Farsighted (Farsighted Series) (22 page)

“And now you see her dying this other way, outside, and with a lot of blood?”

I shudder, recalling the scene with vivid imagery. “Yes.”

“So you’ve seen two alternate versions of the same event,” Dad summarizes, like this is an academic exercise and not a matter of life and death.

“But they aren’t the only alternatives, right? There’s still the version where nothing happens, where Simmi lives,” I plead, as if Dad’s agreement is enough to make it so.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he answers. It’s easy to tell his thoughts are somewhere else. My clock ticks the seconds away. After a while, he refocuses and continues. “I don’t think there’s a choice as to whether or not you meet Dax. For some reason, the universe is pulling the two of you together.”

I snap my fingers weakly. I’m scared; I don’t feel ready for a showdown of good versus evil, especially when the source of evil is this guy.

“I don’t like this. It’s what I wanted to protect you from,” Dad says. Defeat resonates in his voice. “I guess we’re forced to choose the lesser of two evils, and believe it or not, a confrontation with this guy would be the better option. Is this something you can handle?”

“I’ve got to save her, Dad. I don’t have a choice.”

“No,” he quips. “You don’t.”

We sit in silence. Dad gives me time to absorb everything. I’ve got a feeling he’s not even reading my thoughts. He’s letting me have this quiet period for reflection before I make the decision that could change my life, or even end it.

When I’m ready, I speak again. “So, how do I find him?”

“Well, you want to find him. That’s the first step. And you’ve got to keep practicing as much as you can handle. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can go back to your normal life.”

I let out a laugh that’s somehow both sarcastic and nostalgic.

“If you’re telling the truth, if you really want to find him, you won’t be able to undo that decision. Once you accept your fate, then fate has a way of speeding up its course. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I have to be,” I say, mustering every ounce of bravery, trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to convince Dad.

“Then work with me. Let me help as much as I’m allowed,” he says with tenderness. Before I can respond, he wraps me in a bear hug. This time, I don’t try to escape; instead I feel sheltered and, for the moment, however briefly, I feel safe.

The Third Aett

One day the two great masters will be friends,

Their great power will be seen increased:

The new land will be at its high peak,

To the bloody one the number recounted

-from the prophecies of Nostradamus-

Quatrain C II-89

Chapter 17

Continued progress requires a willing sacrifice from the traveler. He must take on pain of his own to protect the good of others. Ultimately, his wounds will make him stronger.

Ever since I accepted the need to hunt down Dax, I’ve been unable to sleep. My pillow is a portal to another world; one I don’t want to visit. In the night, a different kind of vision plagues my brain. I see Simmi dying in every possible way, over and over again. I see me trying to save her, but coming up short.

My bed used to be a safe haven. It provided an escape from my waking nightmares, and just let me be my normal, boring self again. These days, it’s my number one source of fear. How can I tell whether or not my dreams are real prophecies?

When the visions first started back in September, I assumed they were all fake. Now, I’m quick to think everything is a vision. If I discount something—anything—Simmi might die. It’d be like a detective throwing away a gun the moment he arrives at the scene of a crime, because he has a hunch the killer used a knife. It’s stupid. I can’t afford to be stupid. But man, am I tired.

I’ve been lying here for hours with no idea what time it is. If I pushed the button on my talking watch to find out, it might wake up Mom and then she’d worry. She can’t do anything to help me anyway. Fatigue draws my eyelids down, but I can’t give in. How long has it been since I’ve gotten a full night’s sleep—days, weeks?

I sit up and run my palms over my face, pushing the heels into my eyes and rubbing. When that doesn’t seem like enough to keep me awake, I get up and tiptoe around my room, slowly and deliberately, should a creaky floorboard want to rat me out.

The pacing doesn’t help. My body is beyond tired. If I’m going to stay awake, I’ve got to keep my mind busy. Hoisting my backpack onto my desk chair, I fish around until my hand grazes the notes I keep folded into a square at the bottom of the pack. My notes on Dax. Might as well use these sleepless nights to gain some ground on this mystery.

My hand trails over the bumpy sequence of dots, recalling everything I’ve learned so far. For a moment, I think it’d be better to sleep. After all, these thoughts are almost as disturbing as my dreams. If I slept, I’d at least regain my energy. Solving my waking problem should fix the sleeping one, too, though. I push my finger deeper into the page in an attempt to read harder and absorb the information better.

Dax is a guy. I think he’s about my age, and his voice sounds like Brady. He kills Simmi even though she, for whatever reason, loves him. It looks like he may kill many more people, too. Fairfax is important. I’ve seen it multiple times now. I’m pretty sure Dax only goes to Fairfax if he succeeds in killing Simmi. That’s why he gets sent. Then he escapes. None of this after stuff is important, because if it happens, I’ve failed. That’s why it’s so pressing to use what I know to find out more.

Remembering the bracelet on my wrist, I begin spinning, hoping it holds the answers I need. My mind chugs along like the
Little Engine that Could
straight up that hill, working hard against the weight of its load. It would be so much easier to let go, to get pulled down, to admit I can’t do this.

My mind doesn’t find Dax’s as I’d hoped. It zooms to Simmi.

“You think I’m in danger? That I could die?”

“N-no,” I hear my voice when the next person answers.

“Then what’s this?” she demands, shaking a stack of papers.

“I…I’m writing a story.”

“Oh, really. Is that it?” Simmi places her hand on my chest, right over my heart, and pushes the soft flannel into me with far too much force. A moment later her hand flicks away as if all of a sudden my body is a hot stove and she’s just been burned.

“Alex,” she begins. But the vision cuts, so I don’t get to hear what she was going to say. I contemplate her tone. Is she angry, sad, scared, grateful? What?

She can’t find those papers. She can’t find out about any of this. Not ever. I grab my notes on Dax from my lap, fold them up as small as they will go—even though the added texture of the creases will make them more difficult for me to read—and stuff them in the back of my desk drawer.

With my heart falling to my stomach, I realize what needs to be done. I can’t see Simmi anymore. It’s the only way to make sure she won’t find out. It’s another step I need to take to protect her from the future. This decision exhausts me even more than the string of sleepless nights. My eyelids beat out any of the scant willpower I have left. I sleep until morning. The whole night I’m forced to watch Simmi die by drowning over and over again. She must have died a hundred deaths. Each was just as difficult to watch as the one before it.

***

When Mom comes to wake me up in the morning, she has to nudge me at least half a dozen times to get me to respond.

“What?” I croak.

“It’s time for school.”

I groan and lie motionless, not wanting to get up but also not wanting to fall back to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asks, stroking my cheek with the back of her jasmine-scented hand. “Didn’t sleep well?”

I attempt to snap my fingers, but the zombie haze I’m in makes it difficult. I let my hand fall over the edge of the bed.

“That’s it. You’re not going to school today,” she declares.

“No, I’m okay. I’ll go get…ready,” I say. A yawn breaks apart my sentence. I fling my feet over the edge of the bed and begin to stand, but my weight is too much to bear. I collapse back onto the cruel, inviting mattress.

“You’re not going anywhere, sapling,” Mom insists. “I’ll make you a nice bowl of oatmeal and go get an audiobook from the library for you to listen to while you rest. You’ll have to drink lots of water and get plenty of sleep, but that should do the trick. I’ll stay to make sure you get all better.” She plants a kiss on my forehead and runs her hand through my hair.

“No,” I protest. “I can stay with Dad. I’ll be okay. It’s just the twenty-four hour flu or something.” There’s no way she’s going to agree to let me go to school now. She has always been overprotective of me, but she’s especially bad whenever I’m feeling sick. I think it’s something about me getting the measles before I was even born. She thinks of me as this sickly little baby even though I’m well over six feet tall now.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Dad and I’ve got some catching up to do anyway.”

Mom pats my legs and gets up from the bed. “I’ll go get that oatmeal started. Be back in a jiff.”

And she is. She brings a steaming bowl of hot oats with brown sugar and maple syrup on a breakfast tray and sets it before me. I dip my spoon in and bring a bite up to my mouth. Mom rubs my legs and sings a lullaby—the same song she sings whenever I’m sick.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word.

“I’ll stay until you fall back to sleep and then come at lunchtime to check in on you,” she says when she’s finished the fourth verse of the song.

Ugh. I don’t want to go back to sleep. Sleep is what’s making me so tired. Can I fake it for Mom’s benefit without actually succumbing to that sadistic sandman?

I clear my throat to speak, but Dad comes in before I can say anything.

“Susan, give the boy some space. I’ll make sure he gets his rest. We’ll have a guys’ day.” His accent is back with full force. I wonder what Mom thinks about it. Maybe she assumes being back in Boston for the past couple of months has brought it out of him.

Mom hesitates, continuing to smooth the covers.

“I’ll take care of him,” Dad says, bringing his scent of fabric softener and pine needles into the room, as he stands next to Mom. “I promise.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” she says, rising to her feet and taking her voice with her. I can tell she doesn’t want to go, but at least Dad is able to convince her. Don’t think I would’ve been able to by myself.

Dad hangs out with Mom until she leaves and then comes back in to sit with me. “Tell me what’s going on.”

I stretch my arms out over my head and rid my neck of its morning kinks. “Too tired to explain,” I groan.

“You can tell me, or I can find out. Your call.”

“Find out then, if you want,” I challenge him. My brain isn’t forming logical chains of thoughts right now anyway. He’s not going to get anywhere. It’s not that I’m trying to hide anything from him—I’ve got no reason to now—I just don’t like how he can spy on me whenever he wants. It’s very discomforting when your dad can find out anything about you. Even all the personal stuff you’d rather nobody knew—especially not your parents.

“Trust me. It’s not easy for me, either. You think I want to know all that stuff about you? You think I like hearing the things you think whenever Simmi is around?”

I grunt and pull the covers over my head.

“So you’re having nightmares, huh?” he presses, dragging the covers down to my chest.

“How did—”

“Well, I may have read your thoughts last night when I heard you pacing around your room.” He almost sounds sorry. Almost. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. Tell me how I can help.”

“Can you make the dreams stop?” I ask, kneading my calf—I got a charley horse last night, somewhere between the pacing and falling asleep.

“I’ve never been much of a dreamer. But my guess is your brain is so overwhelmed, it keeps right on worrying when it’s supposed to be off.”

“Wow, thanks for the expert analysis. I don’t need you to explain
why
I’m having nightmares. Just tell me how to make them stop.”

“Well, you could try to stop worrying…” Prickles run through me. He’s looking at me, gauging my reaction, and when he understands the idea’s not going to fly, he goes on. “Or you could solve your problems.”

“Dad! C’mon, don’t you think I’m trying to already?”

“Then I guess that only leaves one thing. Be right back.” He leaves the room. A couple minutes later, he returns with a glass of water and a pill. “Take this.”

I gape in his direction.

“It’s a sleeping pill. I’m not condoning recreational drug use here, but if you cloud up your mind, it may not be able to form those night visions. Whenever I’ve taken one of these, I’ve slept like a log.” He pushes my hand up toward my mouth. “Take it, but keep in mind this is a one-time thing—not a permanent solution.”

I’m eventually going to have to sleep again one way or another. Might as well try the pill and see what it does. I place it on my tongue and chug the entire glass of water.