Sleepless

by Cyn Balog

  She purses her lips. I wait for her to offer condolences but that would reveal she has a heart and shift the power into his court. “So where do you live?”

  “With my brother. On Hart Avenue.”

  “Hart?” She turns to me and glares. I can read her mind: So did he have anything to do with the $1,200 repair bill for the RAV4? I just smile sheepishly and shrug. “Are you in school?”

  “Not any longer,” he says.

  “You’ve graduated?”

  “I … left school, after eighth grade,” he says. “I needed to find a job.”

  My dad nearly chokes on his soup. “But … school is very important!” he chimes in, like a public service announcement. My mom’s eyes narrow in disgust. Normally she’d have pity for a guy whose parents were dead and who had to drop out of school to get a job, but because her only child brought him home to dinner, because he’s a guy and who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men, he’s bad. I kick her under the table. She turns to me. I try to communicate telepathically: You are not interrogating a terrorist. Stop with the third degree.

  She seems to get the picture, but then my dad starts in. “What are your plans for the future?”

  “Dad,” I mutter, scooping the soup into my spoon and letting it dribble back into my bowl. My mom is always trying random recipes she gets from various shady sources; this “gazpacho” idea came from the back of a can of lima beans and tastes like water. “Stop.” I mean, questions about his future? Please. I see dinner in our future. And possibly me lunging across the table and gouging out my father’s eyes with my spoon.

  Eron smiles and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I am interested in going back to school,” he says, unwavering. He takes another sip of the soup. “I’d like to go back for architecture.”

  I stop trying to telekinetically murder my parents, and stare at him, forgetting I’m holding my spoon. It falls to the table with a loud clatter. “Whoops,” I say as green goo splashes across the table and onto the front of my hoodie. But come on, trying to butter me up by pretending to have the same interests as me? Please.

  I take a napkin and start to wipe up the mess, and then I realize something…. Did I ever tell him that that was what I was going to major in at college? That I had dreams of designing buildings, too? I don’t think I did. He just goes right on slurping his soup, not looking for a reaction from me. I think he’s serious.

  “Mrs. Devine, this soup is delicious,” he says earnestly.

  My dad and I both gape at him, then halfheartedly agree, just to be polite. The soup is good? For what? Considering that his apartment was littered with days of crusty old cereal bowls, I guess he isn’t too much of a culinary expert himself.

  My mom beams and doesn’t say a word. I don’t think anyone has complimented a meal of hers since before she was married. Even better, he asks for seconds. Eron has silenced the beast. Score.

  Afterward, I hobble down the hallway and Eron sets me up on the couch, in front of the television. He lifts my foot and props a pillow under it. I get the feeling he’s played nurse before, because his touch is gentle. Just like with the kiss last night, everywhere he touches begins to tremble. I hope he can’t see what a bowl of Jell-O I am around him.

  “Can I have the remote, please?” I ask him.

  He tilts his head, looking perplexed. “The …?”

  “Remote,” I say, pointing toward the television. It’s sitting there, right on top of the entertainment center, plain as can be, and yet when he walks there, he fidgets for a moment, clearly unsure. Then he picks it up and hands it to me. “Thanks. Want to watch House with me?”

  He purses his lips. “Watch the house? Is something going to happen to it?”

  “You don’t watch much TV, do you?”

  The show starts. He shakes his head and sits down on the couch beside me. Instantly, he’s enraptured. Some kid is having a convulsion on an airplane. Eron’s eyes bulge. I can almost hear his heart beating, even from a cushion’s length away. The kid flops around a little in the narrow aisle, white foam dribbling from his chin, and then it cuts to the opening credits. I don’t think Eron has taken a breath since the show began. He turns to me. “That was … terrifying.”

  “But satisfying,” I point out.

  He nods and leans against the back of the sofa, making himself comfortable. “Will we find out what is plaguing that poor child?”

  “Yep. At about eight-fifty-nine.”

  “Oh.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a long silver chain. I expect a wallet to be attached to it, but instead, he flips open this very elegant pocket watch and inspects it, then winds it a few times. “I probably should be going.”

  “Wow, that’s cool,” I say, reaching for it. He hands it to me and I turn it over in my hands. “My dad has one of these. It was his grandfather’s. Who did this belong to?”

  He shrugs. “It’s mine. Mama bought it for me when I turned fifteen.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know they still sold these. Cool.” I inspect it, then awkwardly say, “I’m sorry about your parents. Seems like they were really cool.”

  He nods, sadness in his eyes. “Mama was a good woman. Papa died when I was five. My stepfather was …” He cringes. “Not a nice man.”

  “Oh,” I say, not sure how to respond.

  “He … killed my mother,” he says.

  My jaw drops. “What?”

  “A long time ago. He was drinking,” he mumbles. An awkward silence follows, during which I realize that that was why he was so filled with rage over Mr. Anderson’s drunkenness at the party. A long time ago. His mother gave him the watch when he turned fifteen. He can’t be more than eighteen now. Three years isn’t really a long time when it comes to the death of a parent. Maybe he’s just saying that to make things less awkward, like when I lie and say, “I’m fine,” whenever anyone asks how I’m doing. A small smile creeps onto his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so morbid.”

  I’m about to hand it back to him, but I stop when I notice something engraved in the cover. Geronimo DeMarchelle, Happy Birthday, Love, Mama. And the date, written out: September thirteenth. “Oh, wow, your birthday is the same as my parents’ anniv—”

  I stop. Because that’s when I see the year. There’s something off about it. At first I’m thinking, Okay, he got it in ’08, not very long ago. But then it hits me. It’s not 2008. It’s …

  He pries the watch quickly from my fingers and stuffs it back into his pocket.

  “Can I see that again?” I motion for him to hand it over. He shuffles in his seat and suddenly becomes absorbed in a television commercial for dish detergent. “Did that say … 1908?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Okay, well, it’s got to be a misprint. What other explanation could there be? “Why didn’t you tell the engraver they screwed up?”

  He looks at me. “I … I just didn’t realize at the time.”

  “Oh. That sucks.” Back on the television, House is ranting. I watch for a few minutes, then I remember. The weird outfit Eron was wearing when I first met him. The way he talks. The fact that a remote control is a foreign concept to him. He acts like he just arrived in a time machine.

  Maybe it wasn’t a misprint.

  He turns to me. “Yes?”

  It’s only then that I realize I’m staring at him, my mouth half open. I clamp it shut and pull an afghan over the goose bumps on my arms. “Um. Just wondering if you would like some … um, Cheez-Its.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Pardon?”

  I gulp. Lack of Cheez-It recognition. Not a good sign. “Maybe some Oreos?”

  I mean, everyone has to know Milk’s Favorite Cookie, right?

  Not right. He’s looking at me like I sprouted wings.

  Oh, hell no.

  What kind of thing is sitting on the couch with me? I throw the blanket off me and spring to my feet, intending to back away from him—far away. But I temporarily forget my twisted ankle, and when th
e pain shoots up my calf, I scream and fall forward, back toward the couch. Toward him.

  He catches me. Steadies me in his lap. And doesn’t let go. His eyes search my own as if there’s something they’re willing me to remember. Something about being here with him, this close, is all too familiar. It’s like a scene from one of my recurring … dreams.

  Dreams. That’s it. “I dream of you,” I murmur, dizzy, as everything seems to swirl around him. “All the time.”

  No, that’s not it. That’s crazy. How could you dream constantly of a guy you met only three days ago? My mind is still reeling when he leans down, his face just inches from mine, his hand stroking the scars on my cheek. And I don’t feel the urge to cringe. He’s going to kiss me, I know. And I want it to happen.

  Badly.

  I tilt my chin up to get there faster, and that’s when he jolts forward, wincing. His eyes widen and he rubs the back of his head. I flash back to when Bret kissed me in the cafeteria; he had the same surprised, wounded expression. Something hit me, he said. But there’s nothing behind Eron, nothing at all.

  I can’t help it: I think of Griffin. You belong to me.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He nods quickly, then straightens and looks at his hands. He seems a little pale. He stands and helps position me back against the cushions. I’m wondering if I have bad gazpacho breath when he says, “I’m sorry, I must go.”

  “Oh … okay,” I say, struggling to my feet. I want to ask, What just happened here? but I’m not really sure I’m prepared for the answer.

  He holds up a hand. “I will let myself out. Good evening, Julia,” he says, and exits so abruptly I shiver in the breeze he leaves behind him.

  Good evening, I think. Who says that anymore?

  CHAPTER 24

  Eron

  The sun slips behind the horizon as I step outside Julia’s house. Just in time, for a few minutes later, Julia’s face appears in her bedroom window. She’s searching for me, eyes troubled, but does not see me. I’m a Sandman again. She must be wondering how I could have sprinted so far away from her front door so quickly.

  I stop for a moment, breathing hard, and stare up at the stars, collecting myself. My body is shaking. Everything about being with Julia is like navigating shark-infested waters. I can’t get as close as I’ve been used to for the past sixteen years because it’s too close and I know that Mr. Colburn is watching. I cringe whenever she opens her mouth to ask me a question, as I can’t talk about my past, my purpose, or many other things. I can’t let her know that I know what she’s thinking, that I understand. I’m supposed to be a stranger.

  Maybe Harmon was right. Maybe it is impossible to fit in again.

  I tread around the azalea bushes surrounding her house and put my hands on the gnarled bark of that familiar oak. Before I can hoist myself to a branch, something topples on me from above. Something enormous, bearlike. I fall to the grass, gasping, but it is still on top of me, pressing against my mouth, grinding my head against the hard earth.

  “What. The. Hell?” A voice whispers angrily into my ear.

  Mr. Colburn. He pushes against my throat once more and then releases me. I sit up. “And a pleasant good evening to you,” I snap.

  His fists are clenched, his jaw tight. “What do you think you were doing?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “You think I wouldn’t notice you making a move for my girl?” he snarls.

  I hold up my hands. “I was doing nothing of the sort. She slipped, and I was simply protecting her,” I say, but even as I speak, I feel my face twitching. You know it was more than that.

  Mr. Colburn senses my confusion. “Yeah. Right.”

  “I am trying my best.”

  He scowls. “You need to try a little harder. And here’s a tip: don’t lay a finger on her.”

  I rub the back of my head. “Seems you need to learn to keep your hands to yourself as well. What did I tell you about touching humans?”

  “Stop giving me reason to,” he growls just as the branch of a tree dips and Chimere appears. She lowers herself to the ground and steps gracefully and quietly between us.

  “Children,” she scolds, “Sandmen on the other side of the world can hear you.”

  Mr. Colburn’s icy stare doesn’t waver from mine. “He makes a sorry human.”

  “You make a sorry Sandman!” I retort, no longer caring if I do sound like a child. The nerve of him to suggest I am failing at my duties when he can barely follow the Sandman rules for a day.

  Chimere smiles. “You two are both in a difficult transition period. You must be patient. Eron, Mr. Colburn is trying hard.”

  “He hit me. Again. When I was human.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was just an accident. These things do happen. The training is right on schedule. Mr. Colburn just needs to control his impulses a little better.” She takes his hand and pats it. “Isn’t that right?”

  He glares at me. “Yeah.”

  “Similarly, Eron needs to relearn proper human behavior. For a hundred years, he has had to move close to humans, nearly but not quite touching them, in order to affect them. He needs to reestablish normal human boundaries.”

  Reestablish human boundaries. Is that all? Then it is normal for a former Sandman to feel this conflicted? But why, then, do I feel conflicted only when I’m with Julia?

  “And, Mr. Colburn,” she continues, “it should not concern you how Eron spends his human days, anyway.”

  He spits on the grass. “He practically stuck his tongue down my girl’s throat. Any idiot should know that’s not a proper human boundary.”

  “For the thousandth time, your girl is not your girl anymore!” I snap, knowing that Chimere will be behind me on this. After all, she was the one who convinced me, in my early years as a Sandman, that I needed to let my human attachments go. “Tell him, Chimere.”

  Instead, Chimere whirls to me, a peculiar, fragile expression on her face. Then she murmurs, not entirely convincingly, “That is right.”

  I can’t do anything but marvel at her lack of authority.

  She turns to Mr. Colburn and points up at Julia’s bedroom window, which is dark. “Julia’s been waiting for you for some time.”

  “Fine.” He pulls himself up to the tree and jabs a finger at my chest. “If I see you anywhere in her dreams, you’re dead.”

  I’m too busy studying Chimere to be alarmed by the threat. Chimere sighs. “What a character,” she says, tittering, when he has passed out of earshot.

  “You are too easy on him.”

  “What shall I do, my pet? Get out the paddle?”

  “I recall,” I say, “that when I was being trained, you held my feet to the flame for days if I so much as mentioned Gertie.”

  More tittering. “Perhaps I am softening in my old age.”

  “I think you’ve softened, but not because of age.”

  “What does that mean? I assure you, you are mistaken if you think I am favoring Mr. Colburn.” She begins to braid her hair. “Perhaps you are jealous?”

  I snort. “Ridiculous. Me? I just want to ensure that bumbling, pigheaded ass doesn’t ruin us all. How could you tell him about what I did for Julia when she was seven? That was our secret. And now that he knows, nothing is safe.”

  She laughs again. She seems to enjoy seeing my feathers ruffled. “Calm yourself.”

  “How can I? You said yourself that the transition is difficult, and with him around, I’m always checking my back. I can’t trust him. I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to make some hideous misstep from which we can never recover.” I run my hands through my hair and look up at the night sky. An airplane is streaking across it, red lights flashing. “The human I was placed with—Harmon. He told me human life after Sandman tenure is more than difficult…. He said it’s horrid. Impossible. Is that the truth?”

  Her eyes trail to the ground. She holds in a breath. “Harmon is a drunk. He was never the man
you were.”

  I take her by her delicate shoulders and make her stare me in the eye. “Is it the truth?”

  “You still have time, if you wish,” she murmurs. Her reluctance to answer the question tells me everything I need to know.

  “Chimere, what are you saying?”

  “If you want to stay a Sandman, all you need to do is ask. You know I would love you to stay.”

  I slowly pry my fingers from her silken sleeves and sink to the ground, feeling more between worlds than ever.

  I try to muster up the energy to feel excited about becoming human again, but it’s impossible. Harmon is likely to give me a piece of his mind for stealing his clothes, and I’m more uncertain than ever about how I should behave around Julia. All her life I’ve done nothing but protect her, and now Mr. Colburn wants me to stay away, despite everything in my body telling me otherwise. Maybe I’m too much of a Sandman to be anything else. Though the thought of one day becoming human has occupied most of my mind for the past hundred years, suddenly, Chimere’s words replay there as well: If you want to stay a Sandman, all you need to do is ask.

  It’s later in the morning, and I’ve been perched on the curb for some time, waiting to become human again. As the sun creeps to the top of the sky, I pull out my pocket watch. Nearly twelve. I should have changed by now.

  Something is wrong.

  Lately, whenever I’ve suspected something was wrong, I’ve immediately thought of Mr. Colburn. Did I even see him again after he crept into Julia’s room to seduce her?

  Oh, no.

  I jump up and turn toward Julia’s house. I can’t recall seeing Julia leave. Surely she’d be up and about by now. Quickly, I scale the tree and peer inside, afraid of what I might see. But there’s nothing to be alarmed by; Julia’s bed is empty and neatly made, and she is gone. There is no sign of Mr. Colburn.

  Relieved, I settle back in the tree, but am quickly startled by Chimere’s face reflected in the window. Her hands are pooled in her lap, as if she can’t decide what to do with them.

  “Let me guess,” I say.

  “Last night. He never put his other charges to sleep.” Chimere says these words as I’m thinking them. “He’s vanished.”