While I wondered about him, the shadowed man picked the other me up easily, like she weighed no more than a child, and carried her through the broken apartment door.
Rooted in place, I watched Mike’s limp form until the police arrived. According to the wall clock, it took only a matter of minutes.
In bed, I felt awareness tug on my consciousness, but I wasn’t ready to wake up. I had other plans. A new need was growing—a need to never fall victim to someone like Mike again, a need to never again be drugged into oblivion. I focused on that need as I slid back into the dream.
I was standing in the middle of a wide-open, tech-friendly office space filled with cubicles and decorated in blues and grays. I was at the New Year’s Eve party. A few feet to my right, the other version of me was locked in an embarrassingly brazen kiss with Mike. Ugh.
Watching them, I grew so disgusted that I wanted to slap the other me. I felt the urge to tear her away from Mike and shake her and scream, “Open your eyes, you idiot! He’s going to hurt you! Run away!” But I couldn’t do any of that, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. I attempted to pull her away, just as I’d attempted to push Mike off her the first time I’d dreamed of the incident in my apartment, but she was separated by the same impenetrable barrier I’d encountered before. I couldn’t touch her … I couldn’t touch him … I couldn’t touch anything but that damn barrier.
I slapped my palm against the barrier separating me from Mike’s shoulder. “I hate you!” I hissed. For some reason, seeing him before the night devolved into violence was more frustrating than anything I’d seen in the other dream.
“Happy New Year!” Mike’s colleagues hollered from all around me while they kissed and pawed at each other.
Mike was leading the other me away. At most, she was tipsy. While he waited for her to retrieve her coat, Mike took out his phone and tapped his thumbs against the screen.
I hurried over to him, nearly gagging at his overly-cologned stench. I couldn’t understand how I’d ever been attracted to him. Pushing past the nauseating reaction, I peered over his shoulder at the screen.
He was reading a text message from someone named Seth.
Use the lip balm to make her compliant, then complete the mission.
Suddenly awake, I lurched upright in bed, panting. Thora glanced up at me from her cozy position near my hip and meowed quietly. I stroked her soft fur absentmindedly, thinking about the last dream. Memories of what had happened between leaving the party and stumbling through my apartment door flashed through my mind.
Mike kissing my wrist … pulling over to kiss me before resuming the drive … slobbering all over my neck as I tried to open the door to my apartment … obsessively putting on lip balm every few minutes.
Use the lip balm to make her compliant, then complete the mission. Based on the text, I realized that Mike’s lip balm must have been the source of the substance Dr. Isa had told me about. She’d said it only affected a few, unique people. Why am I one of those people?
Use the lip balm to make her compliant …
How had the sender of the text, Seth, known the substance would work on me? And why had he wanted Mike to use it in the first place? My stomach tied into knots as questions swam around my mind. Had some person I didn’t know—someone named Seth—instructed Mike to drug me and do whatever “completing the mission” entailed? Had Mike been instructed to drug me into unconsciousness and rape me? It was too horrible to consider. It was also too preposterous.
“I’m losing it,” I muttered.
Laughing at myself for my wild, slightly twisted imagination, I rose from the bed, shuffled to the adjoining bathroom, and examined my reflection in the mirror. “Holy crap,” I breathed, barely recognizing myself. My brown eyes looked different, like they’d gained a reddish tinge, and my face was washed-out and gaunt. Simply based on my appearance, I looked like I was suffering from some ghastly illness, like I was two steps away from death’s door and already had my hand raised to knock. But I felt fine, if a little weak … and hungry.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “It’s fine. It’s just all the stress,” I told myself, thinking not only about Mike and my physical injury, but also about the identity crisis and the strange dreams I’d been dealing with over the past few weeks. “Everything is just fine.” The words were confident, but my voice was breathy.
Turning on the faucet and rinsing my face with cool water, I felt some steadiness return. Eyes still closed, I focused on the delicious smells invading from the kitchen and just breathed. I opened my eyes and stared at my hands. My fingers clutched either side of the rim of the pedestal sink, the tendons standing out sharply on the backs of my hands. I took a deep breath. Again. Finally, I turned and left the bathroom, avoiding looking at the stranger in the mirror.
I traded the worn sneakers I’d been too tired to remove for fuzzy, purple slippers. I added a gray University of Washington sweatshirt to my scrubby ensemble and opened the bedroom door.
My mom stood in front of the stove, humming and swaying from side to side. The little kitchen radio played a generic soft rock song. It was the perfect background music to the pops and sizzles coming from the pans on the stove. A junkie of mothering people, my mom was more in her element than I’d seen her in years. She almost glowed with purpose.
Quietly, I slipped out of the bedroom and crossed the living room to the small, rectangular kitchen table. I pulled out my usual chair—the one nearest the bedroom—and sank onto its flattened cushion.
“Smells yummy, Mom. I’m starving,” I said enthusiastically.
Startled, my mom spun with her spatula hand extended in front of her. “Lex! You scared me! I didn’t know you were up. How are you feeling?” An odd combination of accusation, concern, and contentment filled her face.
“Better, I think,” I said, scanning the living room and kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”
She sighed. “He left about an hour ago. He’ll call when he gets home.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointment radiating from the single word. Knowing he wasn’t my biological father made me second-guess all of my dad’s actions. Did he really care as much as I thought he did? Did he really love me?
“Stop that, Lex,” my mom chided.
I looked up at her, wondering for the thousandth time if she could read my mind.
“He thought you’d feel more comfortable with just me for the time being, considering … you know …”
I nodded as her words trailed off. Drumming my fingertips on the table, I wondered how much my parents actually knew about the incident with Mike. I had yet to explain to them what happened, so they’d gathered whatever information they had from my friends, the hospital staff, and the police. I took a huge, steadying breath and asked, “Aren’t you, um, curious? About what happened, I mean.”
My mom studied me closely before turning back to her stovetop ministrations. “Sweetie, you take your time. Wait until you’re ready, and not a minute sooner.” She resumed her faint humming.
Sighing, I felt both relief and stress. The story had to come out of me eventually, and I dreaded telling it. The longer I waited, the larger the heaping, stinking pile of dread would grow.
“Is there coffee?” I asked as I watched my mom’s movements. Judging by her arm motions, there were pancakes in one of the skillets on the stove. If there was one thing I truly loved, it was my mom’s pancakes … with syrup … and butter … and bacon.
“I made tea,” she said over her shoulder. “I thought it’d be better for you. More relaxing.” Carefully, she removed crispy strips of bacon and perfectly browned sausage links from two pans, leaving only popping grease behind, and set them on a stack of paper towels on the counter.
My stomach growled audibly. I didn’t think I’d ever been so hungry.
“Almost ready, sweetie,” my mom said as she transferred the mouthwatering meats to a plate. She brought it to the table, along with another plate piled high with golden-brown pancakes, and went back to the
kitchen for round two. When she returned, she carried two more dishes, one loaded with a mountain of scrambled eggs with onions, peppers, and cheese, and the other with oven-fried potatoes. After one final trip, she settled in the chair perpendicular to mine and placed a steaming mug of tea at both of our place settings.
“What are you waiting for, Lex?” She gestured to the feast before us. “Dig in.”
I ogled the mounds of deliciousness. “Um, Mom … there’s absolutely no way that you and I are going to be able to eat all of this.”
After scooping some of the scramble onto her plate, my mom looked me square in the eye and said, “Have you seen yourself? You’re skin and bones. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve lost at least twenty pounds since I saw you four days ago. And your face—it’s nearly colorless.” She shook her head. “Now eat.”
And eat I did. By the time I sat back in my chair, my stomach was painfully full, and my mom wore a smug expression. All of the eggs were gone, as were the sausage links and strips of bacon. Several pancakes remained, and the potato dish was barely half-full. Without realizing it, I’d eaten enough for several burly lumberjacks after a hard day’s work.
My mom smiled, looking as content as a sunbathing kitten. “See, Lex? Your coloring looks better already. A good, home-cooked meal can fix almost anything.” She gave me a pointed look. “A little sun wouldn’t hurt you either.”
Rolling my eyes, I laughed. “Right, Mom, ’cause there are so many chances to get some sun in Seattle in January.”
“You could go to a tanning salon.”
I scoffed. “I will not go to a cancer factory! I’d rather keep my skin smooth and healthy and nicely pasty until I’m Grandma’s age.”
With a long-suffering sigh, my mom raised her hands in front of her in defeat. “Your dad ran some errands for me before he headed back home. He’s supplied us with quite a few movies to keep us occupied while you recuperate. Why don’t you pick one out? They’re over there,” she said, pointing to the coffee table behind her.
“Really?” I asked, perking up from my food-induced lethargy. If there was one thing I loved as much as pancakes, it was movies. For the most part, I really was a simple soul to please.
So, with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, I settled on the couch and rifled through a stack of DVD cases. Silently, I thanked my dad for picking movies from nearly every genre: romantic comedy to action, science fiction to period drama. There was a flick for every mood. At the moment, I was in the mood for some rigid chivalry and modest ball gowns. The latest Jane Austen adaptation shimmered in my hand as I placed it in the tray of the DVD player.
I lost myself in the music and language of another time, my mom curled up beside me. I slid down, resting my head on a pillow in her lap, and sighed as she started combing through my hair with her fingers. Breathing in her familiar scent of floral perfume and hand lotion, I felt some of the tension seep out of my body.
I was so incredibly glad she’d stayed.
CHAPTER NINE
Details & Arrangements
As I strolled along a wet concrete path, I thought back on the last three days, savoring the chance to finally get out of my apartment … alone. My wonderful, caring mom had spent every waking moment stuffing me with her culinary creations and enticing me into watching movies or playing board games. I’d barely had time to grade my students’ final essays. I loved my mom dearly and appreciated all of the effort she was channeling into my recovery, but I was getting a little stir-crazy.
As I passed well-trimmed expanses of grass and mini-forests of large evergreens, overgrown blackberry bushes, and abundant ferns, I felt a piece of me—one I hadn’t even realized was missing—return.
It felt like an eternity since we’d set up the meeting, but I was finally on my way to meet Professor Bahur, mysterious archaeologist and user of archaic speech patterns, at the Burke Café. I almost couldn’t contain my anticipation. I wanted to know everything about the dig and what my exact role would be. I still didn’t even know the location of the excavation site. I’d left my apartment early, taking the opportunity to turn the half-mile straight shot into a three-mile zigzag across the university’s familiar grounds in hopes that the fresh air might help settle my nerves.
Entering the quad from the southeast, I ascended gradual brick stairs, thanking my luck that the morning’s frost had worn off by midday. I paused on the top step, taking deep breaths of chilly, humid air. I was still weak, recovering from the unforeseen aftereffects of the incident with Mike. While my brain had fully healed during the hours spent in the hospital, the rest of my body still looked as if it had been starved for weeks. All of my clothes were noticeably loose, and as I hadn’t had much spare bulk to begin with, the weight loss definitely wasn’t an improvement to my appearance. At least my mom’s dietary plan of continual force-feeding seemed to be helping.
Breath caught, I resumed my stately pace down one of the brick walkways crisscrossing the quad’s lawn. If I were a soaring bird looking down at the rectangular, open space with its border of brick buildings, I imagined the sight would resemble an enormous stained-glass window with emerald panes cut into symmetrical, geometric shapes. The usually crowded area was devoid of people, leaving barren cherry blossom trees and the towering brick-and-stone buildings as my only companions. Their beautiful, classic architecture appeased the part of me that yearned to replace modern, impersonal structures with those rich in character from earlier centuries.
Lost as I’d been in my wandering thoughts, I had a sudden moment of panic, fearing that I would be late for my meeting with Professor Bahur … or that I already was. I checked my phone; it was a quarter past three. Thankfully, I wasn’t late … yet. If I hurried, I might have time to order a vanilla latte before meeting up with him.
Ten minutes later, I reached the Burke Museum, heading for the entrance to the café in the basement. I sighed appreciatively as I opened the narrow glass door. If I ignored the electric bulbs and the scatter of laptop-focused patrons, I could almost imagine that I’d stepped back in time. The carved wooden wall panels and the small, dark-stained tables with their sturdy, matching chairs belonged in a world gone a hundred years.
I scanned the café, and upon finding that all three patrons were women and therefore not Marcus Bahur, stepped up to the counter.
“What would you like?” the petite young barista asked.
“A tall vanilla latte, please,” I said without thinking. “Actually, can you make it a grande? And I’ll have a blueberry scone.”
“That’ll be five sixty-three,” she told me.
I handed her the money. “Do you know if there’s a Professor Marcus Bahur here right now?”
Her eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed. “Oh, um … no, I haven’t seen him.”
I lowered my eyebrows, confused by her reaction. “But you know him?”
“Oh, yes! He’s been a regular since summer,” she explained. Suddenly her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Why? Are you looking for him? What for?” She glanced at the door, then back at me.
I put on a friendly smile. “I’m meeting him for an academic project. Would you mind describing him to me? I’m not sure who I’m looking for.”
Her mouth transformed from pouty to pretty, and she giggled. She didn’t speak for a few moments while she retrieved my scone and started making my drink. Finally, she said, “He’s … um … sort of hard to describe.” She blushed again while she steamed milk.
“Okay … well, is he tall?”
“Yes,” she replied with a nod.
“Does he have gray hair?”
She giggled again. “Definitely not.”
I was growing impatient with her witless inability to simply describe a person. “Well, what color is his hair, then? Or is he bald?”
Her eyes squinted in thought. “Nope, he’s got hair.”
As she handed me my coffee, I grabbed the scone off the counter and muttered, “Thanks.” I sta
rted to turn away from her, but paused. “How old do you think he is?”
As I’d been speaking, her face had grown redder and her barely-contained giggling seemed ready to explode out of her. “Oh, you’ll have to ask him,” she said.
“And how am I supposed to do that if I can’t find him because all I know is that he’s tall and has hair?” I asked, irritation clipping my words. Is she even old enough to work?
She managed to squeak, “Because he’s right behind you,” before doubling over in laughter.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I took a deep, calming breath before turning around. He was standing several feet away, wearing gray trousers and a heavy, black wool coat and was, in fact, tall with black hair. My breath caught in my throat as I realized just how minimal that description had been. I’d been expecting an older gentleman, but this was a man in his prime, in his early thirties at most and strikingly handsome. His face was composed of strong lines and sharp angles, his full lower lip the only hint of softness.
He’d been looking at his phone when I faced him, leaving my embarrassing reaction—blushing and staring—mercifully unnoticed. When his eyes raised and latched onto mine, I nearly dropped my coffee. His irises were an amber so rich they practically glowed. It was an eye color I’d seen before, only once. Professor Marcus Bahur was the guy I’d spilled vodka and cranberry juice on at the bar. You’ve got to be kidding me.
As recognition registered on my face, the faintest smirk pulled up one corner of his mouth. I groaned and closed my eyes momentarily. “I am so sorry … about the drinks and your shirt, I mean. God, this is embarrassing.”
His mouth widened into a tight-lipped smile.
This isn’t awkward or anything, I thought. Time for some damage control. I closed the distance between us in two short steps and held out my hand, very businesslike. “I’m Alexandra Larson.”
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