I think Jared is so torn up about everything he doesn’t want to face me. He’s almost never home and he won’t let any of his friends in the house when he is here. I’m at a loss about this. It’s the first time in my life I’m not speaking to him every day. I’ve told him I don’t blame him for anything but the look he gives me tears my heart to pieces. He looks at me like he’s sad, mad, disgusted, and unforgiven. He’s more miserable than I am and that’s pretty miserable.
Finally, let me vent about the sleep problem I’ve been having. Every night I have the same dream. Somewhere mixed into all of the other twisted dreams that keep me from feeling rested, I’m standing at the edge of the Spring of Souls again. Always under the moonlight, the white swirls in the water moving with purpose, and always coming closer and closer until the Native man rises out of the pool. He moves with slow, deliberate care and lifts Ashley’s spirit from her body. Then he returns to the hot spring where they fade into a foggy mist which sinks into the obsidian water. Sometimes in the dream Dad watches with me, but he won’t speak to me. He doesn’t move or do anything, and it makes my panic worse. Sometimes Ashley turns into Jared and sometimes in the dream, the white owl lands in the grass and then flies away with something small and lifeless dangling from its talons. Every time I have this dream I wake up at the same moment. It’s not like most dreams where once I wake up the images start to fade. This one is a vivid memory playing over and over again. Urghh, my hand can take no more….
I lay my pen down on the page and close the notebook. Glancing over at the clock it reads, 4:34. It’s dark outside my window, so it must be a.m. I lie back on my pillows and close my eyes. The soft weight of four small paws walks over my legs and then settles next to my side. I reach down automatically and pet Ariel’s satin fur. Part of me wants to go back to sleep and another part of me wants to whack myself over the head with something very heavy like the cast iron frying pan from the kitchen. I contemplate going downstairs to retrieve it, but decide it’s too much effort — especially the part of having to explain another injury to my mother.
I can list at least three good reasons to inflict self-injury. The first is unconsciousness is the easiest way to avoid all dreams (and everything else.) The second is to knock some sense into myself, which I’m in desperate need of at the moment. The third reason is crazy, but here it is. Maybe my dad would come and talk to me again.
A hard lump like a peach pit instantly blocks my throat as I acknowledge this significant little truth. Everyone, including myself, has been assuming I’ve been hiding out in the house because of the attack and the bruises but now I realize my depression is about my father. I’d felt his presence and heard him, and it had been so real. He was there for me, telling me he loved me when I was…hmmm? What was I? I’m not sure what happened to me but it’s safe to say I lost consciousness.
After he died, I wished every day I could talk to him once more, hold his hand, go for a hike together, or give him a last hug, anything. And now he had come and was gone again, and it felt the same all over. The truth is, some part of me wishes I would’ve stayed with him. He said I could if I wanted to. My choice was clear then and it still is now, but missing my dad hurts. I let out a deep sigh and roll onto my side curling into a ball around Ariel and then I flop back over onto my back in disgust. My shoulder hurts too bad to lie on my side. All the physical pain I’ve been dealing with is another reason I regret not hanging with Dad. Being with him was almost indescribable. I’d been weightless of body and with perfect clarity of mind in a place without time or physical restraints. The exact opposite of how I am now. I squeeze my eyes closed and will myself not to cry. I cried enough for a lifetime in the first year or two after he died and now I hate crying. You have to think of Mom, Jared, and Grandma, my small inner voice reminds me. “Whatever,” I mutter to myself, but I feel the strength and truth in it.
All right, since I’m facing my truths, here’s another one. The one that didn’t even make the list. The craziest of them all. Part of me really wants to go back to sleep. The last two nights after finally falling to sleep, after the Ashley dream, I’ve had very lucid dreams about Nathaniel. They leave me feeling almost elated — which seems wrong because I’m healing from the biggest ordeal of my life and shouldn’t I be melancholy or something — until I wake up. I am in fact, writing and thinking to make myself stay awake because I want to avoid the Nathaniel dream. I decided the confusion and the emptiness that follows dreaming about him isn’t worth it.
The dreams weren’t very exciting or anything. He wasn’t rescuing me or saving me from falling out an open window. We talked in my room, that’s all. Except it was the most intimate experience of my life. We could talk about anything and it was fun and so real. His eyes were storms of emotion as he talked, changing from intense passion to eye-crinkling humor and his subtle smiles made me want to say or do anything to see them again. I would catch him watching my mouth when I spoke and when he would notice that I noticed, his eyes would stare into my soul, and I wasn’t in the least uncomfortable. The look sent a shiver down my spine that was exciting.
He liked to talk about foxes, I guess, because he brought it up in both dreams. He said they were the animal of the in-between places. They could come and go as they pleased; watching and moving in both the physical and fairy realms. His intensity would rise, if that was possible, and his eyes pierced my core when he told me he’d come see me any time I wanted. He was so clear about this part, which is so strange in a dream to have someone tell you specifically how to do something. He told me to say his real name aloud and he would come as soon as he could. Both times I woke up right afterwards, thinking his name. Nathaniel Evans. I don’t recall him telling me his entire name before. Then I lay in bed mulling things over. I kept rehashing everything that happened, questioning my sanity, and contemplating checking myself into a psychiatric facility.
So this morning — or is night? — I’m keeping myself awake and no more Nathan. He has become real again but only in my sleep and not a word from him while I’m awake. Why? What happened to him? Is he even a real person? Could I have imagined him? No. Chris Abeyta had seen him. But why had Chris been so defensive?
Time continues to pass even though my awareness of it is altered. My mind can’t continue to stumble and bump around like a drunken bee inside my head, but making my thoughts come to a stop is impossible. When the torrent finally does begin to slow down, I feel sleep drift in like fog coming in off the ocean and start to envelope me. I force my eyes to stay open past the burn. I have to see what life is like without him. Outside the sky is lightening, bringing yet another nameless day. I wiggle my toes and fingers. These remote parts aren’t sore, and I imagine my blood circulating to their tips. Wake up, Jules.
I decide to make myself get up and go downstairs for tea.
Mom is in the kitchen when I come in. She’s wearing her work scrubs and is sorting mail at the counter. I don’t say anything but I try, with minimal success, to smile when she says, “Morning, sweetie.”
I grab the kettle and listen to the water pour out of the tap. Then the shuffle of envelopes is overridden by the click, click, click of the gas range igniting.
“Jules?”
“Hmmm?”
“Ashley’s funeral is today.”
“Oh.” I didn’t want to think about that. I hadn’t told my mom my last words to her had been “could you just go away.” What if Ashley was right about me all along? About me being a witch. Could I will someone to die? There’s no way I meant that when I said it, but…?
“Jared and I are going. It’s at three o’clock. Will you come with us?”
I hesitate with an answer. I need a good excuse because, funerals aren’t my thing and Ashley hated my guts, is too much to explain at five-thirty in the morning. “No, I’m going to work today.”
“Really?” she asks.
“Umm, yeah,” I say as it dawns on me I can go to work today.
Mom lays a hand over mine
on the counter. “I’m sure Grandma Charlotte will let you take the day off.”
“I don’t want to. I want to go to work. Okay?”
“Of course. That’s fine. If you change your mind though, it could help bring some closure.”
“No, I don’t think so, Mom,” I say, but then I wonder if it would help with the dreams. Probably not.
“Here you go.”
She hands me a cream colored envelope from the stack of mail. “Oh, I almost forgot. You have a delivery in the living room. It came yesterday evening, late. I thought you were already asleep; otherwise I would have brought it to you. It’s very nice. You’ll have to tell me who sent it.”
“Whatever,” I say, not really interested. I want to drink my tea and be left alone. Maybe pull weeds out of my garden or listen to some music, not gossip with my mother about nice presents.
“I’m off to sleep then. Glad you’re ready to go back to work.”
She kisses me on the cheek as I say, “Me too,” with less than mediocre enthusiasm.
Going to work may not be so bad. Beats hanging around here worrying about my lack of sanity. With tea and the mystery envelope — there’s no return address — in hand, I make my way into the other room to check out the “delivery.”
It’s impossible to miss. If I’d been paying better attention I would have smelled them before I saw them. As it is, the mingled sweet and heady scents practically knock me over as I walk into the living room. Not one or even two bouquets of flowers, but four of them are crowding the already cramped room. The assortments are all large and beautiful. Each vase has a different color theme from subtle and light to vibrant and showy but I couldn’t care less. The royal purple calla lilies mixed with roses and oriental lilies are all I want to look at. Beautiful, elegant, and a smell to die for, wow. As I bend over to take in another deep inhale I notice a card sticking out of the vase full of roses, gerbera daisies, tiger lilies, and other filler flowers, all in shades of pinks and red. Juliana Crowson is written in a neat hand on the outside. I sigh, feeling tired at the sight of it. I don’t want to ruin the gift. What if the flowers are from someone I don’t want them to be from? The flowers are so nice right now, and untainted by a name. One more smell and a last look at the four bouquets then I pull the card from its stick and open it. Why delay the inevitable? Maybe they’re from Nathaniel?
To my surprise the card doesn’t shed light on the matter. It read, “Thinking of you and wishing you well.” Generic at best. I plop down on the couch to sip my tea and continue to stare at the calla lilies. Their color and shape attract my eye like I’m some kind of hummingbird looking for a deep purple drink. I set my mug down on the remaining two square inches of my coffee table and remember the mail in my hand. Does it matter who sent the flowers? In our small town, everyone knows about what happened to me at Castle Hill and anyone could have sent them. Well wishers. Yipee. I crack the seal on the envelope and pull out a card. The paper is thick and there’s a watercolor painting on the front. It looks hand painted, not a print, of a lavender field in front of a chateau.
Inside I find these words.
Dear Juliana,
It is with sincere regret that I am writing to you and I am not there in person to apologize. I hope you can believe me when I tell you I had no idea about my cousin’s bad habits or how dangerous he was. If I had known about him he would never have been allowed to step foot on any of my properties. As it was, I only employed him as a favor to my mother and my aunt.
Please do not misunderstand me. I’m in no way making excuses. I take complete responsibility for all that has happened. I have made arrangements to cover all medical costs for you and your brother and if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to let me know. I deeply regret leaving with such haste, but at the time I was uneasy about what happened and decided to escape to our family chateau in southern France to let things settle down in Colorado. If I could change everything I would; starting with staying at home that terrible day. Maybe things would have turned out differently. I cannot say in words how very sorry I am. Please forgive me. Be well.
Lance.
Post script: I hope you will accept the flowers.
I raise my eyebrows at the card and read it again. His chivalry almost makes me want to gag. Guys! Jared blames himself, and now Lance does too. Honestly, I haven’t thought of Lance one time in this entire ordeal, and now he’s begging for forgiveness. I roll my eyes at the card and put it down. I pick up the bitter concoction I call tea and take a couple of good swallows. I know who’s to blame and it’s not either of them. The maniac Mason, that’s who, and myself for being so…well, me. I decided to go chase Jared down. No one forced me to do it. I sigh again, what’s done is done.
The mystery of the flowers solved, I pick myself up off the sofa, and with tea in one hand and the vase of lilies in the other, I leave the room shrugging and telling myself men need to make manly gestures and girls like flowers.
Chapter Twenty-seven: Unexpected
Work is soothing and steady. Grandma was swamped by herself, but with two of us here we make progress on the heaps of herbs in the back room and we’re able to take care of the customers coming in.
I fiddle with the scarf around my neck and watch a woman as she scans the rows of brown bottles looking for some particular tincture. I should ask her if she needs help, but I’m mesmerized by her orange and brown haze. Her back is to me and the murky color over her lower back and right side has me transfixed. It looks bad, sickly. She turns to me with a friendly smile. I focus on her face quickly, not wanting to be caught staring at her backside.
“Can I take dandelion root for my kidneys?”
“Umm, yeah,” I answer, sounding a bit slow. I’m trying to get my mind off the gray-green, orange and brown fog hanging around her right side.
“Would you recommend something that is more effective?”
“I would drink some plantain and marshmallow tea and take some Echinacea tincture separate for the infection.” It was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying.
“Oh?” she says surprised. “How did you know I was fighting an infection?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t. You should talk to Charlotte. She knows a lot more than I do.”
Grandma to the rescue. She steps out of the workroom just as I’m about to go get her. I take the bags out of her hands and say, “Grandma, this customer has a question for you.”
I put the bags on the counter and pretend to look busy while Grandma finishes helping the woman. There’s a familiar name on one of the bags. Chris Abeyta and his phone number are written on the side. All the bags have a name and number on them. These must be special orders. As I stare at his name, an idea starts to form and details of a plan quickly fall into place. It might work.
Grandma rings up the customer and I bag up her purchase. She bought the Echinacea, the dandelion, marshmallow, and the plantain. She also got some Uva ursi. I try not to notice her muddy aura but she’s standing right in front of me and it’s impossible not to see.
Because I hadn’t left the house in so long and had not seen anyone other than family, I didn’t know if I’d be able to see auras anymore, or if I could turn it off and on at will. Today confirms that I see everyone’s aura and there is no turning it off. I watch the woman leave the store and somehow I have a new understanding about how my grandmother works with people. Grandma sees people’s energy fields, too, and I’m willing to bet she can see the same sickness around the woman that I can.
Grandma is watching me as I snap out of my daydream.
“You recommended exactly what I would have chosen,” she sings to me. She always sounds like a bird to me.
“Lucky guess,” I shrug.
“Was it?” Her high pitched voice reaches dog-ear-twitching level. My grandmother’s dog, Chloe, who has been lying on the floor behind the front counter, shakes her head, her ears flapping against her giant head. Grandma raises disbelieving eyebrows at me. “I als
o suggested the Uva ursi for her bladder and urinary tract. They’re often involved in a kidney infection.”
“Okay,” I say, keeping it brief. Grandma never passes up a chance to teach me something, and I try to learn from her, but for right now, I don’t want to go into a long talk about auras. She will probably have kittens with the excitement of learning about my new “ability”, as she likes to call it. “Do you want me to call these people?” I point at the special order bags.
“Oh, that would be great.” She turns for the work room.
“Grandma? I almost forgot,”
“Yes?”
She stops and spins around to face me. She wears her silver hair loose today and her brown eyes sparkle with youth, despite her many years. I reach for my neck and work the leather cord out from under my scarf and over my head. I hold the medicine bag out to her. Her slender, yellow-stained hand starts to reach for it, but stops mid-air.
“You know what? Will you keep it for me a while longer?”
“Sure,” I say, not questioning her. I’ve become accustomed to its strange vibration and I’ve been wearing it every day. Even having it off for a second, I was already missing it.
“Thank you, honey.”
Tucking the now familiar medicine bag back under my shirt, I turn to call the special order phone numbers, saving Chris for last.
Late in the day, as I’m collecting myself to leave work, a customer comes in and mopes up to the counter. She doesn’t pause to look at anything on the shelves.
“Hello, can I help you?”
She watches me from behind powder blue eyes.
She’s young and she looks familiar, but I know it’s not from coming into the store. I shrug off the recognition to being someone who I’ve seen around town, at the grocery store, or the gas station perhaps.
“I think so,” she barely manages to say.
My head tips forward automatically so I can hear her better. I nod in encouragement but she doesn’t say anything else.
Death Lies Between Us (An Angel Falls Book 1) Page 27
