by Jamie Magee
~Willow Haywood~
I was terrified...
Humid summer air blew through my open window as I tossed and turned in my sweat soaked sheets. I was trapped in a nightmare. The ruthless dreams where I couldn’t sense the people around me, at least, I couldn’t sense their emotions—I knew they were there. I could see them.
Nightmares like this had haunted me since I was a kid. The dense weight on my chest was unbearable. I couldn’t breathe. Adrenaline hissing through my body gave way to hair-raising chills. Hot. Cold. Holding my breath. Panting. My anxious mind was in control. No matter how many times I told myself to chill, I only became worse.
Going unnoticed by the people in this dream place was normal. They were lost in their own personal hell. Lines gave definition to their troubled expressions. The world around them was as gray as a building summer storm. To lift the weight from my chest and wake, I’d have to find the one who’d called me here, the only one I could sense. If I could feel their emotions, I knew my touch could help.
I pushed my way through the disconsolate streets crowded with souls draped in disdain. I could hear the sound of arguing growing louder. It had to be my way out. The weight on my chest grew stronger, telling me I was right. My fear was near blinding. I kept telling myself no one could see me.
I was a ghost to them.
I was the one who should be feared. I could help or leave them.
At least, I assumed I could leave them. I’d never tried. Help and get out had always been my game plan when I awoke here.
Small windows lined the tall gray hand laid stonewalls. Darkness lingered behind most, while soft orbs of light illuminated others. There was no grass, trees, or sign of birds or any other life beyond the hopeless people all dressed in long black cloaks. Everything was controlled and uniform. The absence of color, music, and laughter was almost as petrifying as the emptiness in their dark eyes.
I walked closer. The weight was reaching a degree of unbearable pain. The one who had called me was close.
Why did it have to hurt? I tried to push away the invisible force that was torturing me, but my efforts were in vain, just as they always have been.
The arguing was coming from one of the small windows on the first level. A man was yelling as a woman cried out. On the front steps, I saw a little boy. He looked to be five or six. He was the first one I’d seen here that gave me pause, a sense a familiarity. It was his eyes—they were blue, almost clear.
He stared blankly into the darkness, but I was almost sure I saw the tiniest grin touch the edge of his lips, as if he sensed me, and knew it was going be all right now.
His hair was long and messy. The clothes he was wearing were tattered and dirty. Every instinct I had told me to grab him and run—wake us both up in my safe world. But that was nothing short of impossible. Putting my resentment for this dream, and how helpless it made me feel, I sat down next to him and placed my hand on the small of his back.
I had no idea how I did what I did. It was like breathing, letting my heartbeat; I was born with an extra sense that I constantly struggled to fit into my life. It wasn’t fun feeling emotions of others. To know that even if I was having the best day in the world, one sad person in my path could pull me into their world of darkness. It made me feel out of control, like I didn’t have permission to be my own person.
It was different in dreams like these.
Here, I only felt one, and it was one that a single touch and focused thought, wrapped in emotion, could help. I could make them feel like I did. I could change the course for us both.
There was no way I was going to let this little boy feel any of the terror I was wrangling with as I searched for him.
Instead, I thought of how happy he could be if he were only given some sense of being loved. How abundant he would feel if he could be the center of some lucky parents’ world. The little boy dropped his eyes as he felt me. Oddly, his emotion shifted to regret and sorrow. Not understanding, I focused on peace. His emotion slowly gave in to mine, bringing a sense of tranquility into him. I wanted to give him happiness, but my time there was coming to an end.
Silence came.
The little boy vanished, as the people on the street did. The wind whistled through the barren, cold walls. Now, I could only hear my violent heartbeat.
I stood, bracing myself for what I knew would happen.
A tall, dark figure emerged from the shadows, his contemptuous laugh echoing through the darkness.
He’s been in every nightmare I’ve ever had, taunting me, trying to force me to succumb to him. His face is always hidden by the darkness. The dragon tattooed on the inside of his arm told me he was the same one. This figure was once a child, but now, both teens, we played the game that brought only him pleasure.
He crept closer to me, laughing under his breath. He then reached for me. I knew from my previous nightmares that a burning white light was about to push right through me. I crossed my hands in front of my face, blocking the surge of light.
When the light didn’t come, I slowly lowered my hands. The figure was standing just in front of me. I still couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his eyes searching over me. He grasped my wrist, where I have a tattoo of an Ankh, a beautiful cross that opens at the top with a loop. My instinct was to pull away, but I could not make my mind and body agree. With his touch, I felt a hypnotizing, warm sensation that eased through my wrist, up my arm, and circled through my body taking the weight off my chest. His thumb traced over the cross.
I sensed him smirk.
“This is true…I will find you now,” he said in a deep, meticulous voice. He pressed his thumb in the center of the loop. The warm sensation turned into a scorching burn. I screamed through the pain as I thrashed and fought to get away.
In the next beat of my heart my eyes flew open—I’d made it back to reality.
My screams brought my father into my room. He’s always the first person to respond when I wake in the night.
I’ve never told my parents the details of the nightmares. Telling my parents how afraid I was would only force me to know if should or should not be—I’d feel my answer in their emotions. Something’s, I’d rather not know.
“Willow, wake up,” my father said in the same serene tone that never let me feel fear for long.
It’s hard to categorize emotions simply. I’d learned like many traits people carry around with them, they have a signature to their emotions. A baseline they clung to when life gave them no reason to shift drastically to one emotion or another.
My fathers had always been soothing. Hardly anything would rattle his cage.
Hastily I sat up and grabbed my wrist. I could still feel the pain of the burn.
“You haven’t had one of those dreams in a while,” my father said, turning on the lamp.
The last one I’d had came on the eve of my eighteenth birthday in November. It was now August. I seriously had hoped I’d grown out of them.
“I don’t understand. The new moon was two days ago,” my father said to himself.
As a kid, I had nightmares with each new moon. Knowing when they were coming didn’t make them any easier to face them.
“I’m all right, Dad. Really.”
Fear spiked in his emotion. I glanced to him; his hazel eyes had turned to a shade of brown. They tend to shift when he’s concerned about something.
“Let me see your wrist,” he said reverently.
My father, Dr. Jason Haywood, has always seemed to know if I’m hurting more than I let on. I’ve never been able to fake myself well, or sick, for that matter.
When I got the tattoo of the ankh, my mother, Grace, was furious. She grounded me for the first time in my life. My father simply asked why I’d chosen this symbol. I didn’t know. The symbol stood for eternal life, something I’ve always found fascinating. I always thought if people really believed in such a thing, then they wouldn’t be afraid. If they were not afraid then I wouldn’t hav
e to feel their fear.
I gently uncovered my wrist, expecting to see a burn. Instead, inside the loop at the top of the ankh was a small star. I felt my father’s shock, fear, and disbelief. My heart hammered in my chest as I tried to understand how that dream chased me into the sanctuary of my life. In a panic I pushed past my father.
“Where are you going?” he asked, standing to follow me.
“I just want to wash my face, Dad. I’m fine. Go back to bed,” I threw over my shoulder as I charged into the bathroom was next and closed the door behind me. I rushed to the sink, and tried to scrub away the star. I couldn’t comprehend it. I didn’t understand what I’d done to deserve this.
Why do I have to be so freaking different?
Feeling emotions of others isn’t my only freak trait. I see images of the people who are not here. They’re not dead, I don’t think, at least. They’re just not here, in my world.
They need my help, just like the soul who calls out to me in my nightmare. What’s different when I’m awake is that each touch takes me to wherever they are. When I release them, I’m pulled back into my reality. It’s not fun. What happens if one day I don’t come back?
Not helping isn’t an option. I mean, I don’t feel the weight on my chest like when I dream or anything. I just can’t deal. I can’t watch and feel someone suffer and do nothing—especially if I know I can do something.
When the nightmares stopped a few months back, the images seemed to be few and far between as well.
I missed them for selfish reasons.
I’m an artist, or something like that. I channel what I go through by sketching. I guess on some level, I think if capture the emotions I’d changed I can focus on the good that came of it, and not how unstable the entire ordeal felt.
The good gave me the will to endure this cruel fate.
I haven’t so much as doodled on a napkin lately. No images, no nightmares—no muse.
My mother believes I have a creative block. She’s an artist, too, and sees my painting as a rare talent. I never had the nerve to tell her that it was simply a crutch I used to cope with the wicked war my soul fights with each breath I take.
In a couple weeks, she is sending me to an art school in New York. The thought of having a nightmare so far from home is mortifying. Fear swelled in my chest as random, unlikely scenarios played out in my mind. What made it all worse was I didn’t want to go to art school. This was my moms dream, not mine.
My wrist was red and raw before I gave up. The star was still there. I splashed water on my face then stared into the mirror, trying to look past my haunted green gaze. I wanted to see the answers somewhere inside of me. All I saw was a girl trying to get from one breath to the next. I hated that. I should be stronger than this.
An instinct I hated to listen to, but knew was rarely wrong, told me that the time for me to hide from this was ending. There’s nothing worse than knowing that hell is charging toward you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
I sensed the warring emotions of my parents downstairs. Urgency. Panic. I’d done this to them. I’d spotlighted a weakness that made me self-conscious as hell.
I took a deep breath, wishing that I could change the emotions of the ones around me instead of images that take me worlds away. If I could, I would go down there and move them back to the peace and excitement that belonged to them.
I dried my face off and put lotion on my tattoo, trying to ease the burn. I turned off the light and opened the door, just wanting to go to my room and hide. I heard my parents whispering at the bottom of the stairs. I looked over the banister to see my father fully dressed. He was trying to calm my mother down, but he was having little success. He grabbed his keys and kissed her before opening the front door to leave.
My own confusion outweighed the stunned emotion my mother was feeling as she stared at the closed door.
“Mom?” I said with a crack in my voice as I slowly walked to the stairs.
I startled her.
She jumped as she glanced up at me. With a fake smile filling her face, she tried to find the familiar excitement that her emotion usually carried. She reached back and pulled down her long dark hair, trying to hide the red blemish that always surfaces on her chest when she’s hiding something.
“Where’s Dad going?”
She glanced down then up at me, searching for words that would not be a complete lie.
“Um, he…well, you see, he had to go meet someone. At the, at the hospital.”
“It’s, like, two in the morning,” I protested, halting halfway down the stairs.
My mother’s eyes fell to my tattoo. I felt a surge of fear as she saw the new addition. Not feeling like trying to explain it, I casually moved my arm behind my back.
“You know how good a doctor he is. They just need him. It’s nothing really,” she said, clearly trying to convince herself.
My father is an amazing doctor. He never really prescribes medicine or has to run painful tests to find a cure. He just seems to know what’s wrong and how to heal it. People come from every state to see him. So, I almost believed her until I felt a dread rise inside her.
Before I could bother to push her for the truth, I heard my baby sister’s bedroom door open at the other end of the hall. Only six, Libby is a lot like my mother. They both live with a constant child-like excitement rushing through them. Squinting her dark eyes in the light of the hall, Libby pushed her long, dark, tangled hair out of her face.
“Is it time to get up?” she asked me.
Seeing her way out of having to answer any more of my questions, my mother climbed the stairs.
“No, baby girl, Daddy just had to go help someone,” she answered in the sweet tone she always used with Libby.
I felt Libby’s confusion. Even she knew this was odd.
My mother reached Libby and took her hand. “Come on, sweetie, I’ll lay with you.”
Libby glanced back at me. I shrugged my shoulders, letting her know that I didn’t understand either.
I stood in sleepy confusion for a moment before going back to my room. Leaving the light, on I climbed under my covers. Immediately my mind went back to the words that the figure had said: “I will find you now.”
I’d never wanted to find a way to tell my parents, at least my dad, about all the weird things I can do until now. This was the first time I truly felt vulnerable in my real life.
Nightmares came with a new moon, but every single night I dreamt of another place. There I always found the same person. I cannot recall a single day of my life that I have not seen him.
This intoxicating soul mesmerized me with his intense blue eyes, which give way to perfect lips highlighted by sensual dimples that come to life when he smiles at me. His tall frame and broad shoulders leading to a lean, sleek toned body was what eye-candy was made of. His entire demeanor was playful but stoic at the same time. I had alto of friends, good ones, but this boy knew me better than all of them. This one saw what I hid from everyone, even myself.
I took in a deep breath and closed my eyes, holding his image in my mind, hoping this time that I’d find him instead of unexpected horror.
Deep breathes later I slowly opened my eyes to a bright sunlit field. I wished every second of every day for this dream to come to life.
A smile beamed across my face as I started to search for him.
It felt like I belonged in this dream world, like it belonged to me. There was only one flaw—utter silence. I had never heard his voice.
Everything seemed pure, innocent. A small creek led into a larger waterway that fell into a beautiful, gentle waterfall. He was there, watching the water, waiting patiently for me. Feeling my approach, he turned and grinned as he brushed his dark, wavy hair out of his eyes. I felt the air leave my lungs as I took him in, a life force. It didn’t matter how many times I’d seen him butterflies still filled my stomach. My heart still beat a little bit faster, my soul hummed.
Whe
n my nightmare came before our dream he could see it in my face. His unease and anger for whoever had hurt me would wave down his body. Stepping closer to me, he read my eyes again. Instantly his smile faded. I glanced away, ashamed that I let the nightmare win—I let it follow me into the heavens my life had given me.
He held out his arms and I fell into his embrace. Those strong hands eased down my back as he pressed us together and swayed. His lips landed on the crest of my brow; the sensation sent a quake through my entire body. I craved this boy. I needed him to be real.
I know it’s crazy, but I loved him so much that it hurt. His absence from my waking life was agony. I felt out of place with my world by not my family and friends. I wanted to take all the best things and put them in one place. I wanted to bury my hells. All the insane things that happened to me would be worth it if only he were real.
The sound of lawnmowers woke me before I had a chance to say goodbye to my blue-eyed boy. I looked down to see the star still resting inside my ankh.
No way...
I couldn’t lie still for another moment. One way or another I was going to outrun this weirdness.
On my bedside table, there was a note from my mother. Libby is playing with Abby today. Abby’s grandmother is taking them to a movie this afternoon. Can you meet them at the theater at four? Meet me at the gallery, we’ll get dinner.
Love Mom
My mother owns an art gallery at the corner of Main Street. She has a big showing this week. Most of the paintings are mine. She assumes that if I see the reaction of the public I’ll be inspired to paint again.
Now that the nightmares were back, I was positive I’d see an image today. Dark inspiration was whispering my name...
I’d just finished getting dressed when I heard a knock on the front door. From the top of the stairs, I could see my friend, Dane, through the glass window that surrounded the door.
I’ve known Dane my entire life; he’s like a brother I got to pick.
The seriousness in his dark eyes would easily let you believe he’s older than he is. His athletic build, and rep for being the captain of whatever team he signed on to backed up the command I felt in his vibe. The safety.
We both felt out of place in the southern life we were raised. All my friends joked about breaking out, not following the footsteps our parents laid out for us, but I don’t think anyone was a serious about it as Dane. He’d been ready to run since he discovered where the county lines were.
Walking down the steps, I inhaled his vibe. I made his steady flow my own. I wasn’t cured from my twisted night, but was well on my way now.
I opened the door and met him with a wry grin, but his smile faded when he saw me.
“Rough night?” he asked, as that all too serious stare rained down on me.
I rolled my eyes and waved him in. He followed me to the patio that lined the back of the house. I sat down on the swing that faced the yard. Dane sat beside me and stretched his long arm out behind me.
“You okay, Willow?” he asked, knowing the answer was no.
I canted my head just so, staring into the distance.
“Nightmares come back?”
I glanced up at him, not surprised he had guessed. All my friends knew I was violent sleeper.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I’d rather just forget,” I groused.
I could sense his frustration as he tried to think of a way to help me. “Was it a new moon last night?” Dane asked. He moved his fingers together as if he were counting the days that had gone by.
I shook my head no.
“I wonder why this one was different,” he said faintly.
All at once I felt a gentle pull on me, the way I always did when an image would emerge, looking for my help.
I stood slowly, hearing Dane sigh before he stood to follow me wherever I chose to go. A gust of summer air rustled through the trees, causing one of the branches to scrape against the roof of the patio. I grinned, feeling a sudden fear shoot through Dane before he had a chance to process what the noise was.
“Maybe you just have nightmares because of this house,” he said, blushing a little.
My house is over a hundred years old and has always been in my family. It is the most historic and admired home in the town of Franklin, but for some strange reason, Dane has never been completely comfortable here.
I didn’t bother to tease him.
In the center of my yard a young woman appeared. A sinking feeling quickly absorbed me. I blinked to make sure I was not imagining her. She was on her knees, wearing a long black coat, holding a letter in her hands, crying breathlessly.
I stepped off the patio and walked slowly in her direction with Dane following right behind me. It wouldn’t be the first time he had watched me help an image. In fact, I was sure I had lost count of how many times he had actually come. He never asked any questions or even spoke about it. Each time, he would just act like nothing had happened.
My eyes searched over the woman, trying to understand if the sorrow I felt coming from her was grief or loneliness. After a moment, I knelt in front of her, reached out with my hands and touched her shoulders.
With my touch, the gentle pull grew into a force that moved me forward. A tingling sensation bolted through me. The air around me shifted to freezing. It was dark. Snow fell softly through the air. The woman never raised her eyes to meet mine—the images never do. I tried to remember an emotion of absolute bliss, the way I always felt in my good dreams. I could feel her emotion shifting to the same pleasure. Her tears began to dry. A small smile came to the corners of her lips. I let go, slowly taking in her details, knowing that she would be my next sketch.
The same force that pulled me in pushed me away. I took in the tingle as it passed again. It didn’t matter how many times I went through something like that, it always left me enchanted with this seemingly mystical power that was calling my name.
I was back in my yard in the small town of Franklin on a warm summer day.
Dane was standing behind me, calm as ever. When we were kids, this was terrifying to him. His emotion was powerful enough to make me question why I had no fear of this dance with the unknown. Or at least not enough fear to stop me from reaching out again and again.
Now, it’s as common to him as a simple conversation.
I took a deep breath before I turned and walked back to the patio. Dane followed me. As I sat back down in the swing, he passed me and went into the house. I stared blankly at the door, trying to figure out what he was doing. He returned abruptly with a sketchbook and stick of charcoal, then walked over and handed them to me before taking a seat.
I leaned back in the swing, pulling my legs to me to balance the pad. My hand then flew across the page as I outlined the woman. As she came to life on the pad, I realized how observant Dane really is. He understood the significance of my art. Why I sketched. That it had nothing to do with a raw unclaimed talent, but that it was my grip on sanity.
When it was done, he smiled and shook his head. “Well, the rebellion thing didn’t work. Maybe we should play up the nightmares,” he teased.
He and my best friend, Olivia, tried to help me come up with excuses for not going away to school. I would never leave Franklin if it were up to me. I knew everyone here. Their emotions were familiar and I knew how to block them if I wanted to. The thought of being in a huge city filled with millions of emotions was exhausting. I seriously contemplated Dane’s words before we both broke into laughter.
“What time is it?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “Three thirty,” he answered, a little shocked by how quickly time had passed.
“I have to walk down and get Libby for Mom,” I said, standing and folding the sketchpad closed.
“I’ll walk with you. I have to work tonight,” Dane said, stretching before he stood. His mother, Gina, owned a small diner in town named, appropriately enough, Gina’s. Dane seemed slated to run it o
ne day, but that was a fate he would never choose for himself.
My house sat just one block from Main Street, the heart of town. I slipped on my sandals and walked side by side with Dane. Almost everyone we passed waved, followed by a Tell your dad I said hello.
Dane swayed his head. “Your dad should, like, run for president. He would so win,” he said, nodding as someone else said Say hello to your dad to me again.
“You’re probably right,” I muttered, suddenly remembering him leaving last night and the way my mother was acting.
Olivia was working at the theater for the summer. Her passions are movies and books, so it’s a fitting job for her. She’s one of those people that I like being around because words are not always needed. We are the two girls who sit on the sidelines, watching others in our class. Because Olivia is small and has the same olive skin and long dark hair as I do, teachers often mistake one of us for the other. Our eyes are similar, too, but I’ve always thought that mine were stranger than hers. When she saw Dane and me coming up the sidewalk, a smile absorbed her bored face.
“What have you guys been up to today?” Olivia asked.
“Sketching,” Dane answered all too cynically.
Olivia’s smile fell. “Man, I really thought that one would have worked.” She was sincerely trying to help me stay here. I had to love her for that.
“Wait,” Dane said, raising his hands to make his words have more of an effect. “I have good news—the nightmares are back.”
I elbowed him to tell him to chill on the negative energy he was spouting off. I was fine. I was making it from one minute to the next just like I always had.
“Really?” Olivia gasped. “Do you guys have any good news for me?” she asked as her concerned gaze melted over me.
“Afraid not,” Dane said quickly. “Hey, I gotta go. If your lights are on when I get done tonight, I’ll stop by,” he said to me.
I nodded and watched him go.
“I don’t think I will ever figure the two of you out,” Olivia said under her breath.
I tossed a dirty glance in her direction. I was always teased about not dating Dane, or anyone, for that matter.
“Just kidding,” Olivia said, smiling and raising her hands defensively.
The doors to the theater opened. I could see Libby coming up the aisle with her friend and her grandmother.
“Hey, let’s do something tomorrow,” Olivia said as I moved so Libby could see me. I nodded and grinned at Libby.
When she saw me, she ran in my direction, her emotions, as always were drenched in excitement.
“Oh, that was the best movie ever! The princess had green eyes like you!”
“Are you sure? I thought only witches had green eyes?” I teased.
Not finding it very amusing, her wide smile lessened. I waved goodbye to Olivia, and Libby told her friend goodbye. She must have known I was supposed to take her to Mom’s gallery because she turned in that direction as we left the theater and all but pulled me down the sidewalk.
“Willow, why are you walking so slow? I want to see Mom. Which pieces of yours are in the show?”
Libby never had just one question.
“It’s just nice out. I want to enjoy it.”
“What pictures of yours are in the show?” she asked again.
She knew I was avoiding the answer.
“I don’t know. Mom didn’t ask me.”
Libby started going on about which ones were her favorite. I listened half-heartedly as I scanned the crowd, looking for another image. The woman wearing a black coat had left me with a craving to help someone else.
People were rushing in and out of the doors of the gallery when we arrived. We didn’t see Mom at first, but Libby spotted her as the people scurried around us.
“There she is.”
I waved at Mom to let her know we were there. Libby then took my hand and said, “Let’s find yours.”
It wasn’t hard. One of the first ones in the presentation was mine. It was of a little boy in a field, surrounded by wildflowers. I had painted it almost a year ago. The emotion was happy in this painting. He was so sweet, but when I first saw him he was filled with sorrow, he had lost something. I only tried to give him patience. Just as I was to leave him, I saw what he had lost come back to him. It was his best friend, a yellow lab. It made me smile to remember him. That was the upside to this odd trait of mine: helping.
“Who did you draw?” Libby asked.
“It was just someone I thought of...”
“There are my two angels,” I heard my mother say.
Libby was in her arms before I could turn to her voice.
“Did you like your movie?” she asked Libby
The energy that those two put off was unbelievable. Libby nodded and went into a full recount of the movie. My mother’s eyes met mine as Libby spoke. Wanting to avoid her stare, I began to walk down the hall in the gallery and look at all the paintings. The emotion of the artwork, not just mine, was powerful. The most amazing part was feeling the emotions of the people who gazed at them. If they understand the painting, they feel it. Seeing the silent connection from the creator to the observer was breathtaking. It always gave me the reassurance that we’re not alone, that somewhere someone is feeling, or has felt, what you’re going through. They obviously survived it, so no doubt you would, too.
My mother caught up with me. “How did your day go? Did you sleep in?” she asked, trying to catch my gaze.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“We’re going to meet your Dad at Antoine’s for dinner,” she said with a sigh of relief.
“Speaking of sleep, I bet he’s tired since he had to work last night.”
A surge of suspense rushed through her. She stood speechless before turning and trying to look busy, talking to the lighting crew.
Antoine’s was busy, which wasn’t surprising, as nice as it is. Dad managed to get us a table out on the street. He seemed lost in his thoughts, which was odd because he is usually very attentive to us. I melted into my seat, keeping my eyes down and tracing my forbidden tattoo, as well as the new addition—the small star—now there. It’s now a part of me. Great.
I listened as Mom and Dad went over their days with each other. They were interrupted often as people would pass by and stop to talk to them. I added in a laugh or “yes” or “no” when the questions would come my way. My attention was on the people all around us. I hadn’t given up my search for another image.
I could feel my father watching me, following my gaze. When he exchanged glances with my mother, I could sense his concern. What is it with him lately?
As dinner ended, I felt a familiar pull on me, so I hastily searched the crowd for anyone out of place. Across the street, I saw three girls walking toward the direction of our home. They looked wet and were huddled closely together, trying to calm each other. I looked at my mother and saw her sketching something on a napkin.
“Mom, do you care if I go by the art store before I come home?” I asked, needing an excuse for the detour that I was planning.
“That’s fine with me. I’m surprised you haven’t made any plans for tonight. Hannah and Jessica stopped by the shop today looking for you.”
Jessica and Hannah were friends of mine and big fans of my mother. My father seemed to grow a little tense, his emotion shifted to concern.
He spoke before I had the chance to respond. “What could you possibly need at the store? Between you and your mother, you could open a store on your own.”
“I just want to see if they have anything new. I think Monica is working anyway,” I responded, a bit defensive.
My mother reached out and put her hand on my father’s hand. Bringing his attention to her big brown eyes, she spoke softly, almost imploring him to listen to her. “Jason, let her go.”
He started to say something, but she put her fingers to his lips, and with their eyes locked, she seemed to reassure him. Taking advantage of the distraction
she had given me, I stood quickly.
“I won’t be out late,” I promised. “Hey, Libby, give me a hug.”
“Can I go with you?” Libby asked, dancing in her seat. It was obvious she just didn’t want to sit there anymore.
“Young lady, it’s close to your bedtime. Give your sister some space,” Mom ordered, putting her sketch in her purse.
I shouted, “Love you guys,” over my shoulder as I walked toward the art store.
Unfortunately, the images were walking in the opposite direction of the art store, toward where my parents were sure to be walking shortly. The art store was just a few spaces down from the restaurant, so I wasn’t too far off track. Going inside would give them time to leave. Monica was sitting behind the counter scrolling through her phone.
“Hey, Willow,” she said absentmindedly as she looked up.
“Hey,” I said, staring out the storefront.
Monica is honest with her emotions. Sometimes too honest, but she always seemed to lighten any mood I was drowning in.
“What are you looking for?”
“Nothing, really. I was just getting some space between me and my parents.”
“Willow Haywood, why on earth would you ever want to do that?” she asked sarcastically. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re sneaking off to meet one of your many admirers. Who’s the lucky guy? Dane? Josh, maybe?”
I grimaced as she said the names, which only made her laugh.
“Hey, go to the lake with me tomorrow. Hannah and Jessica are going,” Monica pleaded, walking toward me and trying to see what I was looking at outside the store.
“Yeah, I guess. I’ll see if Olivia wants to go, too.”
“There’s a new guy in town, by the way. Chase has been showing him around. Drop dead gorgeous.”
She had always been a bit boy crazy, not a good trait to have in a small town. There are not a lot of them to go around.
“Who is he?” I asked not really caring.
“His name is Drake. Chase met him this morning. He’s renting out the studio at Chase’s house. He’s going to the lake tomorrow, too,” she continued.
“Monica—”
“I’ll pick you up at noon,” Monica asserted.
I let out a deep sigh. “Fine. Look, I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Love ya,” Monica yelled as I walked out.
Waving goodbye and walking back onto the street, I glanced back toward Antoine’s. My family had left. The streets were clearing out. I could see Mom and Libby almost a block ahead of me. Wondering where my father went, my eyes searched for the group of three as I started to walk in the direction I’d seen them before.
My house was only a block away now. Just as I was thinking of turning back I felt the pull again.
I saw them a few feet in front of me: three girls, young. I wasn’t sure what was wrong. There was utter silence all around them. My stomach dropped, and I felt a little sick. I always felt this way just before I got in trouble. If I had any sense I would see this as a sign to turn around and go home, but my curiosity won over my anxiety.
I stepped closer.
The night air seemed to chill as a breeze swept through the trees. I could feel emotions all around me. Beyond my images was one full of anguish. I glanced back but all I could see were the people in the distant lights of the streets. Not sure where the anguish was coming from, I ignored it and decided to help the images before me.
Breathing in, I looked at the girls and reached out for the one closest to me. Instantly, the pull and the tingling sensation absorbed me once again. I smiled as I relished in the feeling.
The night became darker. I felt the cold rain. The girls trembled as they walked. Their exhaustion was evident. They were finding their way back. I was sure they’d been lost for some time. They just needed one little push to find their second wind.
I let Libby’s face flash through my memory—the warmth and energy that came off her. I then placed my other hand on the girl to the far right. Noticing that the two girls on the outside were clearly stronger, I took my right hand and placed it on the girl in the middle. I watched as determination crossed her face. I could see a house with all the lights on inside. The girls could see it, too. I let go and a force pulled me back into reality.
I stood still, trying to hold on to the tingling sensation I felt, wondering once again what force that sensation belonged to, how I managed to use it in the first place.
“Ahem…”
Hearing someone clear their throat, I turned slowly and right behind me was my father.
“Hey, Dad,” I said anxiously feeling my skin blush and my heart pound.
“Willow, do you want to tell me something?” he asked in a placid tone that I had never heard him use before.
My stomach turned. Did he see me disappear—or did he see me reappear?
“About…?” I answered shyly.
My father closed his eyes and raised his head to the night sky. He was really upset, more so now than he had been at dinner.
“Do you realize how far you went that time?” he asked, lowering his head and looking carefully at me.
“Um...”
“Do you even know what you are doing?”
“Do you?” I retorted.
My father cleared his throat again and hesitated as an older couple walked by. “Willow, we need to talk. I need to explain something to you.”
I swallowed hard, not sure that I wanted to know what he thought he knew.
