by Dyan Brown
There’s no way. There’s no way that was real.
It seemed real, but there’s just no way. I couldn’t have… could I? How did I see that? My hands are starting to shake, and tears fill my eyes. Uncle Carl is still talking, but I’m too shocked to hear him clearly. I think he’s telling me to breathe; it feels like someone has punched me in the chest.
“Samantha, it’s going to be all right. Just calm down and let this sink in. I’m sorry your first experience was so bad. Most times when you drift, the situation is not so… brutal.” He sinks onto the bed beside me, putting a comforting arm around my shoulders.
“Are you saying that my dream was real?” I choke out.
“I’m saying it wasn’t a dream,” he corrects gently. “It was a drift.”
“How is that even possible?” I continue, hardly noticing his words. “How could he do something like that to her? That little girl! She was so young. How could that be real? How could I—wait… what is a drift?”
4
“Soul Drifters. It’s what we are, you and me. This is something that has always been in our family, an inherited trait for thousands of years, but it only happens once in a generation. Well, it’s supposed to, anyway. Aunt Margret was also a Drifter, although she can’t really remember it much these days.” He pauses and sighs, looking slightly lost in a memory.
“As much of a good thing as it is to help people, you have to be careful. Make sure you are controlling it, not having it control you. It sounds like you’ve already started helping people, and that’s all right. But no one can know what you’re doing. We can’t ever share the knowledge of our abilities with anyone but the Drifter in the next generation—not even the rest of the family. It’s done this way for our safety, but it makes life hard sometimes. It’s what has made it so hard for me the past few years—not being able to tell your parents the real reason Sahra died…” He trails off into silence, letting me absorb what he is saying.
Wait, what? Sahra? This is why she died? This can’t be real. It’s too much to process.
“She was… adrift… when she died?” The question didn’t even sound real in my head, let alone coming out of my mouth.
“Drifting,” he corrects me again. “Yes, honey, she was. I don’t know why since she was driving, but I felt it when she got in trouble. I tried to get to her, but I was too far away. Your soul can’t go too far from your body. It’s always tethered to it, making sure it isn’t stolen. When you’re drifting, do you feel a pull? Like from the pit of your stomach?”
“Well, yeah. It almost feels like I’ve been lassoed. I don’t know how else to describe it.” Another thought occurs to me. “Wait, you said you felt her.” When he nods in affirmation, I ask, “Did you feel my drift? Like just now?”
The line between his brows deepens, and I can see the process of what to say next moving through his normally stoic eyes.
“When Sahra died—” His voice cracks on the word died, and he nervously clears his throat before continuing. “After she was gone, I blamed myself. A lot.” He holds a hand up to halt my open, ready-to-protest mouth. “The medications I’ve been on these last few years… Well, let’s just say I’m sure they’ve been dampening my instincts.”
I’m a little surprised at the calm that has come over me. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe hugging my pillow is helping. Maybe I’m still dreaming. The small amount of hope the last thought gives me is squashed when I pinch the underside of my forearm and it hurts. Silly.
“How–how often will this happen?”
“That will depend on how often you’re needed. There’s a boundary around you; you can only go so far. I’m not sure how far, precisely—I’ve never tested it. But you won’t be helping people in Canada or Mexico. Maybe about a hundred miles at most? All I know is that I was helpless to save your sister, and I’m so sorry for that.” His age shows in the edges of his face. The guilt looks as if it’s smothering him.
“We only drift when we’re asleep, so I can’t figure out how she was pulled into a drift while she was awake…” His voice trails off, his eyes fighting a glaze of emotion. Shaking it off, he continues.
“I wish I could tell you exactly what happened to her, but I don’t know. All I can do is guess, and that doesn’t seem fair to you or to her. I could see her in trouble, could see her slumping over in the car and feel her go into a drift. I wanted to save her so badly, but I just couldn’t get there.”
The end of his sentence is nearly pleading for me to understand. It must be eating him up inside not to have been able to help her. And to have had to keep this from everyone all these years? Horrible. The tension in him is plainly visible, the pain of what’s happened clearly weighing him down.
“This is something I’m supposed to teach you, but most of it you could do on your own. Please don’t misunderstand me. I have to teach you what to do. It’s my responsibility to teach the next Drifter in our family line, just as it will be yours one day. But I don’t want you to do this. I don’t want you to drift. This… gift… has ruined my life, and it got your sister killed. You can’t trust it—you can’t let it take over your life.
“This world we’re a part of is so much bigger than you might think, and parts of it are dangerous. You must be careful every day about who you trust. There are people in the world who would kill your loved ones just to get to you. And there are times when you’ll think you can tell them… can trust them.” He rubs his hands together in his lap with slow frustration at a memory. “But I learned with Karen that you can never trust anyone. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known them.”
Aunt Karen? WTF? My jaw loosens to ask what happened. Is this the real reason his marriage fell apart? Did she think he was bat-shit crazy, like I did before he handed me his phone? Something in his destroyed look takes the air out of my words.
He takes a deep breath to calm himself. A professional persona comes over his face as he calms, and I can tell the psychologist has come back. “I think it might be best if I let you ask the questions now.”
Something in him seems so… broken. How did I ever miss it before?
A thousand thoughts race through my head. Only hours ago, all I could think about was how easy my life was about to become. In ten minutes, that’s been swiped from me. Now, the way I thought my sister died may not have been, and I have some sort of genetic dysfunction, a huge secret to keep, and people who may want to kill me and/or my family.
“I’m so confused,” I finally say. “I want to believe you. I really do. But what you’re telling me is outrageous. How does someone’s soul leave their body? I get the why—so we can help people—but does that mean we’re part ghost or something?”
Are we really having this conversation? I keep waiting for someone to jump out with a camera or for my uncle to mess up my hair—a universal ‘I’m just joking with you’ sign.
He runs a hand over his stubbled jaw, and faint amusement tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Ha, no. We’re not part ghost. But it’s funny you should say that; I asked Aunt Margret the same thing when she told me. Do you know those news reports—the ones that say it was a miracle the person was saved? That’s usually us. When people seem to show up out of nowhere at just the right time? Even things as simple and seemingly insignificant as getting the right person to look the right way at the right time or have someone pause just three seconds longer before they press the gas at a stoplight,” he says as he rises, beginning to pace. There is a hum of pride in his voice, but I still feel his agitation. I assume it’s from the shock of having to start over with me when he thought his job was done.
“So, does that mean there are no ghosts, no angels, no… divine? It’s all just us? But… no—if it’s our soul that drifts, that doesn’t make sense. Isn’t a soul divine?”
My eyes follow him as he walks from the window, back to the chair in front of me, and resumes his pose of frustration at my desk chair. It’s not like there’s a lot of room to meander in here, but he’s tryin
g. The habit is a familiar one of his.
“Unfortunately, no; it’s quite the opposite. You’re right. We are Soul Drifters. There is most definitely a God, a Devil, angels, and demons. We’re merely a few who’ve been chosen by God to serve him in a greater capacity than others. There are even ghosts. You won’t come across them often, but you may see an angel sometimes. But just remember, like everything else in this world, some are good, and some are not. You must be able to tell the difference.”
My mind is racing as I begin peppering him with questions, my voice trying to keep up with my thoughts. “How will I know? What do you mean by unfortunately? How will I know what to do when the time comes? What do the people trying to kill us want?” I realize my hands are pulling on my locket so hard the chain is pinching the back of my neck and hurting. Loosening my fidgeting fingers, I drop my hands into my lap, so I don’t break the silver chain. After rubbing my sweaty palms on the pillow I’m still clinging to, I lace my fingers together, settling my nervous appendages while I wait for answers.
“I realize all of this deserves a longer explanation, but I’d rather not have it here. You’re going to have to trust your gut. No one else can tell you better than yourself what is right, what is wrong, and what you’re supposed to do. Don’t ever let that betray you. As long as you keep what we are to yourself and keep drifting to a bare minimum, you’ll be okay.”
I take a breath, ready to ask more questions, but Uncle Carl holds up a hand up to pause me.
“Stopping would be better, but I know better than to give a young adult a hard limit. It’s like begging for you to break it.” The ghost of a smirk crossed his face. “Anyway, if you keep a low profile, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anybody attacking you or our family.” He finally loosens his hands from their white-knuckle grip on one another. “But we’ll get into all of that later. I think you’ve got a lot to process right now, and we should slow down. We’ll have more time for learning about this during your sessions.”
One of his hands reaches out, covering both of mine. I hadn’t realized I was clasping them together so tightly—my fingers were also white, the pressure from my nails leaving little half-moon marks across my palms.
“Do you think you’ll be okay to see your mom and dad?” His brows lift in a hopeful question. “Dinner is ready. Remember—not even they know.”
The creak of a hallway floorboard sounds, and we both turn. Uncle Carl slowly steps toward the door, cracking it and looking up and down the hall. He closes the door softer than I thought possible and turns back to face me. The action is so naturally paranoid, it fires up a spark of anger inside me. He’s lost his damn mind, and he’s trying to take me with him.
“No, I can’t see anyone right now. I’m definitely not hungry.” I give a soft huff at the thought, not caring if it’s a childish action. “I’m sorry, Uncle Carl. I really wish I could believe you. You’ve never given me any reason not to trust you, but this is just so unreal. What I saw last night was just a nightmare. I know what you showed me on your phone looks real, but hell… there’s probably an app for that. I just don’t see how that could add up to me having some sort of…” My hand gestures back and forth between us. “Mutant ability.
“You know, I always try to reason with what is most logical—you taught me that. And it would seem to me that the most logical explanation would not be that I developed a superpower, but that the TV was on in the other room and I overheard the news report, causing me to dream about what happened to that family. I need time to let it sink in, but I just…” I suck in a deep breath and heave it out, trying to calm myself. “Like you said, we’ll talk more when I get to Norman next week. If I have any questions before then, I’ll call you, but, for now, I’d rather be left alone.”
By the time I finish, I feel like I just called my second dad a liar, and I’m not surprised to find I can’t even look him in the eye. Some part of me believes him, but right now, I’m battling between anger, frustration, and grief for the quiet, normal future that was just ripped away from me.
“Please.” The word leaves my mouth in a small squeak as my throat tries to close.
“All right,” he says quietly, “I can understand that. But here.” He puts his hand into his pocket and produces an orange-and-white pill bottle. Sidestepping toward my nightstand, he puts the bottle down. “Whether you believe me or not, the facts still won’t change, and it won’t stop happening. Take these to help you sleep—only as prescribed. They’re strong.”
With that, he walks to the door, opens it, and steps into the hallway.
In a last-ditch effort, he pauses, hanging on to the doorframe. “When you figure out that what I am telling you is real, don’t do… anything. Not without talking to me first.” He pauses, his words choppy. “And… stop writing these down,” he snaps at me. “The last thing we need is a written record of our ability out in the open for anyone to read. There is a lot you must learn before you can control it, and even more before you can resist it without medication. I’ll see you for breakfast. Have a good night.” He pulls the door closed behind him with a firm but soft thud.
“Yeah, right,” I say after the door closes and I know he can’t hear me. Going over to my laptop on my desk, I slap the space bar much harder than necessary to wake it up. Turning the recently vacated chair back around to face the desk, I sit, open Google, and type in ‘Soul Drifter’. I scroll through a few pages, not finding anything except for a clothing line and a bunch of talk about an old song from the nineties.
This is so stupid. Why am I even looking this up? The man’s gotta be lying out of his ass!
More than likely, I’m becoming schizophrenic and he just doesn’t want to tell me. Glancing back over my shoulder at the bottle of pills on my nightstand, I snort a soft chuckle. Yeah, right.
Jesus, I’m so exhausted. I need to think of something else—do something else. I go to Facebook and scroll through my feed. Nothing new, just start-of-summer parties. I received a few invitations from people I knew in high school, but I only said maybe. I’m guessing the invites were mostly the result of a ‘select all’ button rather than an actual, personal invitation.
My thoughts wander back to this morning and to what my dad said about April’s brother. I go back to Google and type in ‘Grayson Dawson, Omaha, Nebraska.’ I feel a little bad for Googling him until links to his Facebook page pops up. Stalk much? I think, but I still scroll down the list of results a little further. Finding a gossip blog from two years ago, I squash my guilt and click the blue link.
Hello to all my beautiful readers! This GQ just got some of the latest about the two half-siblings in the Dawson family. As you all know, the Dawsons’ claim to fame—besides their actual fortune—is the scandalous affair that was revealed six years ago, which opened April and her mother’s lives to the public eye and almost brought down Christopher Dawson’s empire. It should be no surprise to anyone that April and Grayson have been accepted into the University of Oklahoma in Norman, Oklahoma—their father’s alma mater.
It’s also rumored the delicious Grayson will be accepted into his father’s fraternity as well. Sigma Alpha Epsilon is one of the most prestigious fraternities in the South and is best known for producing some of the wealthiest and most successful men in America. This six-foot-two, blue-eyed, all-American boy already has a well-known reputation for good deeds and charity work within the community. No doubt Grayson’s being groomed to take his father’s place as CEO of Preston Hill, Inc.
Still no word yet on what April’s share of the corporation may be if/when she graduates from OU. Although, if her high school years are any indication, we should be in for quite a show from the wild child of the Dawson clan. I’ll let you know more info when it trickles down the grapevine! Ta-ta for now!
~Love, The Gossip Queen~
I shut down my laptop and close it. No wonder Dad thinks so much of him. He’s a freaking philanthropist. I sigh and go back to my bed. Grabbing my clean pillow, I p
lace it at the foot of the bed, lie on my belly, and flick on the TV, only half-watching whatever’s on until I fall asleep. Please no more weird dreams, is the last coherent thought I have before I’m consumed by restless dreams.
Thankfully, most of the last few days have been uneventful since the argument with Uncle Carl. He and my cousin Jason left the next day after breakfast. Afterwards, Mom and I did a ton of shopping. Now, there’s only two days before I move to Norman. I wish I could say I was as actively excited about it like I was before, but everything Uncle Carl told me still lingers in the back of my mind. I haven’t had any strange dreams, but that might be because I broke down and took the sleeping pills the next night. Hoping they would give me the time I needed to think, I just kept swallowing medicine until the whole week had passed. Starting to feel dependent on them—especially so quickly—is unnerving, so I doubt I’ll take them again. I try to ignore the gut-punch of worry and the slight hope the thought of stopping the pills gives me.
I still have a ton of packing to do—my new stuff for the apartment, my clothes—along with deciding what to take and what to leave. Not an easy thing to do, I think, looking around at my room. I’m taking all my furniture with me. My parents are going to turn my room into another guest room, so I’ll still have a place to crash during the holidays.
My current box is compiled of scholastic memories. Yearbooks, small school mementos, little awards from middle school, and elementary yearbooks, pictures, and papers I did well on, all packed into one nice, neat box. The thought seems so odd—eighteen years of achievements in one box. I wonder if this is what growing up feels like.
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things,” I say quietly, quoting the scripture as I close the box and tape it shut.
