I Will Rise (26 page)

Falling into dreams my thoughts go fuzzy and I wonder if I will even see Annabelle or if I will have a nightmare or some uselessly dumb dream adventure instead. I start to regret giving myself over to the uncertainty of sleep, the loss of time, but I am lost and away before distress has a chance to take root.

Thankfully my fears are unfounded. The dreaming mind births me: white, billowy, wavy, the world a palace of clouds, whispering good, warm things into my ears. I float along at a dreamy (literally) pace until I find a break in the white and an entrance into our dingy hotel room.

The waking world shimmies and shakes and I feel drunk as I pass between worlds. The walls blur and breathe. The floor and ceiling jitter. I feel like I am a dream dreaming. Sitting on the cartoony, shaky bed, watching my blurred-out body sleep, Annabelle is solid, unwavering, and completely real. She is the only thing in the room that looks like it is actually here, undreamed, genuine.

“Hey,” I call to her. My voice trails and sputters and echoes.

Annabelle looks up and her eyes go as wide as stars. “Charlie!” She jumps off the bed.

“It worked.” I hold up my hands (I have both hands!) and then pat my chest and legs to illustrate my presence. “Let’s get out of here.” I gesture behind me toward the world of clouds. “This place is making me dizzy.”

“It’s weird, huh? Like living in a cartoon. You get used to it.” Annabelle skips past me and into the white. “Come on!”

I follow her.

“This is beautiful, Charles!”

“What?”

Annabelle stops and twirls and plops down onto the cushiony, pillowy, cloud ground, “Your dream world. It’s perfect. It’s sweet and safe and wonderful.”

I plop down next to her, lie on my back and stare up into the anti-sky. Endless white. Not even white, anti-color. “This is my doing?” I ask. “It’s rather plain, don’t you think?”

“It’s uncomplicated. It’s perfect.” Annabelle crawls over to me and lays her head on my chest. My body explodes with sensation. Bolts of bliss blast inward and surge throughout. I gasp and yammer. And Annabelle says, “Relax.”

“I can’t touch you,” I stammer.

“You can here. It’s perfect.”

Slowly, cautiously and with disbelief I wrap my arms around her. I nuzzle my face into her exquisite dark hair and take a deep breath. My head goes swimmy. For the first time since I died—hell, for the first time in my entire life—I can feel my heart pounding, my blood racing, my nerves tingling and a hypersensitive sense of physical and emotional satisfaction pulsing within, tying all processes together. Annabelle nuzzles into me and kisses my chin, shifts and then kisses me full on the mouth. I am a raging pyre of desire. I am awareness. I am needed physically and emotionally and my brain embraces that need hungrily. My skin doesn’t flay, my organs don’t drop, revulsion doesn’t visit, repulsion is nowhere to be found and I am an exposed heart, I am an instrument of pressure and control and vitality, a conduit of feeling and tactility and importance. I am the confident face of God. I am a human being. I am alive.

Chapter Seventeen

Built to Save

My eyes come open at the urging of a strange voice.

“Wake up,” the voice says, deep, gruff, “Wake up, Mr. Baxter.”

And for a second I think it’s my dad and this has all been a terrible wonderful dream. I think I am twelve years old again and am being culled awake so that I can go to school or perform some menial chores.

Leave me alone, I scream inside.

Let me sleep, I scream inside. Rage. But not outwardly. Outwardly I am preparing to wake and do as I am told. Anger dies and dribbles away into weak, pathetic, internal (always internal) pleadings. I dread another day fighting off seizures. I dread the laughter and the empathy of the cruel and the sympathetic. Let me stay here in my head where I am safe.

Here but not really here.

The voice ignores my silent pleas and persists, “Mr. Baxter! You have to get up. We have to talk before it’s too late.”

Alas, sleep curls up and dies, a faraway friend, an impossible dream, a clearing cloud, and I am returned, seated firmly, snugly within my terrestrial skin. I feel dead once again. I feel adult once again. And I am cold. And I am just beginning to panic because I am beginning to realize it’s not my dad’s voice. And I am thinking that my dad wouldn’t call me “Mr. Baxter.” And I am thinking that I haven’t heard my dad’s voice in years.

And I am wondering, to whom does this voice belong?

Another thought: is Annabelle—the real, blind, sleeping Annabelle—okay?

My eyelids snap open and my eyeballs fight for focus.

“Get up,” says the voice.

Things come clear and I see that it belongs to a large man with a shiny bald head and smooth skin the color of coal. He leans over me and says my name. “Charles?”

I bolt upright and look around the room. The man’s eyes go wide and he leaps back in fright. Barreling past the stranger, I jump off the bed, rush to the window and part the curtains with my right hand. A number of shadowy figures, three, four, it’s hard to tell in the dark, stand around Annabelle’s parents’ car. I press my face to the glass and squint; Annabelle is still in the passenger’s seat. I can’t tell if she is sleeping or awake.

If these fuckers lay one finger on her…

Rage builds.

The man behind me is trying to tell me something but I can’t hear him through the roaring fire in my head. My left wrist yawns and an army of tendrils slink out. I turn and extend my arm toward the large man. The tendrils creep, slowly weaving forward like jittery, hungry, organic lightning.

“Wait! Please!” The man puts his huge hands up and his eyes go watery around the edges.

My tendrils halt inches from his face. I shake my wrist menacingly.

I don’t want to hear what he has to say, I want him dead so I can move on to Annabelle and take care of the others. My tendrils dance ominous patterns millimeters from the man’s pleading patheticism.

Closing my eyes I think about Annabelle in danger. I think about loss. I think about love. I think about Eddie. I think about need. My wrist begins to buzz and the room begins to hum and the evil little tendrils recoil slightly, readying to strike hard and puree this idiot intruder.

He keeps on, “I only want to talk to you! I can help you and your lady friend! I can help you! Please don’t kill me!”

And for some inexplicable reason I pause and look him over. Tension has turned him into a shaky, sweaty, teary mess. Just one flick of the wrist, just one inflection of the mind and he’s done, but something in his eyes manages to calm me down. Beneath the flustering begging he has a very sincere, trustworthy gaze.

We stare at each other for a moment—I, locked in attack mode, arm raised, death dancing—he, taut, sweating profusely, begging for his life with gentle eyes. I relax a bit and decide to give him a chance to explain. With a little internal coaxing my tendrils snake their way home. The man lets out a huge, wet sigh and doubles over. He braces himself on the bed and says, “You almost gave me a heart attack—I thought I was a goner for sure.” He wipes a ton of sweat from his glistening forehead, takes another deep breath and then straightens up.

“What do you want?” I try to play it cool, in charge, give a take-no-shit sneer and demand: “Get your friends away from my girl or I’ll fuck you up.”

“They won’t hurt her. Nobody wants to hurt anybody here.”

“Get ’em away,” my voice resonates with power and menace. Cool.

The nervous man nods his head and walks to the door. He nods at me again and then opens the door and signals for his men to disperse. Shutting the door he takes a few careful steps past me. This bastard is huge. Like a bear. Except his movements are fluid, smooth, gentle—like his eyes. Mopping his eternally sweating brow, he stops by the TV and motions for me to have a seat on the bed. I turn back to the window and look outside. The others have left. Annabelle is still in the passenger’s seat and I still can’t tell if she is awake or sleeping.

“She’s safe, Mr. Baxter,” the large man assures.

Continuing to stare out the window I say, “I gotta check on her.”

“No, Mr. Baxter, you have to hear me out first.” Again, he speaks with nothing but the utmost sincerity.

“Fuck off!” Regardless, no one tells me what to do. I make for the door.

“Stop!” The man shouts and it’s the sound of a thousand hearts breaking. “Do you want her to die? I can help you and you have to listen to me now, there isn’t any more time!”

Drawn by his sorrow, I turn and the man gestures for me to have a seat. He has composed himself and I no longer feel so in charge. The way he is looking at me makes me feel about five years old. The fact that he is like ten feet tall (okay, I exaggerate, but he’s pushing seven feet and that’s still pretty damn tall) doesn’t help. The fact that he is older than me (how old? It’s hard to tell, but there is a patriarchal air to him) doesn’t help. The fact that he can break me in two (he’s built like a freaking tank), well could, before the change, doesn’t help.

I am just about ready to follow his instructions and have a seat on the bed, but alas I shrug off the intimidation or guilt or respect or sadness or whatever is tugging at my heartstrings and remind myself that I am the man. I am in control here and if this fuck—no matter his stature or presence—doesn’t recognize, I am more than willing to prove it.

“Are you threatening me?” I all but growl.

He stammers a little. “No, no. We aren’t going to kill her, but if you don’t listen to me, she will die. Not at our hands, but at yours. We will all die.”

“Sit down,” I command.

The man shrugs his shoulders and takes a seat on the bed. “Thanks.” He half smiles at me before his face goes all business and says, “Don’t worry about your girl. She’s sleeping now. Okay? We’ve got problems, Mr. Baxter.”

“Yes, you do,” I reply (rather cleverly, if I do say so myself).

The man snorts or guffaws or whatever and shakes his head from side to side slowly as if tsking me. “You have no clue, Mr. Baxter. Not one.” He rubs more sweat from his brow and his glistening head. “I was scared to come here. I guess I am still scared, but not in the same way.” He slides over and makes room for me at the edge of the bed. “Have a seat, let’s talk.”

I stand defiantly, but the large black man gestures at me, and smiles wide and his earnest eyes say everything is going to be all right—once again I believe him. It takes a second, but there I go: strength dropping out, my stomach liquefying, feeling about five years old. I sit on the bed.

“Where to begin?” The man bites at his lower lip in thought and then his face brightens. “Introductions, right? I got so damn freaked out and nervous that I forgot to introduce myself. Charles Baxter”—the man points at me, and then himself—“Meet Clarence Jackson. I’d shake your hand or pat you on the back or something, it’s my way and all, but you know how it is.”

I nod.

“Right, well it’s good to meet you and I truly do mean it, seeing as how you and I are going to work shit out and save this godforsaken world.”

More theories?

Another dream freak come to save the day, come to rid the earth of my pesky presence?

I want to tune him out and go to Annabelle and drive off—my bed is made and I only wish to lie in it. I don’t need advice or cautioning or threatening. We have a plan and I intend on sticking to it—but again, this man is endearing and again his eyes are two of the kindest I have ever seen and he seems easy and pleasant to talk to and I’ve been running so hard and so long that half the time I don’t even know where the hell I am going, maybe a little friendly company will do me some good. Maybe this guy knows something more. Maybe he knows something true.

“You sure Annabelle’s safe?” I double-check.

“I am not here to hurt either of you.” Clarence sighs heavily and shakes his head in slow, sad arcs. “We have a struggle ahead of us. Shit, man, to be quite honest I feel sorry for you. Things are definitely going to get a millions times worse and then they are going to get even worse than that, but if we—and I am not just talking about you and me, I am talking about all of us—if we all pull our shit together and channel our faith, one day things might turn around. That’s what I’m betting on. That’s why I volunteered to come here and talk to you. Well that and geography.” Another huge, affecting smile.

“That guy who tried to cut you up”—Clarence gestures at my, er, Jim’s suit—“he wasn’t a bad guy, just hasty. And scared. Hell, we’re all scared, that’s why nobody tried to stop him. That’s why he had a strong group of followers willing to risk their lives in trying to stop you. It’s a shame, but they got scared and read the dreams wrong and reacted. They thought if we got rid of you, then we would be safe. They thought the reason we were all dreaming you was so that we could prepare ourselves and stop you before things got out of hand. What they didn’t understand was that we aren’t supposed to destroy you, we’re supposed to help you.”

I shift a little and Clarence watches my movements. Relax, I say with my eyes and then, trying to mask my intrigue and odd trustingness with a little cold attitude, I say aloud, “None of this makes sense and frankly I don’t give a fuck.” Sneering and trying to look menacing I add, “I was built to destroy you and I will. Annabelle communes with the dreamer and the dreamer—”

Clarence is completely unfazed and has the audacity to cut me off. “That’s all bullshit, my man,” he says, brimming with confidence. “Listen to me. Really listen to me, okay? I am going to break it all down for you. I am going to open your eyes.”

He stares at me for what feels like a long time. Ordinarily this would do nothing but annoy me. Don’t you freaking hate it when people stare for uncomfortable bouts of time? I sure as hell do, but Clarence’s gaze is different. It’s nothing short of intense and everything inside of me swings.

Go ahead, open my eyes
, I want to say half joking, half serious, but instead I keep quiet and let him go on.

“You are a time bomb, Mr. Baxter. Though I forgive the man who took your hand, though I forgive his eager followers, I also condemn their foolishness. They couldn’t have known what was going to happen, but they almost trashed everything. Whatever it is inside of you wants out. Whoever or whatever is behind all of this wants you to explode, plain and simple. It wants that evil planted inside of you to flourish. Your hate, your anger, your fear, your jealousy, they are all catalysts. If any of those feelings ever become too intense, all the evil inside of you will be unleashed upon the world. The evil behind this nightmare is banking on you losing it.”

I swallow hard and stare at my stump. “I am in control of me.”

“Not quite true, man. Where to begin…” Clarence scratches his head in thought and then says, “First off, your girl is wrong. She’s sweet and dedicated and her head and heart are in it for the right reasons, but she is lost. This dreamer, this digital void bullshit is nothing but a smokescreen. She is being fed an idealistic fantasy, a dream she wants to believe in. The reason? To get to you, to get inside of you and twist around in your guts, to make you fall in love with her and listen to her without question. But she isn’t doing it on purpose, as I said, as far as we can tell, she’s sweet. Something is working on her so that she will work on you. The dreamer is her fantasy and something is keeping her hope alive. She is your fantasy and something is prompting her to make sure you keep hope alive. She follows the dreamer. You follow her.”

I want to disagree, but his expression, the force and passion exploding from his face, wipes away any impending sarcasm or hostility or smug naïveté. There is a wealth of virtue and morality, something pure and clean and untouched by peccadillos, pulsing inside of him. It’s an odd thing to see in a man. Whatever he has to tell me he truly believes. Whatever he has to tell me means the world to him. My bravado, my ill mood, slink down deep and fold in on themselves.

Clarence continues. “The question we are all asking ourselves is who is leading her? We can’t see it. When we dream, we can only see you. We can only feel things about you. We know of her and her feeling for you because you feel strongly about her and there is an uneasy energy enveloping the two of you.”

I interject, “If this is all based on feeling, my feeling, and what I know, then how is it that you know more than I know? How do you know that Annabelle isn’t right?” None of this esoteric shit makes sense.

“Because though we can’t put everything together, we still see more. We see lots of different things from lots of different angles; there are millions of us and we are all working together, sharing information and divergent points of view.” Clarence dabs more sweat from his brow. The salty everflow has died down a bit and save for two large, unsightly sweat stains pooling out from each armpit, he looks almost dry. “I would have learned so much in the past few days. Others have been dreaming you longer, I just started, but you’d think I have lived a million lifetimes. When I sleep and I join the others, it’s like we all share one mind with a zillion pairs of eyes. Things inside me have opened up, Charles. My eyes have opened. There is a deep understanding, a pure truth binding all of us. Our outlooks have changed. We know that there is meaning and peace and value in this life and now, more than ever, we can’t let you destroy that. We want you to see what we see in hopes that you will come round and help us to help you.