by Lisa McMann
“Der.”
Janie smiles. “I—I found Henry’s house. I’m going to go back out there and try to learn more about him.”
“Sweet!” Carrie hops off the counter. “Can I come? I’ll drive.”
“Uh . . . ” Janie says. She wants to be alone, but after trekking out to Henry’s once already today, the thought of having a ride there and back is too tempting to say no. “Sure. Can you be ready to go, like, now?”
“I’m always ready to go. I’ll go start up the little diva and meet you in the driveway.”
2:50 p.m.
“So,” Janie says from the passenger seat of the ’77 Nova. “No plans with Stu tonight?”
“No.” Carrie frowns as she steers the car out of town, following Janie’s directions. “Why does everybody ask me that whenever they see me without him?”
“Because you’re almost always with him?”
“So? I am my own person too. Is that all there is to talk about? Where Stu is?”
Janie sticks her head out the window to catch the breeze on her face and hopes for no dreamers. “Are you guys fighting or something?”
“No,” Carrie says.
“Okay. So . . . when does school start for you?”
Carrie brightens. “Right after Labor Day. And it’s going to be a blast. Finally! I get to learn about something I actually want to learn about.”
“You’ll be the best in your class, Carrie. You got mad hair skillz.”
“I do, don’t I,” she says. “Thank you.” She turns her eyes from the road for a moment to look at Janie. They glimmer just a little. Maybe they’re just watery from the wind. Or not.
Janie smiles, reaches her arm around Carrie’s neck and gives her friend a little half-hug. Forgets that Carrie doesn’t get a whole lot more encouragement at home than Janie gets.
Carrie pulls Ethel into the bumpy driveway. Ethel protests in squeaks and groans, but Carrie presses onward. “Why the heck does he live all the way out here in freaking . . . freaking Saskatchewan?” Carrie says, giggling.
Janie doesn’t bother to point out that the nearest Canadian province is actually Ontario. Nor that they were going south.
Outside of the car, Janie goes immediately to the house as Carrie takes it all in—the overgrown bushes, the tiny, run-down cabin, the door left unlocked. “What, he doesn’t lock it?”
“He didn’t—at least not the last time he left.”
“Well, yeah, I can see that. It’s not like he lives in the ’hood, yadamean? Who comes way out here? It’d be a real crapshoot. People out here’d either pull a gun on you or invite you for pot roast.”
Carrie yammers on.
Janie ignores.
It’s all good.
3:23 p.m.
Janie goes directly to the computer. Carrie bumbles around the kitchen, snacking on raspberries from the refrigerator, but Janie doesn’t pay any attention. The computer, still on since she left in such a hurry earlier, takes forever to wake back up, and another forever to get online with the dial-up access.
The dialing noise makes Carrie look over at Janie. “What are you doing on his computer, Janers? That’s kinda, like, wrong, isn’t it?” Carrie stands in the kitchen, hands on cupboard doors, picking up things and setting them down again.
“Nah,” Janie lies. “He’s my father. I’m allowed.”
Carrie shrugs and moves on to the next cabinet.
Janie puzzles over Henry’s shop name. “Hey, Carrie, ‘Dottie’ is a nickname for ‘Dorothea,’ isn’t it?”
“How would I know?” Carrie says. And then, “Yeah, it sounds like it could be. And a hell of a lot easier to say than that mouthful.”
“Yeah,” Janie says, and then opens up a new window and Googles it. “Yep, it sure is.”
“What?” Carrie yells, now apparently sitting on the kitchen floor. Pans rattle.
“Nothing,” Janie says absently. “Just stop—whatever you’re doing. You’re making me nervous.”
“What?” Carrie yells again.
Janie sighs. Her finger hovers over the mouse, deciding. Finally, she drops it, opening Henry’s e-mail client.
Really feels like she’s snooping, now.
But just can’t help it.
Janie smiles, reading his kindly correspondence with his customers, trying to imagine him. Wishes she could have talked to him about all of this.
About his life.
But then a loud crash in the kitchen startles her again and she jumps up, frustrated. “Carrie, what the hell? Seriously, let’s just go, okay? Jesus Christ, I can’t take you anywhere!” Janie just wants to concentrate, to be able to savor these words. The interruptions are driving her crazy.
Carrie stands on the kitchen counter facing open cupboards, hanging on to a door. She peers over her shoulder looking sheepish as Janie stomps to the kitchen to survey the mess. “I love it when you call me Jesus Christ.”
Janie pinches her lips together, still mad, trying not to smile.
The crash wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Mostly just empty tins.
“Look what I found,” Carrie says, pulling a shoe box from the shelf. She hops to the floor. “Notes and stuff! Like a box full of memories.”
“Stop! This is so not cool.” Janie glances nervously out the window, as if the crash of tins in this quiet setting would bring sirens and squealing tires. “We should get out of here, anyway.”
“But—” Carrie says. “Dude, you’ve got to check this stuff out. It’s a bunch of clues to your past. The story of your dad. Aren’t you totally curious?” She stares at Janie. “Come on, Janers! What kind of detective are you, anyway? You should care about this. There’s some little pins and some coins and stuff, and a ring! But there’s also letters . . . . ”
Janie’s eyes flash, but she glances at the shoe box. “No. This is too invasive. It’s not . . . ” her voice falters.
“Come on, Janers,” whispers Carrie, her eyes shining.
Janie leans over and peeks into the box, gently moving a few things around. “No.” She straightens abruptly. “And I want you to stop snooping around.”
“Ugh! How boring.”
“Yeah, well, we’re sort of breaking the law here.”
“I thought you said—”
“I know, I know. I lied.”
“So we could get arrested? Oh, that’s just great. You remember I’ve done that once already, and I’m not interested in ending up in jail again—especially with you! Who would bail us out?” Carrie’s picking up the tins from the floor and shoving them back in the cupboard. “My parents would absolutely kill me. And so would Stu. Sheesh, Janie.”
“I’m sorry—look, it’s not like we’re going to get caught. Nobody even knows about the guy. Plus, I’m his daughter. That might get us out of a mess. Not that there will be one . . . . ” Janie sets the box of memories on the counter and hands the other cupboard items up to Carrie. She’s frustrated. Wishes she hadn’t brought Carrie here after all. She just wants to have some time alone to sift through things, to concentrate and figure things out.
But time is running out, Janie knows. She’s got to figure out how she can help Henry, before he dies. And maybe there’s a clue in the box.
Still, Janie’s above stealing. Physical items, anyway.
Janie sighs, resigned. “Let’s just go, Carrie.”
They go.
Janie’s fingers linger on the doorknob.
6:00 p.m.
She shuffles her feet up the driveway on Waverly, past the Beemer. “Hey.”
Cabel looks up from his seat on an overturned bucket. He’s painting the trim around the front door. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Hey,” he says. His voice is cool.
“You haven’t called me all afternoon.”
“You don’t answer when I call, so why should I bother?”
Janie nods, acknowledging that she’s a jerk. “So, how was the meeting?”
He jus
t looks at her. Those eyes. The hurt.
She knows what she needs to say. “I’m sorry, Cabe.” And she is. So, so sorry.
He stands. “Okay, thank you,” he says. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on with you lately?”
Janie swallows hard. She rips her fingers through her hair and just looks at him. Tilts her head and presses her lips together to stop them from quivering.
She can’t do it.
Can’t tell him.
Can’t say it. Can’t say, I’m leaving you.
So she lies.
“It’s all this stuff with Henry. And crap with my mother. I can’t handle anything more right now. I need some time to get things together.” She feels her eyes shift away from his. Wondering. Wondering if he can tell.
He’s quiet for a moment, studying her. “All right,” he says, measured. “I get that. Is there anything I can do?” He leans over and sets down his paintbrush. Comes down the steps to her. Reaches toward her face and fixes a lock of her hair that flopped the wrong way.
“I just need some time and—and some space. For a little while. At least until something happens with Henry. Okay?” She tilts her head up. Meets his eyes again. They stand there, face-to-face, each studying the other.
Then, she steps into him. Slips her arms around his waist. His shirt is damp with sweat. “Okay?” she asks again.
He takes her in. Holds her.
Kisses the top of her head, and sighs.
7:48 p.m.
Janie, on the floor, leaning up against her bed. Thinking.
She could just go to bed early.
Tempting.
Not.
8:01 p.m.
Janie eats her sandwich on the bus. Washes it down with water. Walks the two miles from the last bus stop to Henry’s house. At least it’s not so hot out. And there’s still plenty of light.
The sounds of the woods in the evening are louder than during the day. A mosquito flies furiously past her ear. Janie slaps her legs and arms as she walks. She’s gnawed by the time she gets there, especially after going down that long, overgrown driveway.
Inside the house, it’s decidedly cooler than it’s ever been. A decent breeze blows in and because of the trees, the little house has been in the shade for hours.
“Ahh,” Janie says when she’s inside, the door clicked shut behind her. Peace and quiet. A little house all her own. Janie looks around the place and imagines what it would be like to live here, without fear of anybody’s dreams.
Thinks Henry got it all just about right. To run a little Internet store, to have this serenity and nobody bothering you but Cathy the UPS driver . . . and Cathy’d never be sleeping.
She thinks about the money she’s been saving for years now, including the five grand from Miss Stubin. She thinks about the scholarship. She’d lose that, if she quit her job. If she isolated herself. But isn’t her eyesight worth losing a scholarship for?
Wonders if she could still pull it off on her own if she got a little Internet job.
Or.
What if she just sort of . . . inherited one?
Her skin gets goose bumps.
What if she took over for Henry—in everything?
She looks around, her mind turning. Hell, she practically ran the household already with her useless mother—she knows how to do it. Pay rent, get groceries . . . would anybody even notice, or care, if she just took over this place?
“Why not?” she whispers.
Janie takes a swig of water from her water bottle and just sits there, in the old, beat-up chair, surrounded by the sounds of night, consumed by her thoughts. Suddenly, the whole isolation option in Miss Stubin’s green notebook doesn’t sound so bad.
“I could totally get used to this,” she says softly to—happily!—no one. “Never getting sucked into dreams again.” She grins because it feels delicious.
And then she stops.
“Maybe I could still see Cabe,” she whispers.
She imagines it, spending candlelit dinners together here, or maybe lunch if he can get away from classes. Hanging out a few hours a day . . . making out and being together. Just not during sleeping hours.
It sounds good.
For about five minutes.
And then she thinks about years to come.
There’s no way they could ever live together.
There’d be no babies, no family unit, ever. Janie couldn’t risk that if she intends to keep her eyesight—having a dreaming child would totally wreck her. Besides, there’s no way Janie would pass this dream catcher curse along to anybody.
She’s okay with that.
But what does it mean for Cabe?
His future, in a nutshell:
• live elsewhere
• spend a couple hours a day hanging out at the shack
• never marry
• never have children
• never spend a night with the woman he loves
She pictures their time together, what it would be like, day in and day out. Stagnant. Cabel coming over for an obligatory two hours while he juggles school, his house, his job.
Janie knows it would be hell for Cabe.
It would be like visiting hours at Heather Home.
They’d end up talking about crossword puzzles and the weather.
And he’d do it too. He’d stay with her. Even though it would totally wreck his entire life.
That’s just the kind of guy he is.
Janie slams her fists down into the La-Z-Boy arms.
Lets her head fall back.
Whispers to the empty room,
“I can’t do that.”
9:30 p.m.
She looks through all Henry’s things. His business records. Notes to himself, grocery lists. Pamphlets on migraines. And online, a plethora of medical websites bookmarked, along with sites that offer ways to deal with pain.
She wonders, if he’d had insurance, and if they’d caught the tumor, or aneurysm, or whatever, early . . . if she’d still have him.
But she wouldn’t have met him, that way.
She thinks about him, pulling his hair out, clutching his head. The frozen look of agony on his face. Wonders if he’s still in so much pain, lying helpless in the county hospital, now. Thinks about how he begged her for help. She talks to the holistic words on the screen. “I wish I knew how to help you, Henry. I guess . . . I hope you just let go soon, so you can be done with it.”
Janie peels her warm, sticky thighs from the plastic kitchen chair seat and looks around the small living room. Imagines him here in this tiny, cozy house away from the noise, the people.
She walks over to the kitchen, where the box that Carrie found still sits on the countertop. Janie’s tempted to go through it. Go through the letters that very nearly beckon to her in the light breeze from the open window. But.
Two things.
She doesn’t want to read some intimate icky love letter written by her alcoholic, sorry excuse for a mother. And.
She doesn’t want to feel sorry for Henry more than she already does.
She’s had enough heartache, thanks very much. Enough trouble. Enough of just getting to know someone who understands, right before they go and die.
She’ll gladly take over things here. But she’s not going to love him. It’s too late for that. He’s too far gone. And she’s got enough heartache coming just around the corner.
Janie takes a deep breath. Shakes her head. Pushes the box back into the cupboard where Carrie found it.
She tidies up the house so it looks just like it did the first time she saw it. Turns off the computer and the lamp and stands there in the dark, listening to the quietness. Wishing for it—wishing for this kind of peace in her life. And knowing now that she can have it, once Henry dies. This place where she can let down her guard. And live. Where she doesn’t have to worry about catching anybody’s dream.
Something deep inside her longs for it, more than the longings for anything else. Even Cabe.
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Maybe it’s a survival technique.
Or maybe, as it’s been all along up until she met Cabe, she’s really just a loner. Will always be a loner.
It certainly looks that way.
And so she sits down again in the old chair, in the dark, in this sanctuary. Wondering what her life will hold. Wondering how she’ll care for her mother, and why she even has to—maybe Dorothea needs to fend for herself from now on. Maybe Janie’s just been enabling her all this time.
Living peacefully like this. Keeping her eyesight. She looks down at her fingers. They cast long shadows in the starlight from the open window. Janie wiggles her fingers and their shadows splash in her lap.
She smiles.
And though Captain will be disappointed, and will have to take the scholarship back, she knows Captain would never blame Janie for wanting to try to live a normal life. Janie knows deep down that it will all be okay.
She’ll miss seeing Captain and the guys. That’s sure.
“Well,” she says softly to her hands, flexing her fingers and clasping them together in her lap. “It’s decided. Isolation. My choice.”
God, it feels good to say it out loud.
Even though it’s a lot scary.
There’s just one last loose end that Janie’s got to tie up before she quits catching dreams altogether. One last puzzle to solve.
It seems fitting to end it this way.
Although it’s bound to be the worst one of her entire life.
Janie sucks in a deep breath and lets it escape, making her lips vibrate. She’s scared. More scared now to go back to the hospital than she was when she had to go to Durbin’s party. More scared than when that strange boy named Cabel first fell asleep in the school library and dreamed of a monster man with knives for fingers.
But.
But.
This is also Janie’s last chance to see, and say good-bye, once and for all, to Miss Stubin.
Close the door, as they say. It’s fucking painful to think about.
But Janie’s going to get through this, figure out how to help Henry, and get it done in one shot, even if it kills her.
Er . . .
Well, hopefully not “kills her.” That would ruin everything. Yeah.
