Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I have other work to do. I plug my way through chapter summaries and lists of words, knowing that I need to do well, that I need to stay here. If helping out the president’s daughter means seeing Jacob in my dreams, if the two things are somehow linked, then that’s what I have to do.

  When Sunday morning hits, I can’t wait to get back to the room to sleep. I plow through the door, eager to jump into bed, but Amber completely startles me.

  “Yowch!” she screams. She’s standing at her dresser, still in her cheese-print pajamas, and it appears as though she’s just slammed her finger in the drawer.

  “Ohmigosh,” Janie yelps, jumping up out of bed. “Are you all right?”

  Amber gives her the wounded middle finger, the nail painted robin’s-egg blue. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

  I whip Janie’s fridge open and pull out a jar of mayonnaise. “Here,” I say, unscrewing the lid. “Stick your finger inside.”

  “Yuck!” Amber shouts.

  “Just do it. It’ll help stop the swelling.”

  Amber complies, plunking her finger down into the creamy whiteness.

  “Isn’t that better?” I ask.

  “It feels like butt cream,” she says, making a yuck-face.

  “You would know,” I tease. “Just hold it in place. The eggs in the mayo will help soothe it. Just like they soothed your burning face last summer, remember?”

  “Don’t expect me to use that now,” Janie says, referring to the mayo. Her name is written in big black letters across the label.

  Amber extracts her finger for a lick, totally rubbing it in. Meanwhile, I grab some dried mint leaves from inside my spell suitcase and sprinkle them into the jar.

  “For flavor?” Amber asks, double-dunking her finger.

  “For healing,” I say. “Mint helps speed things up.”

  “Wait,” Janie squeals, “is this more of your witch stuff?”

  “Better look out.” Amber looks up toward the ceiling. “I feel a lightning bolt about to strike.”

  “Not funny,” I say, taking an egg from the fridge.

  “Those are mine,” Janie whines. “I didn’t even get to hardboil them yet.”

  “Why do you even have a dozen eggs, anyway?” Amber asks. “It’s not like we have a stove in here, and you’re not exactly the Easter Bunny.”

  “There’s a stove over at the townhouses,” Janie explains, “where Hayden lives. I like to boil them up for snacks.”

  “De-lish,” Amber says, sticking her tongue out in sheer yuckification.

  “We’ll buy you a dozen,” I say, placing the egg inside Amber’s other hand. “Hold it as close to the wound as possible,” I tell her, “and picture the cut leaving your finger and entering the egg.”

  “Does that really work?” Janie asks.

  “It’s what I use. My grandmother taught it to me.”

  “And that’s witchcraft?” she asks.

  “Pretty painless, huh?”

  “More like pointless,” she grumbles.

  While Amber continues to treat her finger, I crawl into bed, neglecting even to change my clothes. The problem is I’m so hyped up, anticipating how my dream will continue —if I’ll finally get to see Jacob this time—that it takes two full hours, one dream bag spell, and two attempted telephone calls before my mind and body can even think about snoozing.

  After Amber and Janie head out for brunch, I do the spell and then call my mother and Drea back, neither of whom pick up. I leave messages for both and grab my bottle of tranquilizers. I chase a couple down with a steaming mug of Echinacea Green and then lay back on my pillow, finally feeling myself doze off.

  I sleep for fourteen hours, but I don’t dream at all. Not even a little.

  I wake up Monday morning completely frustrated, but also somewhat relieved that the weekend is finally over. So, after making it to all my classes, I head straight to the president’s office. Ms. McNeal is there, sitting at her computer, playing a round of Solitaire.

  “Is Dr. Wallace in?” I ask her.

  She turns from the computer screen and stiffens up right away. “He’s been expecting you.”

  Her response takes me aback. She obviously told him everything that happened here Friday. Ms. McNeal goes into his office, shutting the door behind her. Several seconds later, she comes back out, leaving the door wide open for me. “Dr. Wallace will see you now.”

  I take a deep breath and head into his office, noticing right away that he isn’t alone. Porsha’s there as well. She’s sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, books barricaded all around her like before. She peeks up at me for just a second, but then resumes her work like I’m not even here.

  “Stacey,” Dr. Wallace says, standing from his desk. “I’m glad to see you back.”

  “I want to talk to Porsha,” I say.

  He nods, taking a giant breath, as though relieved by my decision. “She’d like that. I spent the weekend telling her about you, about your experiences with premonitions—as least as much as I know.”

  I look at Porsha, wondering if she would indeed like that or if she’ll end up pulling a tantrum like Friday. It appears as though she’s drawing lines down the pages of a textbook. Her hand has been bandaged up—from the pencil stabs, I presume.

  “This is a good thing,” Dr. Wallace continues. The emotion is clearly visible on his face. He looks away, toward the windows, as though checking something outside—to hide what he’s feeling maybe.

  A few moments later, he excuses us from Porsha, leading me out of his office, down the hallway, and into a small conference room so that we can go over a few things in private.

  He shuts the door behind us and tells me that if Porsha should try to hurt herself, I’m to tell him (and no one else, if I can help it) right away. He also gives me his beeper number, his cell phone number, and makes me promise not to tell anyone about our arrangement.

  “You can use my office,” he says. “I have to go out to a meeting now anyway.”

  “Fine,” I say, motioning to the door, eager to get started.

  “Wait,” he says, before I can even turn the doorknob. “Be sure to keep track of any charges that are incurred during your time with Porsha.”

  “Charges?”

  “If she takes anything of yours or ruins any of your belongings—inadvertently, of course.”

  I feel the surprise on my face, wondering if she’d ever try to hurt me like she hurts herself.

  “Just don’t let her get control of the conversation,” he says. “She’s good at that—at playing with people’s psyches. She’s been to so many psychotherapists that she’s gotten quite adept at asking the right questions, if you know what I mean.”

  My surprise melts into confusion.

  “You’ll do fine,” he says, but I don’t know if he’s trying to assure me or himself.

  At that, he escorts me back to his office and checks Porsha’s pockets and clothes, extracting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the waist of her skirt. “Where did you get these?” he demands.

  Instead of answering, Porsha turns away to face the wall.

  “She’s not supposed to have these,” Dr. Wallace tells me, stuffing the cigarettes and lighter into his coat pocket. “I’ll want to hear from you later.” He tells Porsha goodbye, blowing a kiss to the back of her head, and then leaves me with her—alone.

  I ask Porsha if she’d like to have a seat in the sitting area toward the back of Dr. Wallace’s office. There’s a long glass coffee table surrounded by a couple creamy leather chairs and a short velvety couch.

  But she doesn’t answer me. She just resumes drawing lines down the pages of her book.

  I approach her slowly, taking a seat on the floor in front
of her. “What are you working on?”

  She still doesn’t answer me, so I take a few moments to inspect the books surrounding her. They’ve all been damaged—pen lines and blade incisions carved deep into the covers. “Do you want to tell me about your nightmares?” I ask.

  More silence.

  “Maybe you want me to leave,” I say, with no real intention of going anywhere. Instead of answering, she scribbles something down the margin of her book page.

  I angle myself to look. A gasp escapes my mouth before I can stop it.

  “I know you’re alone,” it reads.

  Just like my nightmare.

  “How did you know?” I ask her, my heart beating fast.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “That phrase was in my dream,” I continue. “I hear that you have dreams, too . . . something about a camp . . . about a girl named Lily. Are those things true?”

  She continues to ignore me.

  “Are you the girl with the burning arm?” I ask.

  Porsha looks up at me, finally. Her eyes are a silvery gray color, highlighted with thick dark rings—a mix of sleeplessness and eyeliner pencil, maybe.

  I concentrate hard, trying to remember the little girl’s voice in my nightmare. “Is one of your burns heart-shaped?”

  Porsha doesn’t answer. She stares at me, not blinking.

  “There’s another burn, too, isn’t there?” I go on. “Is it shaped like a capital T?” I reach out to touch her arm, the one I suspect has the burn marks. “Will you tell me what ‘I know you’re alone’ means?”

  Porsha pulls away and shakes her head, her hair hanging down over the pages of her book, the tips still dyed a deep olive color. “Haven’t you heard?” she whispers. “I’m crazy.”

  “That’s not what your father thinks.”

  “Yes, it is,” she says, the rims of her eyes all crusty and red. “Part of him thinks that you’re crazy, too . . . and that he’s crazy himself for putting us together.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Who cares what you think?”

  “Your mother does,” I say. “She wants me to help you.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “I know. I dream about her.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” I whisper.

  “Then prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Tell me something only she and I would know.”

  I shake my head, picturing the little girl in my dreams, with her flowing hair and drapey dress, wondering why she appears to me as a child rather than an adult. “I can’t.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She looks back down to resume her scribbling.

  I take a deep breath. “What does the T on your arm stand for?”

  “Toasty,” she hisses, snapping her head back up to look at me.

  “Toasty? Toasty what?”

  “Trouble,” she continues. “Tuna fish, tomato, tasty, tiny, terrific, tarantula, tricycle—”

  “Porsha,” I say, interrupting her list of T-words. “This is serious.”

  “Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead,” she sings. She goes to draw on her bandaged hand, but I reach out to stop her.

  “No!” she shouts, tugging her hand away, drawing a deep black pen line down my arm.

  I pull away to inspect the damage. She managed to break the skin near my wrist.

  “Go!” she shouts, the pen raised high above her head like a knife. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  I keep my eye on the pen and lower my voice to a whisper, refusing to give in to her so easily. “I’ll go if you want,” I say, “but first, listen to me.” I take another deep breath, reminding myself of courage. “It’s happened to me, too. I’ve dreamt about my best friend’s death, about my own death, the death of a stranger, and of the little girl I used to baby-sit.”

  Porsha lowers the pen to her lap. “And, aside from you,” she asks, “did any of them die?”

  I nod.

  “Why?” Her eyes are wide. “Was it because of you? Because you weren’t able to save them in time?”

  I bite my bottom lip and look away, trying to get a grip, wondering why I wasn’t able to predict Jacob’s accident, why I was able to save Clara—a virtual stranger—but not the person I loved most in this world. “I did my best,” I whisper.

  “But it wasn’t good enough, was it?” She smiles slightly, inching her way closer to me, knocking down her barricade of books. “And now you have to live with it all.”

  “I’ve forgiven myself.”

  “Not completely,” she says, still studying me.

  “No,” I say, swallowing hard, still trying to get a hold of myself. “Not completely. I did the best I could . . . predicting things, but I haven’t been able to get over everything.”

  “Which one eats at you?”

  “Look,” I say, remembering Dr. Wallace’s warning about not letting Porsha get control of the conversation, “we shouldn’t be focusing on me. We should be talking about you, about your experience with nightmares.”

  “Was it your best friend that died? Or was it the little girl?”

  “Stop,” I say, inching back from her.

  She locks eyes on me a moment. “It was the little girl, wasn’t it, the one you baby-sat?”

  I look away.

  “But that’s not the one that eats you,” she continues, still staring. “It’s not the one that’s sucked all your blood . . . ” She makes a slurping sound for effect.

  “Porsha—”

  “It was a lover, wasn’t it? What was his name?”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “What was his name?” she hisses.

  “Jacob,” I whisper.

  “Jacob,” she repeats, overly enunciating the two syllables of his name. “You weren’t able to predict Jacob’s fate soon enough and now he’s dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead,” she sings.

  “I have to go,” I say. I get up and head for the door.

  “Go!” she shouts, standing now. “Or you’ll be dead, too.”

  I’m still shaking after my meeting with Porsha. I glance down at my amethyst ring, the one my grandmother gave me, and remind myself that what I’m doing is important. Maybe if I had someone to talk to when I first started having nightmares, I wouldn’t have been so afraid of them. Maybe I would have been able to deal with them better.

  I whip the door of the library open, dreading the next couple hours. Tim has graciously volunteered to be my study buddy for Sociology. Turns out we’re both in the exact same 300-person section. We’ve arranged to meet at the back of the reference room to study for a quiz. I probably wouldn’t be so nervous if I could stop thinking about what Amber said—how she claimed to have “set him straight” about my dating situation.

  Before I even reach the reference desk, it suddenly dawns on me that I was supposed to call Porsha’s father—as if things could get worse. I turn on my heel to backtrack to the lobby pay phones, but then I spot Tim. He’s all ready for our study session—books spread out on the table, two steaming coffees somewhat concealed behind his backpack, and a gleaming smile across his face. He waves me over.

  “Hi,” I say, forcing a smile and making my way over to join him.

  He gestures to one of the coffees, pulling a bunch of creamers and sugar packets from his pocket. “I didn’t know how you like it, but I assume caffeine is okay . . . since we’re studying . . .”

  “Thanks,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

  “And, since I can’t drink coffee without sweets . . . ” He points toward the floor, where he’s got a wax-paper bag full of doughnuts hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say. �
�You have an in with the lady at Dunkies.”

  “Smart girl like you shouldn’t be failing Sociology.” He slides the chair out beside him for me to sit.

  “I have to make a phone call first.” I pull out my wallet and go fishing for my phone card.

  “Use this,” Tim says. He pulls his cell phone out of his bag and hands it to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, pausing at him, feeling a completely genuine smile sneak across my lips. “I’ve been meaning to get one of these.”

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” he says, gesturing to his phone. “Complete with video games, wireless e-mail access, cool ring tones, and text messaging.”

  I let out a laugh and the reference lady gives me an evil look. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper. I move out into the lobby, plucking Dr. Wallace’s contact info from the pocket of my jeans. I dial his cell phone number and he picks up right away.

  “Dr. Wallace?”

  “Stacey,” he says, obviously recognizing my voice.

  “I meant to call earlier—”

  “How did it go today?” he asks, practically cutting me off. “Did she talk about her nightmares . . . about the camp?”

  “We talked,” I say, fishing for words.

  “And?”

  “Did she say how it went?” I ask.

  “Not really.”

  I pause a moment, the anxiety mounting in the pit of my stomach.

  “Stacey?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Do you have some time tomorrow?” he asks, dropping the question. “I’d like you to come to the house, though, if that’s possible. She’s home-schooling with her tutors most of the day.”