“What witchery is this?” I said.
“It’ll make the ache go away,” she replied, stretching up to rearrange glass bottles on her shelf, pulling two and setting them on her desk. Each was labeled but I couldn’t read the scribbled handwriting, glass droppers exposed when my mom unscrewed the caps.
“This will help heal it,” she said, filling the dropper then hovering it over my hand. “Hold still, it’ll burn a—”
I nearly screamed, jerking my hand back. The first drip, no larger than a raindrop, had fallen onto my finger.
“THAT. BURNS.” I exploded, flinging my hand back and forth to drive the pain away.
“That means it’s working!” my mom insisted. “Put your hand down NOW.”
I whined and whimpered, but in the end she had more power over me than any doctor, so I had to obey. She leaned her elbow lightly against my arm, but to me it was like a vice holding me down.
“While I’m doing this,” she said, “tell me about those dreams.”
I looked at her with a hint of alarm but she didn’t register my reaction as she dripped more solution onto my finger.
“Alli,” I hissed, whispering the name the second it came to me.
“Don’t hate her,” my mom said in warning. “She told me because she’s scared for you.”
“Alli, scared?” I said with disbelief, wincing at the medicine again. “She’s in there watching a movie about killers right now.”
“And her brother was nearly killed two nights ago,” my mom said. It cut me off. Was that her silent voicing of confidence in my story about Mr. Sharpe? Certainly not. If she thought that the murder had been real, she’d be out in front of the police station picketing right then for an investigation. Was she making fun of me? I wasn’t detecting that either.
The car crash, I remembered. Even with Mr. Sharpe out of the picture, I’d still nearly died in that wreck. She’d already crossed the possibility of Mr. Sharpe’s existence out.
Would she cross him out so easily now that I had proof of something different?
I could have told her then. I could have blurted out everything I’d found: the car, the briefcase, and the girl’s face on the newspaper. My life would have taken a dramatic turn in the space of a few seconds.
But my mouth remained shut. I didn’t need the police—not yet. I was on top of this, and felt I had the power to dig one last shovel into the dirt of this mystery, and perhaps find the treasure chest myself.
“They’re just dreams,” I told her.
“Do you normally dream of when you die?” she pressed. Stupid Alli. Were there no secrets in this house anymore?
“No,” I replied slowly, but one look from my mom caused the gates to break. That, or the fresh droplet of burning herbal concoction that sent pain racing through my nervous system.
“Alright, they’re dreams of me dying,” I admitted. “It’s happened twice. They feel real when I’m in them, but I know I’m dreaming, so it’s even weirder.”
Was that enough of the truth for her without giving too much? I was already uncomfortable and in pain, I didn’t need her to think that I was losing my mind on top of it. Or any more evidence to that fact, at least.
If she thought that, she surely didn’t show it through her face. She shrugged.
“You’re the kid who keeps getting into strange trouble,” she said. “It only makes sense it happens in your dreams too.”
That got a wry smile out of me, one that become more genuine when she let go of my arm and I knew the evil drops were over. She threw the gauze away before I could wrap my finger up again—she was a firm believer in the healing powers of outside air.
“You’ve been doing that all your life, you know,” my mom went on. “You remember when you were ten and I almost ran you over?”
“You’re supposed to look before backing up,” I said.
“If I remember correctly, you were playing hide-and-seek under the car,” she reminded me. “Before that you were eight and I found you under your Aunt Bama’s sink, the cap already off the bleach and a straw in your hands,” she said. “And you almost died before you were born too.”
I shifted on the couch. I’d heard these stories so many times, I’d usually disregarded them as unimportant family folklore that only got brought up at birthday parties. They felt a little bit different this time though, as if my most recent incident called for a reminder of all the times I’d flirted brazenly with Death.
“I got pregnant with you at twenty, and just a few months in I got really sick,” my mom said. “I went in and they told me there was some complication, and you were taking more of my body’s resources than you should have. Which sounds small, but at the rate you were going, you were actually killing me, they said.”
She’d told me this story many years before but I didn’t remember much of it. I listened enraptured, my mom’s gaze turning up to the wall behind me.
“They told me I should get rid of you, because otherwise I’d die for sure,” she said. “They were very convincing too. They made you sound like a leech. Five percent chance you’d make it, and even less that I would. But you think I was about to give you up?”
“Obviously not,” I said. She grinned.
“Yeah. I told the doctors to screw off,” she said, crinkling her nose with some degree of delight. “And I’ve been telling them that ever since,” she snorted. “Them and the whole bonkers medical system. And after I left them, I endured six more months of miserable torture hoping for some reward at the end,” she looked back down at me. “But unfortunately, all I got was you.”
She knocked me on the side of the head with the back of her hand.
“And that is why, Michael, you can never complain about chores, ever,” she said. Then her face softened up. She leaned her elbow against the edge of the couch, brushing the hair from my forehead.
“You really wanted to live,” she said. “You weren’t supposed to. I think even G wanted to listen to the doctors. Then Alli came along. Then G left for Megan McSluttus, and now we’re a happy family of the Asher Trio, which thanks to you, often seems close to becoming the Asher Duo.”
G was what we called my invisible father, George, because we’d come to a consensus that he wasn’t worth the time of pronouncing all six letters. I shook my head, making the hairs she’d pushed away fall back into place. I knew she was thinking about the car crash.
“You’re good at not dying, Michael. Keep that up,” she said. It was gently, lovingly…so unreserved that even without a moment of surprise, I could read the Glimpse behind her gaze, the gate opening without the walls being broken down. I’d hardly ever read my mother, probably because it felt weird to know what she was thinking. But seeing the warmth behind her, that real and genuine care for me was almost like an unspoken renewal of what I already knew. No matter what else the world would do, she actually cared.
I could have told her everything. I wanted to tell her. I should have told her. But I didn’t.
When the silence wore off, she drew back to her desk.
“What are your plans for this evening?” she asked me. I sat up straighter, stretching my arms. I debated what to say.
“Church,” I replied. She gave me an odd look but didn’t ask. So I stood up, left the room, and closed the door between us.
6
The Expositor
Exhausted from another night of little sleep, I tried to take a nap to pass the time, but only ended up lying still for hours. The closed blinds let in a mild glow between long shadows across the pictures on my walls.
Maybe I needed something new up there? I had too much time to kill until leaving again. So I rolled over and went to my desk, turning my music player to a low buzz of electronic-fused sounds as I dug through my files. All of my digital photographs were organized into folders, sorted by day and on some, the location. There were so many places to photograph people in California. I could go down to The Grove and watch shoppers. Or I could venture down Hollywood Boulevard and capture tourists wandering through the attractions, pressing their hands into that of celebrities at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre.