I put on a pot of coffee and stubbornly decided that I would wait out the night. I would read, play solitaire, watch old movies, but under no circumstances would I allow myself to re-live Ariel’s death in my dreams. Of course, everyone knows about the best-laid plans of mice and men.
My first mistake was choosing to sit on the couch while waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. My second mistake was allowing my eyelids to close as exhaustion crept up on me.
Darkness.
Darkness without shape or form.
Cold, bone chilling darkness from the heart of nowhere.
I was floating.
I was falling.
I was screaming.
“ Rowan.” Ariel, once again in a white lace gown, smiled brightly at me. “Have a seat. It’s been so long since I’ve read for you.”
I was sitting. It was sudden. The movement disjointed. I didn’t recall moving to the chair.
I was sitting.
Ariel smiled at me across the table. A table that until moments before had never existed. Her face was vibrant, her eyes bright and alive. Her strawberry-blonde hair lofted gently on a cool breeze. In her dainty hands, she held an oversized deck of cards. A deck of tarot cards. I watched as she shuffled them quickly. Or did she? Her hands never moved.
“ This represents him,” she said aloud, looking down at the center of the table.
The Knight of Cups.
“ No, Ariel. The Knight of Cups is not my significator,” I try to tell her. “It doesn’t represent me.”
My words fall soundlessly to the floor like a grotesque parody of a children’s cartoon.
“ This covers him.” She continues to look only at the table.
The Devil.
She’s not reading for me.
She’s reading for the killer.
“ This crosses him,” she continues.
The Tower.
I watch the cards intently.
“ Rowan, how nice to see you,” a lilting voice comes from behind me.
I turn.
Ariel is smiling at me. A dark shape, hooded and malevolent, moves behind her. I want to warn her, but I know that I can’t.
Crimson spreads across the white lace.
“ Why, Rowan? Why?” her gurgling voice calls to me.
Darkness.
Dull black void.
“ Hey, Mister,” a tiny voice asserts itself.
I turn and look down.
A young girl. Silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied back with white bows. A white lace dress encases her. She looks up at me with large, sad eyes. A familiar deck of cards is clutched tightly in her tiny hand. She holds it out, offering them to me. I take the cards.
“ Why don’t you stop the bad man?” the child asks.
Before I can reply, she is gone.
I spin about in search of her and find only darkness. I look back to the deck of tarot cards in my hand. They seem so tiny. I turn over the top card.
The Seven of Pentacles.
Pain rips through my back and into my chest. Out of reflex I look down. The gilt end of a beveled blade is protruding from my chest.
Blood.
Scarlet, thick blood runs down my shirt.
“ All…Is…Forgiven.” A dark voice laughs from behind me. The knife juts farther from my solar plexus.
I look down at the tarot cards in my hand. Slowly they spill into space, fluttering then fading away. I fight to focus on them as they quickly flash their faces to me before they disappear.
They are all the same card.
They are all the Seven of Pentacles.
Darkness.
An endless tortured scream.
I awoke to the sound of my own voice. Maybe voice isn’t the right word as it was more the sound of my own bloodcurdling and tortured scream. The dogs were alertly stationed before me, growling and barking as if an intruder had burst into the house, invading their territory. The cats were nowhere to be seen, and I can’t say that I blamed them.
Once again, I was bathed in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as though I had just finished running a marathon. This was becoming ridiculous. I had only managed one decent night’s sleep out of the past four, and it was beginning to take its toll. This time the nightmare had taken on even more intensity. It was obvious that Ariel was trying to tell me something; I was certain of it. Doubtless, she had been trying to do the same in the last dream as well.
After calming the dogs, I immediately retrieved my Book of Shadows and recorded the still vivid details of this latest nightmare. By the time I finished, fatigue once again overtook me, knocking the second wind from my sails and leading me into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Felicity was dressed and waiting for me when I arrived at the hospital. Her doctor had released her earlier, and she was more than ready to remove herself from the premises. She had been fortunate in some respects as her injuries could have been far worse. Other than the miscarriage, she sustained only two cracked ribs and some minor bruises.
My fiery-tressed wife demonstrated her stubbornness and resolve in her refusal to be pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair, though she did allow me to carry her overnight bag for her. I left Felicity sitting on a bench at the main entrance while I rode up in the elevator and then brought my truck down through the spiraling corkscrew of the parking garage. Moments after I left her, I exited the concrete structure, quickly zipped around the block, and brought the truck to a halt directly in front of the bench.
“I should have known you would be ready to leave,” I told her after I turned onto the street.
“I hate hospitals,” she answered. “You know that.”
“Well, you must have at least gotten some rest.”
“What makes you say that?”
“No heavy accent this morning.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, leave me alone,” she returned with a slightly annoyed tone then returned to the original subject. “I didn’t need to stay overnight. I feel fine.”
I pushed the truck forward and turned left onto Kingshighway. “I’m glad you feel fine, but what did the doctor say?”
“He said I was okay,” she acknowledged. “I just need to take an iron supplement for a while.”
“What about the ribs?”
“He told me they’d be sore for a week or so,” she went on. “But they’ll heal up okay.”
I veered right toward the on-ramp and sped up, merging with the highway traffic. We rode along in silence for a few moments, Felicity staring out the side window.
“How are you with the whole miscarriage thing,” I gently queried. “I mean mentally.”
“I honestly don’t know,” she replied, her voice flat. “I’m kind of in shock I guess. I’m not sure if it’s really sunk in yet.” She let out a long sigh and continued staring out the window. A few moments passed, and she turned to me once again. “I don’t know that I really felt all that pregnant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, I know I had the morning sickness and all…” She fumbled as she searched for the words to explain her feelings. “But that was only once. I don’t think I was pregnant long enough for it to really sink in. I don’t know. I hope I don’t sound callous. I’m sure I’m not making any sense to you.”
“You don’t sound callous,” I reassured her. “And I think I understand.”
“I’m depressed about it,” she announced after another long pause. “I just don’t think I’m going to go off the deep end or anything. What about you? How do you feel about all of this?”
“I’m disappointed,” I told her, “and a bit depressed. Mainly, I’m pissed at Devon.”
“Did you ever hear how his surgery went?”
I changed lanes then glanced over at her. “Haven’t heard a thing.”
“Have you talked to Ben?”
“Not since he dropped me off at my truck yesterday afternoon,” I outlined. “Something’s going on with him and Allison. He was real quiet.”