Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Stacey, hi,” my mother says. “How’s it going?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say, my voice cracking over the word.

  “There’s something going on, isn’t there?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, almost thankful that she can read me so well—even through a phone.

  “Are you having nightmares again?”

  Instead of lying, I spend the next several minutes spilling my guts out. I tell her all about Porsha and how I need to help her, how the little girl in my nightmare said it was the key to seeing Jacob again.

  “Jacob is gone, Stacey.”

  “He’ll never be gone.”

  “You’re not hearing me,” she says.

  “Yes, I am. You want me to forget him.”

  “No,” she insists. “I know Jacob will always be with you, just like Grandma—in the magic you do, in your ability to love.”

  “There’s more to it,” I say. “I’m dreaming about him.”

  “What about?”

  “He’s going to appear in my dreams,” I explain. “Soon. I just know it; I feel it. There’s something he wants me to know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod, as though she can hear it, and peer over at Janie in bed, wondering if she’s listening.

  “I think you need to reflect on your intentions,” my mother says after a pause.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your intentions for helping Porsha. She obviously needs your help, but it sounds like you’re helping her for selfish reasons, not because you truly care about her.”

  “I do care,” I say.

  “Really?”

  I take a deep breath, knowing in my heart that she has a point. I mean, yes, I feel for Porsha, for what she’s going through, and I want to help her. But I want to see Jacob again so much more.

  My mother tells me she’ll call me tomorrow and we say our goodbyes. Meanwhile, I change into my fleecy sweats and sink down into bed, knowing there’s no way I’m going to fall asleep tonight. I mean, what if my mother is right? What if I am acting out of selfishness?

  I glance over at Janie to make sure she isn’t looking—she isn’t—and pull open my night table drawer to snag a tranquilizer from my stash. I sift through bottles of lavender and tangerine oil, a eucalyptus-scented eye bag, and a couple packages of cinnamon incense cones, but for some reason I can’t find my bottle of tranquilizers. I look under my pillow—empty. I jump out of bed, checking my coat pockets, my backpack, and my spell supply suitcase, but I can’t find them anywhere.

  “Janie?”

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “Did you go into my night table drawer?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, wondering if she did a bit more snooping than she’s letting on.

  “No way,” she says.

  “Did Amber?”

  She thinks about it a moment, her roundish face puckering up. “I think so . . . to look for a pen, maybe.”

  I bite my bottom lip and peer over at Amber’s corner of the room.

  “Are you missing something?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Go back to sleep.”

  When she finally does, I check through Amber’s stuff. I open her night table drawer, rifle through her dresser, her bed linens, and even check in all her shoes. I find several unmentionables, including a jar of banana-flavored body balm and a pink pleather thong with a matching whip.

  But no pills.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should call PJ at his motel room to see if that’s where Amber went. It’s obvious that Amber nabbed my bottle of pills, that that is why she wants to chat with me. She thinks I have a problem.

  Even though I don’t.

  She’s just up ahead, but swimming at full speed. I paddle hard so as not to fall behind. It’s dark down here at the bottom of the sea, but the soft, glowing light emanating from the girl’s body, from her long and flowing gown, makes it easier to maneuver.

  She swims past clusters of pink coral, schools of glittering fish, and treasure chests spilling over with bright yellow gold. She looks back at me, making sure I’m still following maybe, and tries to say something, but the words are just bubbles. It’s bubbling all around me, making it possible to breathe underwater.

  She rounds a corner by a lost life preserver bobbing at the ocean’s floor. I pause at it, wondering if it’s Jacob’s, if she’s taking me to see him.

  There’s a smallish structure up ahead of us, in the shape of a house. The girl enters in through the front window, but I stop at the front door. It comes up to my waist, like a child’s playhouse or fort. The door edges open, inviting me in.

  “It’s dry in here. Take a seat and have no fear.”

  I bend down to enter. It’s just a box inside, barely enough room for two people. The girl is sitting cross-legged in the sand.

  I sit down across from her, noting how the house is completely dry, how it has a sort of submarine feel. You can see fish swimming by outside the windows.

  “Are you ready to know the truth, or will I have to let you sleuth?” she asks.

  She looks so much different up close—long wheat-blond hair that goes straight down her back; pale, grayish eyes; pointed chin; and a tiny curl of a mouth. She’s like a younger version of Porsha.

  “Are you Porsha’s mother?” I ask.

  “Close your eyes and I’ll show you a surprise,” she says.

  I close my eyes and she takes my hands. Her fingers are cold; they quiver slightly in my grip.

  “Okay,” she says after several seconds. “I’m ready.”

  I peek my eyes open. Sitting before me is no longer a little girl. It’s a grown woman. I gasp and try to pull my hands away, but she squeezes them, holding me in place. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispers.

  I scoot back to give her room, noticing how much she’s grown in the past few seconds. She’s still wearing her long and flowing gown, only now it fits her, and, aside from the obvious age difference and growth spurt, she doesn’t look so much different than her little-girl version.

  “Are you Porsha’s mother?” I repeat.

  She nods. “You can be any age on the other side.”

  “The other side?”

  “I haven’t quite made it there yet.” She tucks her feet up under her legs to avoid kicking me.

  “Where is there?”

  “That’s up to you to decide,” she says, angling her neck forward so her head doesn’t bump against the ceiling. “I can’t tell you what to believe.”

  I shake my head, growing more confused by the second.

  “It’s hard to explain,” she continues. “Even though I haven’t crossed over, I still have some of the other side’s privileges—like changing my age at will.”

  “Will you ever go to the other side?” I ask, noticing how she’s no longer speaking in rhyme.

  “I hope so,” she says. “With your help. You need to help my little girl.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You need to try harder.”

  “She won’t listen to me. She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “You have to make her listen.”

  “How?”

  Porsha’s mother thinks about it a moment, tapping against her teeth with her fingernail. “Tell her the onyx bracelet is in her pillowcase.”

  “What onyx bracelet?”

  “It was mine. A sterling silver chain with diamond-cut onyx chips. Porsha will know; she wears it sometimes to feel close to me. Last week, she misplaced it. Tell her it’s in her pillowcase. She wore it to bed and it slipped off.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say, feeling a chill run down the back of my neck. “People who have p
assed on really can see us down on Earth?”

  She nods. “Another privilege.”

  I bite my bottom lip, wondering about Jacob.

  “So, let’s get down to business,” she says, extending her hand to me for a shake. “My name is Jessica.”

  “Jessica Wallace?” I ask, shaking her chilly hand.

  She nods. “I was killed.”

  “How?”

  “It was an accident. I don’t blame anyone, especially her.”

  “Porsha?”

  Jessica nods and looks away. “When you see her tomorrow, tell her that. Tell her that I shouldn’t have gone out like that. I should have stayed around to talk. I knew she was hurting, but I wanted to punish her by leaving. I tried to communicate all of this to her on my own.” She sighs. “But Porsha took it all the wrong way and thought I was trying to haunt her dreams . . . silly girl.”

  “Wait, what does all of this have to do with the nightmares she’s having now?”

  “The nightmares she’s having now are different. She’s dreaming about a boy. If she doesn’t help him, he’s going to die.”

  “Who is he?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve said enough for tonight.”

  “Please,” I say. “Just tell me. Is it Jacob? I have to know.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do. Follow your instincts. He’s a lot closer than you think.” Jessica draws the letter T in the sand.

  “What does that mean?”

  She draws an invoking pentacle over it. “I’ve said enough for tonight,” she repeats, looking toward the window.

  I follow her gaze, wondering if Jacob’s out there somewhere, swimming in this sea.

  “Go now,” she whispers. “Tell Porsha what I said.”

  “Tell me about Jacob first,” I demand. “What does the letter T stand for?”

  Jessica turns away and closes her eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Please,” she whispers.

  I reach out to comfort her, to touch her forearm, but, this time, my hand passes right through her. “I’ll do all I can,” I say, finally.

  And, with that, she disappears.

  After class, I head straight over to President Wallace’s for my meeting with Porsha. On the way there, I review all the details in my mind—everything that Porsha’s mother said to me in my dream.

  I’m still all jittery over it, not only because of her mother’s obvious grief but also because it seems Porsha and I are more alike than I realized. She blames herself for the death of her mother, just like I used to blame myself for the deaths of Maura and Veronica.

  And Jacob. I focus toward the president’s house, trying to put him out of my mind, trying to remind myself that Porsha’s mom told me that I need to trust my instincts, that he’s closer than I think.

  But what about the letter T?

  I take a deep breath, grateful that I was even able to dream last night, since dreaming has been sort of sporadic for me lately. But so has sleeping—at least sleeping without having to take a pill or two.

  And then it hits me. I didn’t take a tranquilizer last night and I was able to dream. The same thing happened the other night, too—no tranq and I had a full-fledged nightmare. Is it possible that the tranquilizers are funking up my ability to dream?

  Of course it is. A gush of excitement rushes over me, having figured it out—knowing that the key to helping Porsha’s mother, to dreaming about Jacob, is to stop taking tranquilizers.

  To stop taking them completely.

  I swallow hard, trying to digest the revelation. I mean, I couldn’t be happier about it, but, at the same time, it also scares me. It’s just so easy popping a pill—the quickest route to Sleepy Land. And now I won’t be able to.

  I reach into the pocket of my coat for the crystal cluster rock and wrap my hand around it, reminding myself of strength. The college’s presidential mansion is at least the distance of two full parking lots back from the street. With the snow and the wind and the mistake of wearing rubber-soled sneakers instead of boots, it takes me a lot longer to get there than I intended. I ring the doorbell, and a girl not much older than me, with bottle-blond hair tied back in a ponytail and silver hoop earrings the size of bracelets, answers the door.

  “You must be Stacey,” she says, flipping the gum in her mouth back and forth with her tongue. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Are you Tamara?” I ask, remembering how Dr. Wallace said they had a live-in helper—whatever that is.

  She nods and takes my coat, stopping a moment to cringe at my snow-drenched shoes.

  “I can take them off,” I offer.

  Tamara tells me she’ll toss them in the dryer and see that I get a ride home, and then points me up the stairs to Porsha’s room. “It’s the third room on the right, love,” she says, faking a British accent. “She’s been expecting you. Just give me a shout if you need anything.”

  I make my way in that direction, marveling at the lavishness of the place—the creamy marble floors, the giant picture windows that look out at the yard, and the swirly peach-colored oriental carpets.

  The door to Porsha’s room is open a crack. I rap lightly against it. “Porsha?”

  I hear her moving in the room—the creaking sound of her weight on the floorboards. A second later, the door slams shut.

  “Porsha,” I call, knocking louder now. I try the knob, but she’s locked it. “You have to listen to me. I want to help you.”

  I wait several seconds for her response, but, unsurprisingly, there isn’t one. “Listen to me,” I say. “I have stuff to tell you about your mother. She wants me to tell you the bracelet is in your pillowcase. Her bracelet. Please,” I plead. “Just check it out.”

  I shake my head, wondering if she’s even listening to me, hoping more than anything that my dream predicted correctly—that there actually is an onyx bracelet, that Porsha misplaced it, and that it’s sitting at the bottom of her pillowcase right now. I take a deep breath, wondering if maybe I should go back downstairs and ask Tamara if she has a key to Porsha’s room.

  I turn on my heel and begin down the stairs. A moment later, the door to Porsha’s room creaks open and she steps out into the hallway, the sterling silver black onyx bracelet dangling from her clutch.

  My heart jolts, knowing that my nightmare predicted correctly. Porsha moves out of the doorway, silently inviting me into her room. I take a step inside. Aside from the cream-colored walls, it’s hard to believe I’m in the same house. Her room is anything but mansion-like. There are heavy metal band posters covering the walls and ceiling. Naked Barbie dolls hang from telephone-wire nooses in front of the windows. The mattress is bare—no sheets to speak of—but she’s got a skull and crossbones comforter that she’s scribbled over with pen. There’s a laptop sitting on the floor amidst everything, including a heap of clothes, and a plasma TV hanging purposefully crooked on the wall.

  “How did you know?” she asks, standing just behind me now.

  I turn around to face her, noticing how she’s trying to put the bracelet on one-handed. “I’ve been dreaming about your mother,” I say, taking a step closer to help her do the clasp. “Her name is Jessica, right?”

  Porsha nods, running her finger over the bright black stones. “What did she say to you?”

  “She said she doesn’t blame you. She said she knew she shouldn’t have left you that night. She did it because she was angry and wanted to hurt you. But it’s not your fault.”

  Porsha turns away, her eyes filling up.

  “What happened to her?” I ask.

  “She went out for a jog,” Porsha says, her voice all broken from being upset. “We’d gotten into this huge fight. She was mad because I was seeing this older guy.”


  “So what happened?”

  “She got hit by a car. It was night and the lady said she couldn’t see my mom because she was wearing dark clothes on her jog.”

  “And so you blame yourself because of the fight?”

  Porsha shakes her head. “I blame myself because I knew she was going to die. I dreamt it. I saw the whole thing play out in my dream, but I didn’t say anything because I was so mad. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, you know?”

  More tears fall down Porsha’s cheeks. I wrap my arms around her, telling her that it’s not her fault, reminding her that she isn’t to blame, that her mother loves her and wants her to be happy. “She tried to tell you herself,” I say. “Were you having dreams about her recently?”

  Porsha wipes her eyes and moves to sit on her bed. “Yeah. About a month ago. I kept hearing her voice in my head. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, picturing her lying dead in that casket. The way they did her eyes up—with this bogus green eyeshadow—and what they made her wear—this horrible checked yellow dress.”

  “She was trying to communicate to you,” I say, “to tell you not to blame yourself. It’s sort of like what happened with me. I never knew that my premonitions about Maura would come true, but they did, and I’ve had to forgive myself.”

  “But Maura wasn’t your mother,” Porsha snaps. “I never got to apologize for our fight. I never got to tell her I loved her—not once.”

  I sit down beside her and she collapses against me. This time I don’t say anything. I don’t tell her that it will all be okay. And I don’t try to compare my past experiences to hers. I just fasten the onyx bracelet around her wrist, pull her close, and silently acknowledge the obvious—that, regardless of the stakes, this is no longer about me.

  Even though I have so much to ask Porsha—about her nightmares and the letter T, about the camp she’s supposedly been dreaming about, and the boy in danger . . . if she knows who he is—I end up leaving once she’s pulled herself together. It’s not that I don’t want to get down to business. It’s just that I feel like we had a major breakthrough today and that, coupled with the message from her mother, is more than enough progress for one afternoon.