In Dreams (8 page)

“No. You are my reason for living, Iris. It’s a lot more complicated than that.”

“
Complicated
. Why does everyone keep using that word? I am
so
going to have Daddy issues after this. I mean, hasn’t he ever wanted to be part of my life?”

“He’s tried to be so careful, Iris. To protect you. But he’s been there. Sometimes. When he can.”

“Come on, Mom. I have one weird memory—I think—of meeting him at the museum. Did he step out of a painting? But that’s it. He’s not part of my life.” Maybe it was better when I thought he was an anonymous donor. My mother told me she’d selected him because his profile said he was a member of Mensa. Who spoke four languages. And volunteered for Greenpeace. All a lie. He was actually a
god
. “He’s never tried to be there for me.”

“He has. That was him. At the museum. And Santa Claus.”

“If you tell me Santa Claus is real, Mom, I swear—”

“No, Iris. Remember when I took you to meet Santa Claus at the mall? You were seven and just on the cusp of not believing—thanks to Joey D. from your bus stop—who told
everyone
that Santa was a fake. Anyway, we went to Macy’s, and the regular Santa was on break and you went and sat on the substitute Santa’s lap. Remember? He was so fascinated by you? He talked to you for twenty minutes, asking you all sorts of questions about your grades and your interests. The other kids and parents in line started getting angry.”

I scrunch my face, struggling to remember.

“And your fourth-grade piano recital. Think about the janitor offstage. Remember how he applauded for you louder than anyone in the audience? And he gave you a hug after. Think about his eyes.”

As soon as she says this, I feel as if a spider is crawling up my spine. The eyes. The gentleness. The color—a stormy gray not like any other eyes I have ever seen. The eyes of the janitor. Of the Santa. Of the man at the museum.

I look over at Annie. I feel tears pushing at me, tears
I don’t want to shed. Not yet. I need to understand more. Annie smiles at me, encouraging me. “See? Your dad loves you.”

Annie’s dad tries to arrange his schedule so he can go to all her soccer games. Those are the times I miss having a father of my own. I swallow. “My dad has shown up in my life?”

Mom nods. “Not in the way he wants to, Iris. But in the safest way he can, to draw no attention to you. He loves you so dearly. And so the reason I sleep so much . . .” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Iris, I leave you to go to the Underworld to protect you. Your father is warring with his brothers. And I am by his side.

“Among the Oneiroi, there has never been a half-human child born. And his brothers—Thanatos, death, and Epiales, nightmares—they’re jealous and angry. They think your father made a careless and foolish mistake.”

My mother looks at me hard and grabs my hand. “Iris, you’ve been going to the Underworld in your dreams. And I know you—I know you didn’t even realize that’s where you’ve been going, not until now. I know that you can’t help going there, that you aren’t controlling it. But it’s dangerous for you. The
brothers—your uncles—think you will usher in a new age of communication between the Underworld and the human world. And they’re against it. Violently so. And they will stop at nothing to make sure you keep to your own world.”

I stare at her. I can hardly believe what she’s saying, but somehow it all makes sense.

“One of them was already here. I don’t know which one, though—the one with the strange eyes.”

“Epiales. The god of nightmares, the things you don’t want to think about.”

“And what about . . .” I hold my breath a minute. “What about Sebastian?”

Mom smiles. “I’ve met him. He’s your dream guardian.”

“My what?”

“Born when you were. A product of your father’s world. A way to protect you from your nightmares. To keep you safe.”

I think of the times in the hallway of many doors when I chose the wrong door. When I was lost in darkness, chased by monsters and alligators, trapped in small places and unable to breathe. And I remember the voice that comforted me. Always. Calling to me. Telling me the way out.

“I don’t know why your connection is so fierce, so
strong. I suppose it’s a bit like your father and me. But he’s of that world, Iris. He’s an immortal.” Her face grows cloudy. “I can tell you that if you two are determined to be together somehow, it can only mean trouble and a great deal of heartache. I know the pull of that world. Of the gods. I know it all too well. I wish you two weren’t drawn to each other. I want you to have a normal life.”

“Um, Mom . . . maybe you should have thought of that
before
you conceived me with the god of dreams.”

Annie shakes her head. “This is some of the weirdest but coolest stuff I’ve ever heard in my life. To think, my best friend is half goddess.”

Mom eats spaghetti, and I try to absorb what she’s told me. Then Mom stands up and says, “I’ll be right back.”

She walks to her room and returns a few minutes later. She’s holding a business card. She stares down at it and crinkles her nose, as if she’s trying to decide what to do.

“I was hoping, I really was, that you weren’t like me. It’s part of why I never told you all this. Part of why I hid it from Grandma and Grandpa. You know, Grandpa’s guessed some of the connection, but I’ve never really talked about it. Not completely. But
you’ve always known you were different. Haven’t you?”

I nod. My dreams have always felt so real. I remember sitting in the cafeteria while this girl on Annie’s soccer team was blathering on about a dream, and it sounded so . . . boring, flat, even. Not like mine. And now? I think of my ankle. Of the tree trunk. I’m not sure where my dream world ends and the real one begins—or even if there’s a difference for me.

“I was hoping you
could
be normal. Like every other little girl in the world . . . normal. But when you started with your insomnia, I had a feeling you were different. Then, though he hated to upset me, about six months ago your father said you’d been spotted in the Underworld. The Keres chased you out.”

I shiver. “The Keres?”

“Your aunts. Death spirits. Mist. They hunger for human blood and still hover over this world sometimes, searching for dying souls. They are vicious—and very jealous.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

“You are of both worlds. And you don’t realize that you are so, so lovely, while they . . . thirst for death? I don’t know, Iris. I can only guess.”

“What can I do? I don’t know how
not
to go there.
I just . . . go. I don’t know what to do.” And though I don’t say it out loud, part of me doesn’t care if it’s dangerous. I need to see Sebastian again. My head hurts from all of this.

Mom hands me the business card. “You can go see one of your relatives.”

“But you just said my relatives want to kill me.”

“A
different
relative. She left the Underworld. She came to live among humans.”

I look down at the fancy vellum card. It smells faintly of exotic perfume.

A
PHRODITE
M
ATCHMAKING
S
ERVICE

F
IND
Y
OUR
T
RUE
L
OVE
M
ATCH

A
PHRODITE
C
YPRIS
, M
ATCHMAKER TO THE
S
TARS

I look at Mom.

She shakes her head. “Your father and I are doing everything we can to protect you in the Underworld. But the men with mirrored glasses, Epiales, Cerebus . . . Iris, they’re coming here. That man who attacked you and Grandpa is the god of nightmares. And I promise you, Iris”—she shivers slightly—“what he did here is just a hint of what he’s capable of. But go see Aphrodite. She’s also from
the Underworld. She can guide you, Iris. Even better than I can. She can help you. Go see her, please.”

I look down at the business card.

I may have been scared by the man with the evil eyes, but I know that I need to find out more about my father. About who I really am. About Sebastian.

I look at Annie. “You’re coming with me, right?”

She grins. “Like you could keep me away. I mean, I thought it was cool when you maybe had stigmata. This is
way
better.”

8

Much of our waking experience

is but a dream in the daylight.

GEORGE ELIOT

B
y midnight, Mom has fallen back in her Sleeping Beauty state. Annie stays over. Only she actually sleeps, despite three Red Bulls. I toss and turn, and sleep comes in snatches—and I don’t dream, which is almost a relief.

The next day dawns with flurries. Annie and I take the bus into Manhattan, all decked out like a glittering Christmas present, windows wrapped in green and red and tinsel and expensive displays of visions of Christmases past, present, and future, and extravagances Annie and I can only wish for. On street corners Salvation Army Santas ring their bells. Annie and I huddle close to each other as we face into the wind. Then we descend into the warmth beneath the ground and get on the subway. We make
our way all the way out to Queens on the N line, which should take us to the address for Aphrodite Cypris. When we climb the subway steps back up into the cold, I laugh.

“What?”

“Is there any doubt which building is hers?”

I point. A Greek restaurant named Mount Olympus stands in the middle of the block. As we draw closer, I see statues of the Greek gods and colonnades. When we cross the street, I hear Greek music blasting out.

According to the voice-mail message when I tried calling this morning, Aphrodite is on the second floor. The smells from the restaurant are heavenly and make my stomach growl. I now have a craving for a gyro or baklava. Annie and I try the door, but it’s locked. I press the button next to mailbox slots. A voice calls out from the intercom.

“Who
is
it?” It is a woman’s voice, singsongy and high-pitched.

And suddenly, it’s as if my mouth doesn’t work. On the train out to Queens, I had practiced in my head what I was going to say. But now the words are stuck. Exactly who is it ringing the bell? Me, Iris . . . half human, half . . . and I can’t even finish the idea. In fact, the idea, in the light of day, makes me kind of nauseous. She cannot really be
the
Aphrodite any
more than I can be the daughter of Morpheus.

“Who is it?” the voice on the intercom asks more insistently.

Annie leans close to the speaker. “It’s Morpheus’s daughter. Her name is Iris.”

I elbow Annie and stare at her. On the train, as I had rehearsed things, I certainly wasn’t going to blurt
that
out first thing. It seems like the kind of thing you have to warm up to saying out loud.

The intercom is silent for several long moments. We press the button to her apartment again, while the loud Greek music continues to play. My heart sort of sinks in my chest. If Aphrodite won’t see us, then I have no idea where to turn. Except maybe the hypnotherapist. But Aphrodite’s the one I really need. Then we hear a loud buzzing sound, and a click. We try the door, and it opens. Annie and I step inside. I take off my gloves and shove them into my purse. I rub my hands together and blow on them.

“Man,” Annie whispers. “This is
so
tacky.” She unbuttons her coat.

Painted all the way up the hallway is an immense mural. Gods and goddesses frolic on fluffy white clouds.

“Here goes nothing,” I say, and start climbing the stairs, Annie right behind me. When we get to the second-story landing, there’s only one apartment on
the floor. I press the buzzer next to the door. After a moment, the door swings open, and I am face to face with Aphrodite, the goddess of love.

Only she isn’t what I expect at all. Aphrodite is supposed to be beautiful—this incredible womanly goddess no man can resist. And she
is
beautiful. But she’s also . . . well, a big woman. My grandpa would say voluptuous (just his type!). She’s definitely
very
plus size. Her hair is long and brown and lusciously curly. Her face is stunning, with perfect makeup. And she’s blinged out to the max—rhinestone rings and stacks of clinking bracelets and big swingy earrings that shine. She’s dressed in an evening gown—even though it’s ten-thirty in the morning. The gown hugs her curves perfectly. But to be honest, she looks a little crazy.