Unquiet Dreams (16 page)

Michael squeezed Mr. Duck, who emitted a mooing sound and a whoosh of water, but he did not immediately answer.

"Where did the blood come from?"

He sighed and looked up at her. His sad little face! Betty wanted so badly to apprehend the peril he faced, even though her heart cringed and a part of her head said for the umpteenth time that he's just too sensitive.

"It was their blood."

"The girls?"

"Maybe their mom too. I don't think—I don't think," he sighed again and held Mr. Duck's protesting body under water, "that their dad used it on himself. I think he used a gun. BLAM!" The rubber duck popped out of the water and Betty stifled a scream while her heart hammered. Michael looked back down at his hands, spread through the bubbles of his bathwater. "You don't believe me."

It stung more than her self-recriminations had. "I—I'm trying, honey. It can still be a dream even though it seems very real—"

"But can they hurt me?" His fear was naked, elemental. Save me, mommy, make everything okay.

"No, Michael, they can't hurt you." Could he see her fear? Feel her waver? "I think, I think that maybe they can convince you to hurt yourself while you're…sleepwalking or whatever it is when you can see them. That's why I was so…worried last night. I thought you might have hurt yourself."

"But they can't hurt me?" A thousand woodland creatures gazed through that pair of brown eyes, frightened, unable to comprehend the world and its dangers.

Betty reached through the suds for the sponge and squeezed warm water over her son's back. "No, Michael," and her mind snapped shut on the possibilities, scooted them under the dark corners in the back and closed a lid. "They can't hurt you, I'm sure of it." I have to be.

***

"You're only dreams," Michael stated with more courage than he felt.

"No," the little girls corrected him, "We are ghosts."

"My mother said you were only dreams and you can't hurt me." He gripped Puff's paw, feeling a flush of frustration.

"We know what we are. What makes you think your mother knows so much?" the older sister added with a superior smirk.

"My mom knows a lot!"

"I think she's just scared of us."

"No she's not," Michael parried weakly. He wanted to take Puff and go back to bed and sleep without dreams and be far, far away.

"Our mother knew a lot too. It didn't stop our daddy from killing her."

"Where is your daddy now?"

The two looked up. "He's asleep."

"Ghosts sleep too?" Michael forgot his denial.

"Sort of. It's not really like sleep. It's just there's nothing to do. If you came here, we could play."

Michael rested Puff under his chin. "What?"

"All kinds of things. We want new games, we're tired of our games. You could bring your sister too," added the younger girl, who was immediately silenced by a quick elbow to her stomach. "No girls!" her sister hissed.

"You want me to come into the wall with you?"

"Just for a little while," they wheedled.

"And if I don't like it—"

"You can leave." They smiled eagerly.

"Can I bring Puff?" Almost hoping they would say no, so he could as well.

"Sure!" Their little white hands slipped out from the wall, beckoning. "Just take our hands and close your eyes. It might hurt a little tiny bit, but it will be over really quick…"

Michael jammed Puff under his elbow and let his hands be grasped by the cold white ones. They can't hurt me, he thought, and took a big breath to balloon his cheeks out, then nodded. The cold fingers grabbed him and pulled him into the wall, peeling his skin away.
Oh Puff
, I'm so sorry.

***

Betty jerked awake, pulled from fitful dreams. It was a scream, she was sure of it. Hastily she swung her legs over the side and shuffled, still dazed, to Michael's room, calling his name in a stage whisper. He and Puff were gone, leaving behind the tangled bedclothes of a restless night. To be sure, Betty crouched down to look under the bed then crossed to the closet, opening the door slowly in case she might frighten the boy within, but he was not there.

He was not in his sister's room either or the bathroom. Betty sighed and turned toward the stairs, her steps hastening when she saw the light from the kitchen, her pace doubling when she smelled the pungent, almost tangy scent of blood. But even when her eyes fell upon him she could not believe, could not accept, it just wasn't possible, and she could not believe what wasn't possible, even as she cradled his body, sobbing, sobbing holding him now as he had held Puff, hoping there was some way—

***

Michael spent a long time chasing after his new playmates. He was furious. Not only had it hurt, but they had lied. His mommy was crying and holding him, what was left of him, the part not in the walls. And they were laughing. This was a thousand times worse than Elaine's teasing; she always gave up when he started to cry. These two laughed and laughed and then ran away and he chased them with Puff, striking out wildly with the rabbit but it was no good. They could push him away and trip him coming around corners, but he couldn't feel them, his hands went right through. He chased them till he was dizzy, but it did no good.

Michael returned to the kitchen wall. His mom was still there, but now his daddy was too, looking very serious, and a lot of police officers had come. One of them was trying to make his mom let go of him. Michael pressed his face to the wall and shrieked with all his might. His mommy's head bobbed up and looked right at him. He waved frantically. Her eyes blinked. "Mommy! Mommy!" She dropped his body and tore at the wallpaper with her nails. Her mouth opened as she called his name over and over, but two police officers came and took her away, wrapping her in a blanket. His daddy frowned and ran his hand through his hair and went with the other officers into the living room.

Michael buried his head in Puff's side and cried himself to sleep.

***

"Elaine! Elaine!" His sister was snoring as usual. "Elaine! Wake up!" A snort, a muffled exclamation and Elaine was sitting up in bed, blinking.

"Michael?"

"Elaine. I'm here!"

"Michael, you're dead. Daddy told me. We're having a funeral for you on Saturday. I get to wear a hat." She yawned and prepared to go back to sleep.

"Elaine, you have to help me!"

"Where are you anyway? I can't see you."

"I'm—I'm kind of a ghost."

"You're not a ghost. That's make-believe."

"I'm a ghost, and I don't want to be."

"Mommy killed you because she was over—" Elaine thought carefully, "Over ought. Too much strain. She ought not have done it. Now they've taken her away."

"Mommy didn't kill me! It was the people who lived here before!"

"You didn't even know those people."

"They're ghosts and they tricked me and killed me I guess, but I think I could get out if—"

"There's no such thing as ghosts, I already told you."

"But they're right here! Say something," he turned to his companions, but they were giggling through their hands and refused to say anything at all. "Say something!" Elaine sighed. "Well, I'm a ghost, and you can hear me!"

"You're a dream. Tomorrow when I wake up I won't remember any of this. Good-night, Michael."

"But—" He had to think. "We can get mommy back if you can bring me back, and then I can prove she didn't kill me, because I'll be alive."

Elaine rolled over. "Monica has a new mom who lets her wear lip gloss. Maybe if I get a new mom, she'll let me wear make-up now instead of waiting till I'm twelve."

"But, mommy . . ."

"Maybe I'll get a new brother too. One that's not so creepy. Good-bye Michael. Happy Halloween, ghost."

Michael stared at her. She began snoring again almost immediately.

"We told you so," said his new sisters.

He nodded dumbly.

"C'mon, let's go show you to papa!"

 

 

She should never have said it, not even silently. And after the police and the confusion and the onlookers were gone, she could only berate herself over and over—and look at the small life in her arms and dully wonder where her son was now.

If only he hadn't been so fussy and cranky today—why today? Errands to run, grocery shopping (still not done) and then there was the whole brain-wracking about what to get Auntie Ruth; on any other day, she might not have lost her temper, might not have wished—

But what good did it do? He was gone. All the fuss and fluster was for nothing. A little man with eyes the color of a storm brewing gazed up at her, silently smirking. She wanted to dash him against the hard black pavement to wipe that knowing smile off his face. But that would just confirm what the police and the manager and the women who had been so concerned, at first, believed; that she was crazy, that she was a danger to her baby boy, that some kind of authorities ought to be called.

She argued, of course. All the time the officers were asking her for identification, she tried to explain what had happened, holding the hideous thing aloft, until she caught sight of their reflection in the display window. It was Bobby. At once she drew in the child; no, it was not. She turned him to the window. It was Bobby. But only in the glass. "Bobby?" she had whispered uncertainly, the hope and understanding gone from her voice.

"Are you okay now, ma'am?" the officer had asked, wanting to get onto the next crisis and away from this unmotherly woman. She had nodded, unsure as to what she should do but finally aware that no one else saw what she did. A sudden blush rose up her cheeks, displacing the blotchy rash of terror. She turned away, cradling the child as distantly as possible, her steps gradually quickening. Certainly that was Muriel Peake in the back by the Romance section (of course). Undoubtedly the other members of the Unitarian Ladies' Bridge Club would feast on the tale this afternoon, including her own mother. She nearly bumped into an elderly woman in her rush to go out the front door, which forced her to hug the thing closer to her and to smell at once its sharp, woodsy breath. It smiled. The old woman smiled. She too attempted to stretch her lips into an approximation of a smile. "What a lovely baby," the elderly lady cooed. She fled into the lot.

After she had strapped the thing into the car-seat with instinctive care, she sat thoughtfully, fingering the hole in the arm of her sweater. What on earth should she do? How could she get Bobby back and this repulsive thing away? How did it happen anyway? Things like this just don't happen? A wish—only a wish; what was that they say—be careful what you wish for, because you may get it. But she hadn't meant it! It wasn't really a wish, just that momentary irritation that surely all mothers feel sometimes, even the very best of mothers. If only she hadn't overslept, if only she hadn't burnt the toast, if only she called the hardware store before she left and found out they didn't have the gaskets in the size she needed, if only she hadn't decided Auntie Ruth would probably love an Indian cookbook—but it was no good reciting a novena of "if-onlys." The day had been cursed and she along with it. She did come to the bookstore, she did have to change him, he was crabby and cross and she did wish—was it even out-loud?—that trolls would come and take him away.

But she felt a gaze upon her, and not just the gruesome child-thing's, so she turned the key and backed out of the space, her jaw set, her eyes clouding. The drive home was only seven blocks. As her trusty old Honda chugged along, though, the moment played over and over and over: the wish, the glance down to pick up the diaper, and the change. The tiny sense of wonder was immediately supplanted by her shock and anger. She did not even realize she was screaming until the other women gathered round her in the big bathroom stall, crows to the scene of alarm. At first they were so kind; mothers all, in one way or another. But as she hiccupped the story out through her tears, concern gave way to horror and repulsion not toward the grotesque little troll lying there, but toward her. "I am not psychotic," she muttered, turning up into the driveway to her building, but in the back of her brain grew a cold filament of fear.

She stopped, her hand still on the key, and looked at the ugly creature strapped into her baby's seat. She felt only blame and a bruising self-hatred. It should really be the eleventh commandment: Thou shalt not wish for things you don't really want. The being's evil sneer stretched almost imperceptibly. She hated it. Just as surely, she knew she loved her Bobby and that she would not let the trolls take him away from her, and even if it was her own fault, well, then it was her duty to get him back. She pulled down the blanket to shield the ghastly grinning face from her view and turned the key in the ignition once more. She had to go back, back to the Baby Changing Station.

 

 

I live in a secret place by the river and the pines and I am dead. At least I know I can't be alive. I have seen my body many times and have watched it rot slowly in the damp darkness of the rock hollow where it lies still, only bones now.

Some boys I know did it. I should have known they were up to something; my thoughts were softened by a five-dollar bill. My mind saw only the paperbacks I could buy at the Book Exchange, not what made that pissy Brian O'Donoghue willing to give me so much money when I knew that he hated me. And then the long walk through the woods to here. I never saw who brained me with that first rock. Probably Brian; it was his idea of course, these things always were. He didn't know that I knew he was following me home for weeks before. I was starting to think that he liked me. I was pretty stupid.

But for some reason, I don't really feel mad at them about it. I don't know why. I should be pissed. They were always mean to me. School was awful; I couldn't wait to go home and read. If I hid up in the attic I couldn't even hear Mom and Jim fighting like they did every night. You'd think they'd get bored. I don't even think of them too much. Not like I'd miss them; but I kind of expected that I'd blame them too for me getting killed because they never looked out for me. But it doesn't matter.