by Sarah Noffke
“No, not family. Like we’re working together. And no, I’m not abandoning you,” I say.
“So you’re going to London too?” she says, an ounce of hope in her voice.
“I’ll meet you there. A car will pick you up at the airport and deliver you to my flat,” I say.
“So you’re not traveling with me? Why not? I thought you’d want to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn’t do something,” she says.
“I don’t fly commercial. Well, I don’t fly at all actually,” I say.
“Wait, how are you getting there? By boat? That will take forever.”
“Not by boat. I’ll be there way before you though,” I say.
“But how?” she asks, looking curious.
“Look, missy, you have a lot to learn but I’m not going to overwhelm your brain with it all at once. Here’s what you’re going to do if you want my help. You’re going to take the car out front to LAX. You’ll find a package with ticketing information and cash in the backseat. As difficult as this may be for you, you’re not to say more than one-word answers to anyone. You will make no requests or demands while traveling. And also you’ll find a bottle of pills in the package I’ve left for you. Those are barbiturates which will cause you to sleep, but make it impossible for you to dream travel and therefore threaten national security or whatever horrid things you’d unknowingly do while sleeping. Take those when you get on the plane. A car will be waiting for you when you land. Got it?” I say, my eyes sharp.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for me to laugh and tell her I’m just joking and go to hell. When I don’t she finally nods slowly.
“And you’re really going to be there when I get to London?” she says, her voice slow, careful, bordering on fragile.
“Yes,” I say, my voice bored.
“This isn’t a trap?” she says. And because I have studied the human condition for so long I spy a real fear in her; it’s one everyone has and there’s no cure for it. Fear of rejection.
“It’s not a trap,” I say.
“Okay,” she says, nodding slowly. “I’ll do everything you say. I promise.”
I don’t say a word or shift my expression. I simply point to the door where one of Dahlia’s guards stands ready to chauffeur Adelaide to the waiting car. She turns her head over her shoulder and then back to me. The girl, who is at least nineteen, appears so small all of a sudden.
She opens her mouth to say something but I turn and stride away at once.
“Don’t make me regret this, Adelaide,” I say over my shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
I lay myself out on the guest bed on the far side of the house. It’s not a bed I’ve ever slept in before but I’m not planning on sleeping. I just need a place to store my body until I generate it. Dahlia is probably in her gym on the elliptical. I know she didn’t want to push me away but too often we are forced to do things because people don’t make sense in our lives. It wasn’t a surprise to me that Dahlia was having growing worries about my job as an agent for the Lucidites. Working level five cases, I would never be able to guarantee my safety. But what’s the point in having gifts like mine and not using them to save the fucking world? Since we’ve been reunited I’ve spied that haunted expression in her eyes when I briefly mentioned the types of cases I used to advise on and now wanted to work on from the field. And I also knew that her reluctance to give me a say in the house was a result of not knowing how to allow me into her life.
Long ago, I almost broke her. She’s not wrong to be leery of my presence in her life, no matter how good we are together. It didn’t have to be an estranged daughter that put the wedge in between us. It could have been something much smaller, like a disagreement over vacation spots, or the fact that I refuse to travel with her to any vacation spot. Or the fact that I would never accompany her to any Hollywood function. But it was something more jarring that split us up. I can’t fight her on this. As much as I want to. As much as it’s actually scorching my lungs, creating a fire in my empty chest. I won’t fight this. What kind of dreamer had I been to think that God would allow me to be happy in this lifetime? I might be a good guy now, but it will take several lifetimes to absolve my sins. As I close my eyes I almost choke on the absurdity of it all. I thought I could go back. That I hadn’t gone too far. I am the man who Dahlia loves and can’t really have. I’m cursed.
My subconscious takes the direct order from my conscious and I’m at once clouded in the silver tube that transports me through space and time. The connection to all that I as a Dream Traveler have access to. I’ve taken these trips most of my life. The complexity of it all would humble most. For me, it demands a higher level of greatness. Whatever hot shot constructed a system where a special race of humans has access to something akin to ley lines through their consciousness, didn’t want me sitting on my ass and binge watching mindless shit on Netflix. That proverbial bloke hanging out on the clouds expected great things from me and the race he assigned me to. Our creator, whether still watching or long deserted, expected something from all of us. And yet we cling to our comforts and stupidity as though actually living our lives would kill us. Complete and utter rubbish.
My conscious form, my ethereal body, awakes on the GAD-C in London, which resembles an MRI machine. Habitually I complete the process for generating my body, which when it joins consciousness feels like I just shoved my fist up my nose. Still it’s better than traveling on a plane with cranky toddlers and a crowd of people who could learn superior hygiene techniques from a chimpanzee.
***
My flat has been cleaned and the kitchen stocked by the time I arrive. I requested that the services be done the very same hour I called. Money makes things happen. I happen to have a lot of it. I like making things happen. I also like having things done for me.
The flat looks bare without my armchair sitting in the corner. Feeling on the brink of sentimental feelings, I throw my fist through the closest wall. Plaster sprays out at me, sprinkling my face and dusting my suit jacket. Too acutely this pain radiating around my fist transports me back to my mum’s death so many years ago. This was how I dealt with that and is obviously my favorite reaction to loss. Working my hand back and forth, I pull it through the wall and stare at the organic hole in the light blue plaster. It looks horrid, and worse is that some sweaty repair guy, who can’t take his eyes off my high-end furnishings and rare artwork, is going to have to fix it. His repugnant smell probably will linger for a whole day.
***
The hole is repaired and I’m in a clean suit by the time the knock sounds at my door.
“Yeah,” I call from the sofa.
Again a knock. I sigh and slap the book in my lap shut. “Come in already.”
A pause precedes the door peeling open. Adelaide’s tentative expression is soon swept into one of relief. “I wasn’t sure if I had the right place,” she says, looking back at the numbers on my door and then me.
“Well, against every one of my hopes it appears you’ve made it. No plane crashes, motor accidents, or crazed killers stopped you? Maybe next time,” I say.
“Is that your way of welcoming me?” she says. That small bag she had earlier is slung over her shoulder. I’m guessing everything she owns is in there.
“Sure,” I say, propping my feet up on the coffee table.
“How did you get here before me? Did you take a jet?” Adelaide asks.
“Yes, and it was sprinkled in fairy dust,” I say.
She gives me a measured glare. One I recognize, and yet I don’t. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to start supplying me with answers. That is why I’m here.”
“I decide when you get answers,” I say. It’s still hard to look directly at her and realize who she really is. Half of my genetics. A heavy pressure pins my sternum down like it’s trying to nail it to my back. Not wanting to draw attention to the movement I slowly bring my hand to my chest and press. It does nothing to fix the uncomfortable sensation w
hich isn’t quite pain. “So did you make the TSA stand on their head or get the pilot to sing ‘La Bamba’ for the first-class passengers?”
“‘Edelweiss’ actually,” she says.
“How very classy of you,” I say.
“And no, I was as boring as a house cat. I didn’t even tell the rich socialite beside me that her gay boyfriend was continuously checking out the male flight attendant,” she says.
“I’m sure your self-control is quite frayed at this point. Now you’re safe, away from irritating people, and don’t have to worry,” I say.
She lowers her chin and gives me a dark expression. “Yes, no one irritating in here.”
A knock at the door sends me upright.
“You know, I do have feelings,” I say as I stalk for the door.
“I actually didn’t know that. Personally, to me, you appear to be a soulless monster,” she says.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob and turn back to Adelaide. “And here I thought you’d misread me entirely.” I then whip open the door and take in the sight in front of me. “Oh, thank God you’re here. I’ve missed you,” I say, opening the door wide, making room for the delivery men to carry in my plaid armchair which is bathed in bubble wrap and making an awful squeaking sound as they carry it into my flat.
“What would it take to get that kind of welcome?” Adelaide says, watching the chair enter the flat.
“Put it over there,” I say to the men. Then I turn to Adelaide. “Be quiet. That would be a fantastic start.”
I sign the forms as efficiently as I can so there’s no reason for the pimply kids to loiter around my flat. I slap the pen back onto the clipboard and hand it to the first kid, who is watching the other peel the wrapping off my chair. “Leave,” I say.
“But sir, we’re supposed to—”
“Leave,” I say. “I pay your wages. Get out.”
The other boy by the chair stands at once, wiping his greasy hands on his overalls.
“Go on now,” I say, holding my arm out, directing them to the door. They leave without another word and only then do I bend down to pull the wrapping off the chair.
“You’re really rude to everyone, aren’t you?” Adelaide says at my back.
“I’m kind,” I say, my attention on pulling the stubborn wrapping off my chair. “I give direct orders so that defenseless Middlings know to get away from me before my restraints wear off and I wring their fat little necks.”
“What’s a Middling?” she says.
“Someone without powers. A non–Dream Traveler,” I say, clearing the covering from one side of the chair.
“Like my mum?” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“And why do you get to wring necks, but have ordered that I not talk to people?”
“Because…” I say, securing my fingers under a piece of plastic and tearing away a large section.
“Because why?” she presses.
“Because I’m not an ignorant little pest who has no idea the power she wields,” I say.
“Oh, I think you’re indirectly referring to me,” she says in an arrogant tone. “And it almost sounds like you gave me a compliment there.”
“Well, we will add to our list to have your ears checked,” I say, looking at her and then catching an almost amused smile on her face, which makes her slightly pointy nose somehow look more pronounced.
“What are you smiling about?” I say.
“You’re kind of fun, you know, like a snowball fight, chilly and piercing but still entertaining,” she says.
“I’m not fun at all. Ask anyone. They’ll tell you,” I say.
“I don’t know,” she sings, a teasing look on her face.
“Why are you acting all chipper?” I say, pulling up a bit of plastic.
“I had the best sleep. On those sleeping pills I didn’t have any strange dreams,” she says.
“They weren’t dreams,” I say with a grunt, pulling once at the plastic. “And those are habit forming, so you won’t be on them for long.”
“Aw, I think someone cares about my general well-being,” she says.
I jerk my head up to look at her, an expression of confusion on my face. “Who?” I say with a curious tone.
She just shakes her head at me and then looks back at the chair as I pull the final piece of wrapping off.
I throw myself down in the chair at once, running my hands back and forth on the arms. “Finally,” I say to the chair with affection. “There you are.”
“That’s the chair from that extravagant mansion, isn’t it?” she says.
“Yeah,” I say, my attention mostly on the chair, inspecting it.
“Why is it here?” Adelaide says.
“Because I’m here.”
“But I thought you lived with Dahlia.”
“Well, now I live here,” I say.
“Oh,” she says and I look up to see her suck in a breath.
“Don’t ‘oh’ me,” I say, scowling at her.
“So Dahlia kicked you out because of me, didn’t she?”
“No,” I say, turning and regarding the wall with solemn hostility.
“Yes, she did. How could she do that?” she says, sounding offended.
“It’s not as simple as you think. Dahlia and I weren’t ever really together.”
“But she didn’t want me around, did she? That’s why we are here, isn’t it?” Adelaide says, her tone demanding. Why do the women in my life have to be so bold? Why can’t they be meek and subservient?
“Can you blame her?” I say and to my astonishment no pity springs to her face. Adelaide simply shrugs noncommittally. “And this is my residence. You’ll be safer here.”
For the first time since she walked in she looks around, her eyes growing lighter as she studies the space. “Well, it’s much better than that cavern full of polished surfaces where Dahlia lives,” she says.
I want to agree but instead point to the kitchen. “There’s food in the icebox. I expect you to eat that if you get hungry. No ordering takeout or popping off to the pub. We can’t have you creating catastrophes all over my neighborhood.”
She nods, staring out the darkening window. Autumn gray skies in the distance. “Yeah, and what a neighborhood you live in. Can you see Hyde Park from here?” she says, her eyes growing more curious as she studies the view.
“Probably,” I say, pretending I don’t know or care.
She studies the space. The books on the shelves. My high-end furnishings. The famous paintings lining the wall. “You’re rich,” she states. And the observation carries no pride to it. It’s just her stating a fact.
“Your room is through there,” I say, pointing to another door, ignoring her statement.
Adelaide approaches the door and looks back at me before opening it. She peeks her head through. When her head pops back she has a smile on her face but it drops when she takes in my stone expression. “It’s lovely. I didn’t take you as the type to have a guest quarters,” she says.
I turn my head to the bank of windows. “It was my friend’s quarters,” I say.
“Oh. Did he move out or is he on holiday?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be,” I say. “You didn’t kill him, well unless you control the fucking wind.”
With an uncertain glance at the room, she says. “I don’t mean to complain but—”
“Then don’t!”
“But you have me staying in a dead man’s room,” she says.
“He never had a chance to move in actually. So don’t worry about him haunting you,” I say.
“Oh, that’s bizarre. So why do you call it his room?”
“Because it was supposed to be his room,” I say, realizing she’s right and it is weird that I still think of that as Jimmy’s room.
“And when was that?”
I sigh, frustrated by these questions, but strangely willing to answer them. “I don’t
know. Twenty-five years ago, maybe.”
“Wait, that’s extremely bizarre,” I say.
“It’s a fact. Not bizarre.”
“And no one has ever lived in that room?”
“Why would they?”
“If he never lived in that room then why do you say it was his?” Adelaide says.
“If you’re done then I have two more things to relay,” I say, pushing to a standing position and making for my bedroom at the back. “You should find everything you need in your room. Clothes, soap, et cetera. Which means—”
“You shopped for me?” she says, cutting me off.
“Of course I didn’t. I paid someone to do it,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, sounding slightly deflated.
“As I was saying, that means you have everything you need. You are not going to leave this flat until I return. If you sleep then take the pills,” I say.
“Where are you going?”
I turn and face her. “To work, naturally.”
She angles her head to try and see through my doorway. “What’s in there?”
“My bedroom,” I say plainly, knowing full well this makes zero sense to her.
“But you said you were going to work,” Adelaide says.
