While I talked I tore pieces of paper toweling off the roll to wipe the orange oil up from the counter, reducing my composition to a fatty orange smear, obliterating its secrets forever.
“I’m going to bed,” Mom said at last. She came around the island to kiss me on the forehead, her lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual, as if she was too tired to remove them. “Don’t stay up too much longer, Jesse.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
She gave me a hug, and I returned it, knowing as I did so that all my hugs counted double because of the issue with Tommy.
“And don’t forget,” she said as she exited the kitchen. “We have that appointment at the lab tomorrow. I’ll pick you up right after school.”
My heart skipped a beat. But Mom was looking the other way by then and did not see the expression of dismay on my face.
Jeez. I’d forgotten all about the lab appointment.
I could always pretend to be sick tomorrow. If I could convince Mom that I had some kind of bug—maybe the one that laid Tommy low today—she wouldn’t want me to get within ten miles of a medical facility. There were way too many people with compromised immune systems in a place like that, she would say. Best for everyone’s health that I stay home.
But Mom wasn’t looking forward to our lab appointment any more than I was, especially as she’d had to give up a shift at work to make time for it. Making her go there alone, with no one to help distract her in the waiting room or offer her emotional support afterward, would be the height of selfishness.
It’s going to be all right, I told myself. Mom said nothing could possibly go wrong, didn’t she? This is all just a formality.
With a sigh I headed off to bed, knowing that I probably wouldn’t sleep a wink all night. Goth spies at the windows. Crazy paranoid father ruining all our lives.
Welcome to a day in the Drake household.
2
MANASSAS
VIRGINIA
DOORS.
More doors.
Doors all around me, as far as the eye can see. They’re scattered randomly about the landscape, identical in form, stark in aspect. Like tombstones with doorknobs. Each one is set in a wooden frame, but the frame connects to nothing. No walls surround these doors, no houses support them, and they seem to have no purpose. Beneath them is a smooth black floor that glistens like polished glass; around them there is only darkness.
What is this place?
Some of the doors stand alone in the darkness; others seem to be gathered in clusters, carefully arranged, as if the houses they’d once belonged to had been lifted up and carried away, leaving them behind. In their arrangement I can see the ghostly echoes of rooms and hallways. And yet even that isn’t quite right. Because all the doors are facing me. The ones that are alone, the ones that are in groups—every single one of them facing me. Whatever purpose these doors were meant to serve, it centers around me.
A shiver runs up my spine.
Part of me knows this is a dream. And God knows, I’m used to strange dreams. Some of mine are so weird that Tommy can’t even share them with his gaming buddies. That’s the highest bar there is for weirdness.
But though this dream may be tame in appearance, something about its essence chills me to the bone. For a moment I’m frozen in place. I know these doors are significant, but I’m not sure I want to find out why.
But in the end curiosity wins out over caution, and I walk hesitantly toward the nearest one. The black floor is cold beneath my bare feet, as if I’m walking on ice. Though it’s dark all around me I can see the doors clearly; they are exuding a strange mystical light that renders them visible, while leaving the surrounding landscape in darkness. Really creepy.
Then I’m standing in front of one of them. I draw in a deep breath, bracing myself to confront whatever might be behind it. This is only a dream, I remind myself. As if that ever helps.
I put my hand on the doorknob—smooth metal, ice-cold to the touch—and slowly turn it. I hear the latch snick open: a normal, mundane sound.
Heart pounding, I open the door.
On the other side I see … my living room. It’s kind of hazy, like the whole thing is slightly out of focus, and some of the items in it aren’t arranged the same way they’re supposed to be. A lamp that my brother broke last week is back in its place by the side of the couch. The jacket I used to wear when nights were cooler is draped across the back of a kitchen chair, as if I’d just dropped it there.
My mother is in the room, and she looks afraid. Someone else is there too, and my gut knows who it is before my brain finds the courage to give him a name.
Dad.
He looks angry. Really angry. I can smell the alcohol on his breath from where I’m standing.
“Don’t lie to me!” he screams at my mother. “I know the truth!”
The words make my stomach clench in a knot, so powerfully I want to vomit. I know that I should grab the door and slam it shut before this scene goes any further. But my hand is frozen on the doorknob, and I can’t make myself look away.
“He and I were friends,” Mom protests. “Just friends.” She’s clearly struggling to sound composed, but it has a false edge to it, like a person who’s trying to pretend she’s calm in front of a rabid pit bull. “You knew about my past history with him when we got married.”
“And you said that you would stop seeing him!”
“I did, I did. I couldn’t help—”
“I SAW THE PICTURES!” He takes a step toward her, and I can see the fear in her eyes. Instinctively I begin to move forward to protect her, but I find I can’t pass through the doorway. It’s not like there’s anything physically blocking my path, or any supernatural force that I’m aware of. It’s simply not possible for me to cross the threshold.
I’m forced to watch the scene unfold, and nothing more.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Somehow I manage to reach out and shut the door. The scene behind it is extinguished like a snuffed-out candle flame.
Thank God.
There are several other doors nearby. After a moment I start to walk toward one of them. I dread finding out what’s behind it, but I need to discover what these doors are all about, and I can’t do that without more information.
Breath held, I pull the door open.
“Sixteen years!” My father is screaming. “Sixteen years I’ve been paying to support a child who isn’t even mine! Paycheck after paycheck, bleeding me dry … Don’t try to tell me she’s mine! I SAW THE PICTURES!”
I’m about to shut this door as well, when suddenly a flicker of movement from the far side of the room catches my eye. It’s coming from the very place where I had once hidden myself, listening in horror as my own father disowned me. But this time I’m not the one who’s eavesdropping.
It’s Tommy.
“I’ll tell you what,” Mom is saying. A shadow of strength has come into her voice “We’ll go and get tested. All right? You and me and Jessica, all together. And then the doctor can show you that the DNA matches up and she’s really your daughter, and then you can go home and work on some new conspiracy to get all upset about, but I WILL NEVER SEE YOU IN MY HOUSE AGAIN!”
I slam the door shut.
Is this what’s behind every one of them? A rerun of that terrible night? No, Tommy’s presence implies there’s something more to this. Despite my horror, I can’t deny the sharp bite of curiosity. It’s like when you drive by a gruesome car accident. You don’t want to look at it, but you have to.
Trembling inside, I begin to open other doors. Each one seems to have the same scene going on behind it, but in a slightly different version. At first the changes are small: maybe the room is decorated differently, or my parents use different words to say the same things—inconsequential stuff. But the further I get from my starting point, the bigger the changes become. Until at last I open one of them and the room behind it is deathly still. There’s blood splatte
red all over the place and a sickening smell in the air. My mother’s body is lying motionless on the floor. One side of her head has been crushed. A broken lamp lies next to her. My father is nowhere to be seen.
I turn and run.
It’s only a dream, I tell myself, tears streaming down my cheeks. Only a dream. I can wake up if I want to. But when I try and it doesn’t work, I know I’m trapped in this terrible place.
Suddenly I am standing in front of another door. I reach out and open it, not because I want to, but because the dream has taken on a momentum all its own, and I am helpless to do anything else.
“I’m sorry,” this version of my father is saying. Tears are running down his face. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn! I’ve been such a jerk to you and the kids. Can you ever forgive me? I mean, I know we can’t just turn back the clock, but if you’ll give me a chance to make things right—any chance at all—I’ll see that you never regret it.”
It’s all too much. Too much! Sinking down beside the doorframe, I start to cry. “Please,” I whisper. Praying to whoever controls this terrible place. “Let me go home now. Please.”
And the blackness surrounding me gives way to a gentler darkness, and then, mercifully, to dreamless sleep.
• • •
The waiting room at the lab was decorated in a disturbing mix of techno and Victoriana: artistic schizophrenia. The walls and ceiling were stark white, the floor was polished to an antiseptic sheen, and the chrome-and-glass furniture in the receptionist’s space was aggressively ergonomic. God help the germ that wandered into this place. But someone had apparently questioned how comfortable the setting would be for actual patients, and so had stolen a dozen heavily upholstered chairs from the set of Masterpiece Theater and set them up in a corner of the waiting room. To my eye, the ornate wooden chairs seemed to be screaming in aesthetic agony: Get me out of here! Never before had I had such an overwhelming urge to ship furniture back to England.
Mom and I sat in overstuffed chairs and riffled through an uninspiring pile of magazines. Better Housekeeping, Sports Illustrated, Highlights. If you picked one not intended for your age and gender, would they note that on your intake form? I picked up a Highlights and briefly relived my childhood as I flipped through the pages, my hands trembling ever so slightly.
“Hey.” Mom reached out and put her hand over mine. “It’s all going to be all right. Really.”
“I know,” I muttered.
“This is to calm your dad down,” she reminded me. “There’s no real question about the outcome.”
I sighed and put the magazine down. “I know.”
There were all sorts of questions I wanted to ask Mom, inspired by stuff I’d seen in my dream, but since I normally didn’t tell her about my dreams at all—not the weird ones, anyway—I didn’t know how to start. Finally I ventured, “About Dad. Was he really … well, you know … crazy?”
Mom sighed and looked down at her lap. “Your father had some problems,” she said quietly. Picking her way through the words as if tiptoeing through a mine field. “He didn’t know how to deal with his feelings, so sometimes he didn’t handle it well.”
My throat tightened. I remembered all the versions of my father that I’d seen last night. The smashed lamps. My mother’s crushed skull.
It was just a dream, I told myself stubbornly. Pull yourself together, girl.
“Hey.” Mom leaned over and put an arm around my shoulders, squeezing me gently. “It’ll be okay. Really.”
The words came out before I could stop them. “Why did he leave us?”
Mom sighed heavily. “Your dad was full of fear, Jesse. He was afraid that if he didn’t control everyone and everything around him, he would lose it all. The trouble is that sometimes, when you hold onto a thing you love too tightly, you can crush the life out of it.” She paused. “Or drive it away.”
“Do you still love him?”
A shadow of pain crossed her face; she touched her lips gently to my forehead. “You can’t raise two children with someone and not love him,” she whispered. “That doesn’t mean it’s right for us to be together.”
Someone coughed gently. We looked up to find an orderly standing at a respectful distance. She was wearing dress scrubs with a sprinkling of tiny planets and stars all over them, reminding me of Tommy’s Star Wars pajamas.
“The doctor will see you now,” she said.
She let us through a pair of glass doors at the end of the waiting room, down a squeaky-clean hallway flanked by claustrophobically small exam rooms, and into a consulting office. It was a spartan space, with only a desk and a few chairs in it. As we were in the process of sitting down, an Indian-looking man in a lab coat arrived.
“Ms. Drake. I’m Dr. Gupta. I’ll be discussing your test results with you.” He turned to me and offered a well-rehearsed smile. “And you must be Jessica.”
We all shook hands. I tried to make my grip feel strong and confident, even though I felt anything but.
“Will Mr. Hayden be coming?” the doctor asked. “We do prefer to speak to the whole family together in situations like this.” Maybe it was just that my nerves were on edge, but I thought he stressed the last three words slightly.
“He’s away on business right now.” Mom had actually gone out of her way to schedule this meeting at a time when Dad couldn’t come, but the doctor had no way to know that. “I’m sure he’ll get in touch with you when he comes home.”
“Very well.” Dr. Gupta sat behind the desk and cleared his throat as he opened a manila folder with my name on it. A shadow crossed his face as he read. He closed the folder, rested his elbows on the table, and steepled his hands in front of him. “Ms. Drake … Jessica… .”
My heart skipped a beat. Call me paranoid, but I’ve never seen a doctor do that when the news was good.
“I’m afraid the results of the paternity test were negative.”
For a moment the words just hung there in the air between us. Like a ball had been thrown to us, that no one wanted to catch.
At last my mother spoke. “Are you saying that Mike isn’t Jessica’s father?”
The doctor nodded. “I’m afraid that’s the case.”
“But that’s not possible.”
“The test results are quite clear. I’m sorry, Ms. Drake.”
“No. No.” She shook her head emphatically. “You don’t understand what I’m saying. It’s not physically possible.”
“I’m afraid the data—”
“Unless you’re suggesting some kind of immaculate conception —”
He raised up a hand to still her protest. “Please, Ms. Drake. Please.” He waited until she calmed herself and then said, very gently, “The issue isn’t only with your husband’s DNA.”
Mom blinked. “What? What do you mean?”
“Jessica’s genetic profile isn’t a match to yours, either.”
Say what?
Had he really just told us that I wasn’t my mother’s daughter? The thought was so crazy my brain could hardly process it. Maybe I’d misunderstood him.
Mom reached out for my hand and squeezed it so hard that I thought her nails would break skin. “That’s not possible,” she said firmly. “Jesse is my daughter.”
So then he explained to us about how DNA testing worked, and why the results meant what they meant. I only half-listened. I mean, we’ve all watched Law and Order, right? So everybody knows about spectrum analysis, and the bands of marking that look like bar codes, which tell you what your genes are like, and how, if you put a child’s bar codes next to her father’s—or her mother’s—some of them are supposed to match up.
Then he showed us the sheets of plastic our bar codes were on, mine and Mom’s and Dad’s, and no, they didn’t match up at all.
Zero percent, he said. Those were the odds that Evelyn Rose Drake was my mother. Ditto for Michael Glenn Hayden being my dad. Not even one percent. Zero.
To say that I was confused would be an understatement. I fel
t as if someone had struck me square in the gut. My hand could no longer feel Mom’s nails biting into it. My mind could no longer process a rational thought. I felt disconnected, like a boat whose anchor had suddenly been cut loose, and there I was in the middle of a stormy sea with nothing to keep me from being swept away and lost forever. I felt like throwing up.
“It just isn’t possible,” my mother protested. But with less conviction this time. She watched Law and Order, too.
He explained to us about mitochondrial DNA, and how that’s passed down straight from mother to daughter, and so they had checked that too, just to be sure. He showed us the printouts. Still no match.
I hated him for the pity that was in his eyes, because it was so obviously rehearsed. How did it feel to deliver news like this to someone? To know that with a handful of words you could tear the soul of a family to pieces? I felt hot tears coming to my eyes, but I struggled to blink them back. I didn’t want this man to see how badly he had upset me. No stranger should have that kind of power over me.
This can’t be happening, I told myself. It’s all a bad dream. I’ll wake up any minute now.
“Hospitals do make mistakes sometimes,” the doctor was saying. “It’s unfortunate, but even in this country, with all its safeguards, babies do get mixed up.”
“Labs make mistakes too,” my mother challenged him. “Maybe your test was wrong. Maybe your samples got switched around. Isn’t that a more likely scenario than someone handing me the wrong baby?”
“Our lab protocols are meticulous,” he said coldly. “And we have safeguards in place to avoid just that kind of mistake.”
But Mom wouldn’t accept his reassurance. And In the end he agreed to do the test a second time. He even agreed that the lab would pay for it. Which was a good thing, because insurance didn’t cover this kind of thing.
Dreamwalker Page 3
