by Colin Gigl
“If you say something about it being my dream again—”
“Alice, you’ve dreamed about making it in Hollywood since you were four.” Her mother lay down on the bed next to her, just like she used to do when Alice was growing up. “Lighten up a little. You’re alive!”
“Funny, people keep telling me that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is!”
Alice sat bolt upright. This was not a discussion she wanted to have right now, and yet something in her mother’s tone flipped a switch in Alice’s head. “God, why does everybody keep saying that?! It’s a good thing according to who, exactly? You? Charlie? Neither of you have any idea what it’s like to be me. I’m single, I don’t have a job, I don’t have any close friends, I can’t go back to school because what’s the point, I can’t make any money as a writer, I’ll never find a guy who is even half as perfect as Marc, and even if I did, why would he date me, my mom—the one person I most aspired to be in life—is dead, and the one time I finally work up the courage to put an end to all of it, some guy shows up literally out of thin air and puts the kibosh on that. My life is nothing but one big exercise in pretending that everything is just fucking grand while on the inside I’m miserable. So no, Mom, I don’t see it as a good thing.”
Her mother sat up slowly next to her. She looked somehow angelic framed by the white walls behind her. She edged closer to Alice before placing her hand on top of Alice’s own. Just like that, Alice found herself looking deep into her mother’s hazel eyes. “You need to wake up now, Alice,” she said slowly.
That was not the reply Alice had been expecting. More to the point, it wasn’t the one she wanted. “Wait . . . that’s it? We just started talking, and . . . you can’t just leave now.”
Her mother flashed a sad smile. “Not my choice.”
“Well, if it’s my dream like you keep saying it is, then it should be my choice, and I say you’re not going anywhere.”
Her mother stood up, and though Alice tried to follow suit, she found herself too tangled in blankets to accomplish the task. “I’m sorry, Alice,” her mother said with an air of finality, “but it doesn’t work that way.”
“But you can’t leave,” Alice said. “You have to fix me!”
“There’s nothing to fix,” her mom said, and she started to walk away.
“So you’re just going to leave your suicidal daughter like this, right after she’s been kidnapped by some strange man after she planned to put a bullet through her head? I just want to make sure I’m understanding all of the nuances of this situation correctly.”
Her mother stopped and then turned, tucking a fallen strand of her own hair behind her ear as she did. She suddenly seemed as if she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders, and yet, in typical fashion, still gave the impression she could take another solar system’s worth. “That’s actually exactly why I think she’ll be okay . . . because a strange but compassionate man showed up and somehow managed to get through to her when it seemed like no one else could. Even if she doesn’t want to admit that to her own mother.”
The stinging anger Alice had felt moments ago dissipated slightly. That also wasn’t the reply she had been expecting. She was beginning to wonder if she was very bad at predicting what people were going to say or if the people she associated with just generally said crazy shit.
“I feel like everybody is talking to me in riddles tonight,” Alice said, rubbing her temples. “I swear, it gets old really, really quickly.”
“How about I put it this way,” her mother said as she moved back next to the white bed again. “Do you normally kiss men after they’ve kidnapped you?”
So that’s where this is going. Alice sighed and flopped back down. “Tough to say. I am one for one in that category, so statistically the answer is yes, one hundred percent of the men who have kidnapped me, I have kissed. Maybe I get aroused by kidnappers.”
Her mother chuckled. “I would say I’m encouraged you feel comfortable sharing that with me, but honestly there are certain things I can live without knowing.”
Alice turned to face her mother. “Being dead, you technically did. Live without knowing it, I mean.”
“Hey!” Her mom slapped her playfully. “You know what I meant!”
Now it was Alice’s turn to shrug. “The fact of the matter is that you’re ignoring what I said earlier about my life.”
“I am, only because I don’t really believe that’s how you truly feel anymore.”
Alice rolled over so she was looking across at the white wall opposite her mother. “So you think I’m lying.”
“Of course not,” her mother said earnestly. “I would bet anything in the world that’s exactly how you feel right at this very moment. But I don’t think it’s going to stay that way, and I’d bet part of you thinks that, too.”
“Yeah, well, apparently that part of Alice is either currently malfunctioning or doesn’t bother showing up in dreams. Take your pick.”
“As long as she’s there, that’s all that matters.” Her mother squeezed Alice’s arm. “I miss you guys so much.”
Alice rolled back over and sat up. Her hands fell into her lap, and she found herself staring at them. She wanted so badly just to look at her mom again, but couldn’t. Was that because it was part of the dream that was out of her control or because she had an unshakable feeling this would be the last time she’d ever have a moment like this?
“I miss you, too, Mom. More than you could ever know. I just want to know what to do.”
“You already do. Here’s a hint: it rhymes with barley. Go find him.” Alice then felt her mother’s lips pressed against her forehead, and it seemed so annoyingly, heartbreakingly real. “You’ve been in Wonderland for too long, my precious little Alice. You need to wake up now. And just so you know, I will always be in your heart for as long as you need me. I love you so very, very much.”
* * *
ALICE AWOKE with the words I love you, too poised daintily on the edge of her lips.
She was arrayed in a mess of blankets in a white room, which initially caused her no shortage of confusion. However, she eventually noticed that the walls were not as perfectly blank as in her dream, and now other colors floated about the room. Her bed was composed of dark gray sheets and a yellow blanket, which was garish, to say the least, but comforting in the sense that at least it wasn’t white. There was also the young man sitting casually in a chair across from her on the other side of the bed who was—
Alice yelped in surprise as she realized she wasn’t alone, pulling the sheets up instinctively toward her face. In response, the man held up his left hand in what Alice assumed was a placating gesture. With his other hand, he slipped something that glinted in the light into his pants pocket, and though it seemed vaguely related to something she’d seen earlier that night, she couldn’t quite remember what.
Before her mind could travel further down that path, he was speaking to her.
“I see you are awake now,” he said with a noticeable but not overbearing Russian accent.
Alice had so many questions that she wanted to ask—who, what, where, why, when, how, rinse and repeat—but with her brain still not completely recovered from her dream, the best she could do was a stilted and delayed “Am I?”
The man laughed quietly before standing up. He walked over to a small nightstand on his side of the bed and took a glass of water from atop it. With a slow and deliberate motion, he offered it to her. “I have a feeling that your questions may be outweighed by your thirst, no?”
After he spoke, Alice became acutely aware of her mouth, namely that it felt like someone had poured the Sahara down it while she’d been out. She accepted the glass and began drinking in such satisfied gulps that water began to dribble down her chin.
“Easy, easy!” the man said with a small laugh. “I have plenty more, but you’re still recovering. It’s best if you sip slow.”
Alice exhaled and looked at the almost empty glass she now held in
her hands. “Noted,” she said absentmindedly. There was a dull pain coming back to her, down by her shoulder. As she moved to examine the area it was coming from, she noticed that her clothes were gone. In place of her white T-shirt and jeans she found what she could only describe as a loose-fitting hospital shirt and a pair of baggy pants made of the same material. Her mind was trying to puzzle together what exactly had happened, but she felt like she was in a deep fog. A pang of regret washed over her as memories of her mother came back, and it was all she could do to keep from tearing up. She sipped some more water from her glass instead.
“My name is Begemot. Cartwright asked that I stay with you in case you woke up. As is usual, his instinct turned out to be correct. Don’t worry—you’re safe here. There will be no more running away now, I promise.”
Alice looked over at him. His eyes seemed sharp, even if they were partially obscured by his drooping eyelids. Both his words and demeanor felt refreshingly calm.
“How did I get here? And where is here, exactly? And where’s Charlie?” Alice asked.
“I see your injuries haven’t dented your curiosity much,” Begemot said. “Cartwright brought you here with some help, the here being the Ferryman Institute. We may have bent a rule or two in the process, but you needn’t concern yourself with that. You were in need of immediate care and, unfortunately, a conventional place of treatment might not have been fast enough. I hope you don’t mind our modest accommodations. I will admit, they don’t often see much use.”
Alice surveyed the room again. “Well, your blankets and sheets are ugly as shit, but I’m not dead, so you’re doing okay in my book.”
A small grin perked up on his face. “I’ll pass that on to my superiors.”
Alice felt strange. Part of her wanted to curl up into a ball and just lie there, a not unfamiliar feeling for her of late. But the other part fixated on Charlie. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here? Was he all right? Her thoughts were scattered and fuzzy, like her brain was trying to run underwater. She felt drunk and slow and mentally clumsy.
What should I do?
And suddenly, like the proverbial lighthouse shining through the night, the answer was there. She didn’t know why, or how, or any of those silly little details she’d undoubtedly go back and try to figure out after the fact. She just knew.
“You never answered my question about Charlie,” she said. She was attempting to be casual, but there was no mistaking the hint of anxiety in her voice.
Begemot’s placid gaze acquired an offhanded smirk, and he slumped back against his chair. “It was a question I was trying to avoid, but I can see that’s not going to happen. Cartwright went to him. That’s all I know.”
That seemed like a lie, but Alice was in no position to call him out on it. She forged ahead. “I need to see him,” she said matter-of-factly.
He smiled again, but it was different this time. A ruse, and Alice saw right through it. “I’m afraid I—”
“You seem like a really nice guy,” she said, interrupting him, “and I’m extremely grateful for everything you and Cartwright and whoever else have done for me, but I don’t think you understand. I need to see Charlie. I’m sorry, and I know this kind of makes me a horrible person after all you’ve done for me, but I won’t take no for an answer.”
If her admittedly levelheaded demand (levelheaded in spoken tone, anyway—asking to see the guy who’d just shot and nearly killed you was, from a logical standpoint, less “levelheaded” and more “certifiably insane”) bothered him in any way, it certainly didn’t show. He considered her statement, completely unfazed, before pointing at her shoulder. “We just got you patched up. It’s not a good idea for you to be up and about. Rest is my advice.”
“Listen,” Alice began, but already her brain was elsewhere. All she could think about was getting up and moving. It was just a feeling, a strong feeling, that she needed to get out of there. She tossed aside the covers, and to her relief, they didn’t pose the tangled threat that the ones in her dream had.
Her feet felt the cool tiled floor, and slowly Alice pushed herself up. She wobbled a bit as she straightened out, then had to fight off the light-headed vertigo that accompanied it. When she achieved relative stability, she looked over her shoulder at Begemot. “Have you ever felt like you just instinctually know something that you have no business knowing?” she asked as she began to make her way gingerly around the bed.
Begemot seemed poised to stand up, but the question kept him in his seat. “Maybe,” he finally offered.
“Well,” Alice said with one passing shuffle step at a time, “that just happened to me. For whatever reason, I just know I need to go find Charlie. I understand that I’m supposed to wait here and hope for the best, but I can’t do that. Not that this is going to mean anything to you, but I recently learned from some crazy, bullet-stopping dork—and I mean that in the nicest way possible—that sometimes you have to trust yourself and do what you believe is the right thing even if the world tells you otherwise. I’ve spent too much of my recent life being willfully blind to the choices I was making because I’d convinced myself that they didn’t even exist. Like I didn’t have any control over my life, you know? Now I’m choosing. Please. Help me find him.”
The man regarded her carefully, perhaps trying to figure out if she was bluffing. The look on his face had shifted into one of calculation. Alice got the sense that, behind his indifferent exterior, he was weighing everything with his full attention. Finally, he stood up.
“I would almost say that this strikes me as somewhat ungrateful. We’ve already put ourselves at considerable risk for you, and now you want me to do so again without understanding the circumstances.” It was a statement, not a question. “I don’t like that.”
Alice made to interject, but he spoke over her. “However, your friend Mr. Dawson has made a career out of trusting his intuition, and I’ve yet to see it steer him wrong. Perhaps the same could be said of Cartwright as well. I don’t believe in coincidences, Ms. . . .” He trailed off there, just then realizing he wasn’t actually acquainted with Alice.
“Spiegel,” she said quickly.
“Ms. Spiegel, yes, I remember now. I will admit, what you’re asking me to do is . . . well, let us call a spade a spade—it is potentially worse than career-ending. Should things go as poorly as I imagine they possibly could, we may both find ourselves traveling to the afterlife tonight.” He reached next to the nightstand, where an old gray hospital cane was propped. Begemot passed it to Alice across the bed. “Let’s hope some of Mr. Dawson’s divine intuition has rubbed off on you.”
An awful feeling of shame crept in from all sides as Alice clutched the cane in front of her. Her haste to find Charlie was a strong wind at her back, but it didn’t assuage her feelings of guilt. This man had helped save her life. Even if she was still somewhat on the fence about whether that was a good thing or not, somewhere along the way she’d regained enough perspective (temporarily, at least) to realize what an amazing thing that was. Now, on top of everything he’d already done—which sounded like a lot—she was asking him to put everything on the line, again, for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize that’s what I was asking for. Why exactly is it so dangerous?”
Begemot was standing in the doorway now, his hand on the knob. With a daring smirk, he looked back at her over his shoulder. “Because you’re about to become the first human to spy on the Ferryman Council.”
“That does sound mildly terrifying.” Alice took the cane in her left hand. “I’m in.”
CHARLIE
* * *
THE FERRYMAN COUNCIL
So let me get this straight,” Charlie began, but he was derailed by his efforts to match Cartwright’s—or rather, Virgil’s—pace. Though Cartwright was more of the strolling type who seemed to take pains to meander, Virgil strode with a purpose Charlie found slightly disconcerting.
“Go on,” Cartwright said with his traditional un
perturbed attitude.
“Alice is alive?” Charlie asked as he caught up.
“Very much so.”
“And I’m not being sent to Purgatory?”
Cartwright looked over at him with a sly smile. “Not yet.”
“And you’re one of the original founders of the Institute acting as some run-of-the-mill late-Victorian British gentleman Ferryman mentor?”
Cartwright waved his hand dismissively. “I would argue strongly against your use of the word acting as I am your mentor, in the truest sense of the word. My position at this Institute has no bearing on that, nor do I act any differently with or without my given name.”
“Speaking of, as a born Roman, why are you so . . . British?” An odd question, but Charlie didn’t know how else to frame it.
“Tea,” Cartwright replied. “And Shakespeare, I suppose, who inaugurated the rise of England as a literary and cultural powerhouse, a rise in which I was more than happy to immerse myself. It was so very similar to Rome back in its heyday, flaws and all, that I’d finally felt home for the first time in centuries. But mostly tea. You simply cannot fully appreciate its ambrosial qualities without first being a subject of the queen.”
“What about the Ferryman Council stories? Is there any truth to them? Did you actually say those things?” Charlie asked. He felt disturbingly similar to a small child with all the questions he was slinging.
“They are mostly true,” Cartwright said. “Some parts have been embellished.”
Charlie finally managed to match Cartwright’s stride. “An example being . . . ?” When Cartwright said nothing, Charlie continued. “Right, so back to my first question.”
“I sincerely hope this isn’t tumbling into an infinite loop of inquiry,” Cartwright remarked.
Charlie ignored him. “How do you know Alice is alive? Javrouche told me I’d . . . she was dead.”
They were approaching the end of a long hallway, not dissimilar to the one that connected Charlie’s office to the control room, except it seemed older, somehow. He also hadn’t seen anybody wandering around since they’d left the courtroom, and Cartwright was regularly unlocking doors Charlie hadn’t even known existed.
