. My confused feet followed along. If they hadn’t, I surely would have been dragged. She was moving backward in circles, leading me over every inch of the stage.

And I was laughing. Giddy bursts of giggles that made my ribs ache from the inside, but there was no stopping this girl.

“What kind of dancing is this?” I managed to get out between silent snorts.

She hummed, looking down at our feet as if trying to figure it out herself. “I’d say it’s a mix between square and tango. Let’s fix that.”

She released one of my hands, spinning me out dizzily as a human yo-yo.

“How do you feel about swing?” she asked, pulling me back in and reclaiming both my hands, except this time my back was to her front.

“Ambiguous, I guess.”

“Let’s make you love it, then. Time to Charleston.” She lightly tapped the back of my right foot with her own and, getting the message, I kicked up my own leg as hers followed, although not nearly as high. Remembering the old Hollywood musicals I had once been enamored with, I stepped back with my left foot and, thankfully, didn’t land on her toes. We were moving as one, arms working like the wheels of a train. It had been so long since I’d danced anything other than the precise moves of ballet, where perfection was the sole endgame. That was necessary, like the blood flowing from my heart to my head, but this was more. This was fun.

Ashlinn’s voice came from behind me, bringing on the realization that this was the first time I had danced with a partner in God knows how long, and she wasn’t even out of breath. Well, neither was I.

“I’d throw you between my legs like the professionals, but I think this dress would get in the way, so we’ll just have to make do with this.”

Without further ado, she stopped her kicking and grabbed my waist, and before any protestations could be made, I was being hurled into the air. As I floated out of her arms, practically parallel to the ceiling, the dream unfurled around me. Consciousness began to sap away the hazy quality and drag me into drab reality, but I could swear there was applause, and maybe even a whispered thank-you.

Oh, Ashlinn, you’re so welcome.

SUNLIGHT HIT
my eyelids, and I blinked my eyes open blearily. The only thoughts rolling around in my skull had to do with the old theater in town where I had my dance recitals until it was closed for good and abandoned. Ellie and I sneaked in there once a few years later, one summer morning before our teenage years had taught us fear.

Groaning angrily, I rolled over so my back was toward the window. A dream. I definitely had a dream. I closed my eyes yet again, not expecting to get any more sleep, but after a few seconds, they shot open as I began recalling what had happened just before waking.

Ashlinn. I remembered her and how she grinned like the Cheshire cat. We had a date. Holy shit. I went on a date in a dream with a mildly mythical figure who couldn’t possibly exist. And we were swing dancing. I silently applauded my imagination for its overactivity last night.

It was the first day of summer, and I had nothing going on. There was a desire to not move out of bed all day, which was starting to seem more likely as I heard Mother walking around downstairs. The floors and walls did little to block the noises in the house, instead just adding to them with their own creaks and groans, and I could hear her high-heeled shoes click on the kitchen’s tile floors. Not wishing to make small talk, I decided to stay in bed until the garage door opened and closed, signaling her exit. As I lay there listening to her rustling, I did my best to recall the dream. Images like puzzle pieces scrambled themselves in my memory.

A collage of dancing and gold filigree and laying my hands on her waist. We had spoken of Reeves. I almost began to accept that I’d finally gone round the bend and this was my mind’s way of pretending my brother wasn’t as much of a goner as my father. My ex-therapist had said we all deal with grief in different ways. Maybe mine was manifesting itself as a fantasy world in my head. One where coma patients could send messages through flirty dream makers.