by Kevin Fox
…Or maybe she did.
Either way, I wasn’t going to. There was something about Rigan I didn’t trust. She knew too much about me, and I knew too little about her – so I averted my eyes. No matter how much I wanted to look.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know what I mean, Killian. You know who I am,” she said as she came in, sitting on the edge of the futon. Her eyes were on me the whole time, and when I looked up, she was staring right into my own. I glanced away again, but her hand gently touched my chin, bringing my eyes back to hers.
“I was there. You were there. You saved me.”
I sat up, sliding away from her. “It was a dream. Night terrors. Happens all the time. My subconscious makes ridiculous connections.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“My dreams are all wrong. They’re not what really happened. Joe Corrigan died in a car accident.”
“He didn’t. I was there. I wasn’t shot like you were, so I still remember,” she told me softly, as if I were mentally deficient because of a twenty-five-year-old brain trauma.
“Your scar. Behind your ear,” she continued. “They shot you.”
“That was from the car accident. I read the police reports,” I protested, unable to separate the dreams from reality anymore.
“The accident reports that were filled out by the same police who killed your uncle and left you for dead?”
“No. That’s not possible.”
“You know it is—you dream about it,” she said, sighing heavily. Finally, she leaned closer, her body close enough to feel its heat.
“Do you remember grabbing the tire iron, hitting the guy who was trying to rape me?”
I reacted to that, backing away again, but I was up against the wall, trying to make sense of how she could possibly know that. There was only one other person that knew the details of my dreams.
“Kat told you about that?”
“You think Kat would share anything with me? No.” Rigan made a good point. Kat wasn’t the type to share with a woman like Rigan.
“If not Kat, how do you know?”
“Because I am the girl in your dreams.”
She said it without a hint of irony. That left two possible options—either she was a dangerous woman who somehow knew the content of my dreams, or she was telling the truth.
I’m a thick Mick, and I’d spent a long time believing my night terrors were just that, so I was invested. To suddenly meet a very real flesh and blood woman from my dreams was too much to take.
“They’re not even really dreams, they’re nightmares.”
“If you want to waste time with definitions, they’re actually memories.”
“Memories I can prove. These I can’t,” I said, trying to get up and away from her. She didn’t take the hint and stayed where she was. I’d have to push past her to get off the futon.
“How do you tell the difference when you don’t have the facts?”
“I can’t. In the absence of proof, the most logical and simplest explanation is the most likely to be true.”
“So, start with some facts. When you dream, is it about me?”
Yes. I wanted to say yes. That was the first thought that popped into my head, that every dream I’d had for the last thirty-something years was in some way about her, the girl with freckles and green-flecked eyes. They had never been about Kat, no matter what I had once thought. I had always dreamt about Rigan, the beautiful woman who was here in a sheer shirt to save me from my nightmares and make me feel special. But why? Why her? And what did she want from me? Did she think I knew where the cargo from the plane was, the cash?
I had no idea, so I did what I always did when I had doubts. I deflected to buy myself some time.
“I dream about a girl… who might look something like you. But my dreams seem like they’re about someone else’s life. Nothing about them feels like they’re about the life I have now.”
“Of course not. I have that problem too. Before October of nineteen eighty-five, I lived a different life too.”
“And what life was that?”
“I was like Dariya and Alina. I was taken from a place I called home and was supposed to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“You were one of the kids my father saved from that plane?”
“Yes. Me, my little brother, a sweet boy who was my best friend, and a few others just like us. Irish orphans, the shameful reminders that even good Catholic girls had sex outside of marriage, we were raised by nuns and priests… But deep down, you already know all this.”
“Maybe. It still doesn’t explain everything. If you were one of those kids, why was I with you that night? Did you hide at my parents’ house? Did my father bring you home?”
“Yes, he brought me home with him… You won’t believe anything I say without physical evidence, will you? How about the scar on your right thigh?” she asked, pulling aside the blankets to reveal my bare legs and my boxers. I pulled them back over me quickly as she went on. “It’s from a cigarette lighter, right?”
Rigan pulled the covers away again, revealing my scar. I let her look, but when she touched it gently with two fingers, I pulled away.
“How did you know about my scar?”
“I know because I have this,” she said, pulling that nearly sheer shirt up over her thighs to reveal a scar that was the twin of my own—the way it appeared in my dreams. The only difference between them was that hers was on her left thigh. It looked as if it had faded over time so that it wasn’t raised and red any longer. It was now almost as pale as the rest of her creamy white skin. “They did it to both of us.”
I reached out to touch it, to see if it was real, but hesitated. Rigan didn’t. She pressed my hand onto her warm skin so that I could feel the tough, ridged scar as she slid closer to me, pressing the bare flesh of her left thigh to my right thigh, touching her scar to mine… I met her eyes then, and this close I could see the green and amber flecks, like moss over rich earth, amidst the blue. The pattern of her iris was unique, and I knew it by heart, as if I remembered it…
“We were friends, you and I, growing up in the care of the Church, the last of the Magdalenes. We did everything together, right up to the night they took us,” she told me, staring right into my eyes. “They broke your rib when you tried to stop them from hurting me. When you tried to stop them from torturing me and burning me with the lighter… Then they burned you, just to be cruel. They tortured both of us, like they’re going to be torturing Alina if we don’t find her.”
Her voice trailed off as the tears came, and I instinctively reached out and held her, thinking about Anton and what they’d done to him. Rigan cried into my chest, then held me tighter.
When I went to pull away she looked up at me and I felt her breath, warm, intermingling with mine… And then her lips were touching mine, soft and warm and sweet. It felt right, and comfortable, and like it was meant to be as she pushed me backward and the weight of her body pressed down firmly on me…
An hour later I found myself drinking the last of the milk straight out of the container, in spite of my mother’s warning—and I wasn’t even doing it just for spite. I was thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted in the best possible way… but still felt a deep and tender doubt in my mind about Rigan and her motives. She was the girl in my dream, but was she someone I should trust? At the moment, I had no proof, only theories. None of those theories were a good reason to sleep with Rigan in my father’s office, but then again… did I really need one? It was either a reunion of sorts, with an old friend—or a mistake with a whole new level of crazy attached. I was trying to decide which one it was when I felt something behind me, a presence in the darkness, just beyond the light pouring out of the refrigerator.
“You stink,” she said. I turned, startled, spilling milk down my chest.
“Kat…” I sighed as she stepped into the light, wearing nothing but a too-short t-shirt. “You scared me
.”
“Did I?” she asked, sniffing the air. She was staring at me in a way that made me glad her hands were visible. I had the distinct feeling she would have preferred to have a knife in at least one, if not both.
“What’s wrong?”
“You tell me. Is there something really wrong with me?”
“Excuse me?”
“You made it clear that you just want to be friends. That you don’t want a relationship—any relationship. Then this woman shows up, and hell, a few hours later you’re out here stinking of sex and replenishing your lost liquids with a gallon of milk. I’m just curious as to what’s wrong with me and why Princess Rigan, savior of the lost girls, is totally cool.”
“Kat. You don’t understand. I think I knew her before—”
“Is that the crap she sold you? She’s the little girl you lost in your dreams?” she asked, and my face gave me away. “Nice romantic fairy tale. I get it.”
“You don’t.”
“No? I’ve heard good sex before. That sounded exactly like good sex. Like long-lost little girl I once loved sex.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I be?” she asked, stepping closer and forcing me back against the counter, her body almost touching mine. She’d raised her voice a few decibels and didn’t seem to be aware that she was about to wake everybody up. All I needed now was for Rigan to hear this—or for my mother to emerge and catch me in my boxer briefs with Kat, drinking the last of her precious milk. Nightmare, either way. I was about to slip away from Kat when she put one hand softly on my milky chest, licked that finger, then smirked and sighed, resigned.
“And at the same time… No. I’m not jealous.” Her eyes met mine, pupils dilated, her look gentle, her breath warm, her voice smoky… “You should know me by now, Kill. The people I care about, I care about. I just want them to be happy, right?”
“If you say so,” I told her, unsure where this was going. She leaned into me, closer, making sure I felt all of her through the thin t-shirt.
“I do. I don’t know how to care about somebody and hope for anything but happiness for them,” Kat said and pushed away from me with a fist to my solar plexus. “So fuck you, I’m happy for you. You needed to get laid in a bad way.”
Now I was completely confused.
“So you’re not jealous?” I asked, hoping to clarify what version of crazy Kat was manifesting at the moment. She just shrugged, retreating back into the darkness of the living room. Her voice grew softer as she walked away, forcing me to follow her if I wanted to hear what she was saying.
“Disappointed, yes. I feel something for you. A weird kind of lust I’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s what you cisgendered straights call love. It doesn’t matter,” Kat told me as she sat back down on the couch with a look of acceptance that made me feel guiltier than I had in a long time.
“You’re the best person I’ve ever known,” Kat went on. “You always do the right thing. You didn’t take advantage of me when you could have—and you didn’t throw me out of your house when it would have been easy to do.”
“I’m sorry, Kat, but I’m glad you’re good with this,” I told her, sitting down next to her.
“No. Be clear. I’m not ‘good with this.’ I’m worried. I’ve seen Rigan’s type before. I’ve been her type. Little girl lost, who wishes that she were special and had some special person fate had set aside for her. But I got over that dream in tenth grade. The Morrigan in there is still living out some tweenie fantasy, with you cast as her long-lost prince.”
“That’s not what this is.” It was a weak attempt at self-defense. Kat had hit upon the same doubts I had.
“No? That woman is trying to heal some deep wound, isn’t she? Maybe she was an orphan. Maybe she did lose her family—but she’s fucking with you because she knows you can’t remember,” Kat said, turning to face me, intent, her thigh pressing up against mine. “You know, when you can’t heal whatever wound it is that’s bleeding her dry, it’s going to make it worse. Trust me, I know. Why do you think I take love where I find it? Because I learned the hard way that fairy tales and long-lost loves are just that—fairy tales.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Seriously. I know you care about me, even if you won’t show it,” she said, putting on hand on my thigh. “I know you think you’re protecting me by not ‘taking advantage’ of me—but I’m not the one who needs protection. You do.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re naïve. You slept with a stranger because you know there isn’t a chance in hell it lasts, so there’s no risk. You’re a child when it comes to this stuff. Maybe it’s because of what happened to you as a kid, or because of what you can’t remember—but it’s true. That woman in there has got deep dark shit going on, and when it all goes down, you’ll be the one who gets hurt by it.”
Kat’s voice had fallen to a whisper, and her lips were inches from mine in the darkness. I could feel her warm, sweet breath mingling with my own, and I wanted to do something to make her feel better. I unconsciously leaned in—only to be slammed by both of her hands, one in the hip and one in the shoulder, knocking me off the couch and onto the floor.
“Now get the fuck off my couch and let me sleep. I don’t know why you’re in here talking to half-naked me when you should be back in bed with the woman you just schtupped. It’s impolite.”
She was right. As usual.
“Good night, Kat.”
“The fuck it is.”
I went to kiss her forehead, just to show I appreciated her, but I almost got a kick in the nuts for it. I blew her a kiss instead and caught a glimpse of her grin in the dim light, and then went back to find Rigan. I should have felt great about the situation—Kat semi-approved, was still my friend, and there was a beautiful woman in my bed (well, on my parents’ futon, but still).
I didn’t feel great. Part of me wanted to go back to the couch with Kat, staying up to watch old movies, or at least play a couple of first-person shooters.
Maybe she was right. Maybe there was something wrong with me…
The light from the hall fell onto Rigan’s face as I opened the door, but she didn’t stir. She was sleeping peacefully, the sheet wrapped around her, one leg exposed—the leg with the scar. I could see it clearly, that minor imperfection on her thigh.
I moved closer, unable to resist the urge to trace the scar. Rigan stirred but didn’t wake, and I wondered what she dreamt of, and whether her dreams were just memories. Watching her sleep, her chest rising and falling, I wondered how I ever could have forgotten her, and how many times I had seen her in my dreams only to forget her again in the brief interval after I awoke.
It occurred to me that if I could fall asleep next to her, maybe the dreams would come, and maybe this time I’d remember, so I laid my head on her abdomen and closed my eyes. …I felt the soothing warmth of her skin as she breathed in and out, and I could hear her heart beating.
I lay next to her and she moved closer, the weight of one leg falling over mine. I didn’t want to close my eyes. Tonight, I didn’t want to dream. I just wanted to lie here and watch her.
I think I kept my eyes open for about two minutes…
Chapter Twenty
If I had any dreams that night, they had fled long before I woke.
For the first time I could remember, I woke up with warm sun on my face, well rested, and feeling like I had nowhere to go. I was home, but not because I was in my parents’ house, smelling bacon and eggs and something made with sweet batter. No, I was home because I didn’t wake up with the feeling that I was lost, or that I was forgetting the most important things and leaving them behind in dreams. And then there was the woman in my dreams…
She was lying next to me.
I could see the shape of Rigan’s body underneath the sheets, her auburn hair spilling across the pillow. I stared at it as it glistened in the early morning light.
I didn’t move, afraid that I’d wake her and in doing so somehow wake myself up from what still felt like a dream. I wasn’t surprised that Rigan was still out and still breathing the peaceful rhythms of sleep. I’d slept hard as well. It felt for the first time in a long time like some of my demons had left during the night.
…And then I remembered what I needed to do that day, and how many hours it had been since we’d last seen Alina. I got up quickly and wrote a note to Rigan: “Went to follow up a lead. Back in two hours. We can work on the GPS then.”
I pulled on some clothes, silently, listening to the low sounds of conversation and dishes rattling in the kitchen. It sounded like everyone else was awake. I’d need to be prepared for the usual harassment from my mother about being the last one up to help with breakfast. At least no one was yelling, and my mother wasn’t throwing us all out the door.
Yet.
It was still early.
When I entered the kitchen, I was thrown completely off-kilter by what I saw. My father was at the table with Dariya pulled up close next to him, looking more like the child she so recently was and a lot less like a sexualized young woman who Markov had kidnapped and held captive. She was peering over Dad’s shoulder as he sketched something with a pencil. My father hadn’t picked up a pencil in years despite being a natural artist, and he looked as if he hadn’t lost the touch. My mother was at the stove, making scrambled eggs, and Kat was buttering fresh-baked bread, piling it next to a plate full of pancakes.
The scene was almost as unreal as last night was to me. My father rarely relaxed enough to do anything other than zone out with the television or pace the living room, and my mother didn’t cook. She just didn’t. I remember her telling me as a child that the best thing she could do for me was to teach me how to “do it my damn self,” and how she always had a list of delivery places next to the phone. Still, it wasn’t just my parents that were acting out of character. Kat was smiling, helping my mother. Most of her piercings were missing, her hair was a mess and she had found old baggy sweats somewhere. It had the effect of making her look barely older than Dariya, somehow both innocent and fragile. It was all almost as disorienting as sleeping with a woman you might have known as a child, but couldn’t remember except from your dreams…
