Riley Bloom Dreamland (5 page)

I was green. He was yellow. So clearly he’d been Here longer. You could tell just by looking.

I smiled in return. Furtively looking over his shoulder for the friend he’d been with the last time I’d seen him—the one who was reluctant to share much of anything. And, as fate

would

have

it,

he

wasn’t

there—something I took as another good sign.

“So, you find it?” Mort asked, taking his place at the front of the line when a cubicle was vacated and the person before him went in.

I shook my head, careful to keep my voice lower than usual when I said, “Or at least not yet, anyway.”

Mort looked me over, his two bushy brows merging together until they looked like an overfed caterpillar had collapsed on his forehead.

“Do you think you could help? Or maybe even show me where it is? I mean, I know you’re busy and all, and I’m willing to wait. I was just hoping that maybe—”

But before I could finish, another stall was vacated and a loud voice called, “Next!” Mort’s hands grew antsy, curling and un-curling by his sides, clearly eager to get inside the cubicle, observe his old life.

And knowing I had only a handful of seconds before I lost him completely, I said,

“I-just-thought-you-could-maybe-point-me-in-the-right-direction?” The words coming so quickly, they all blurred as one.

He wavered, glancing between the cubicle and me. And just when I was sure that I’d lost him, that he’d decided against me, he sighed, waved in the person behind him, and said, “Guess you got an important message to share, eh?”

I nodded. Even though I had no idea what that message might be, I knew that if I wanted his help, if I wanted to get to the place where the dreams go to happen, it was better to keep that fact to myself.

He screwed his mouth to the side, causing his cheek to stretch and the wrinkles to flatten and fade. Returning to normal again when his lips dropped back into place, and he said, “I’ve got a granddaughter your age—name’s Daisy. What’re you—ten?” I groaned. Like, seriously groaned. I didn’t even try to stifle it. He’d insulted me in the very worst way.

But Mort just laughed. Laughed for so long I was more than ready to cut my losses and strike out on my own, when he finally sobered up enough to say, “You sure you want to do this?”

I thought about my sister and how much I missed her.

I thought about seeing Bodhi with Jasmine and the way it made me feel.

And when my eyes met Mort’s, well that’s when I knew that Bodhi had lied. The place where all the dreams happen wasn’t forbidden—Bodhi was just doing his best to kill all my fun.

“Yeah, I’d really like to visit,” I said, my voice deep and serious. “Will you help me find it?”

Mort glanced around the Viewing Room, rubbed his chin with a surprisingly well-manicured hand, then a moment later, he headed for the door. Holding it open and motioning for me to go through as he said,

“After you, then.”

7

A
s it turned out, Mort wasn’t nearly as charmed with the concept of flying as Buttercup and I were.

Mort was old-school.

Other than the occasional trip to the Viewing Room and the area where the dreams all take place, it seemed he worked pretty hard to keep to a life that was very similar to the one he’d lived back on the earth plane. And since he was the only one I knew who could help me to get there, I had no choice but to do it his way. Which pretty much meant that we hitched a ride on the train.

We settled onto our seats, Buttercup and me on one side, Mort on the other, and we’d only gone a bit down the tracks when he started telling me all about Daisy, his granddaughter.

I nodded. Smiled. Listened as intently as I could, making sure to laugh in all the right places. And even though she sounded really nice and sweet, like someone I might like to know if it wasn’t too late—if I wasn’t already dead—I still have to say that, for the record, she didn’t sound the slightest bit like me.

For starters, the music she liked, well, it was kind of embarrassing.

And don’t even get me started on her favorite TV shows and movies.

Still, it was clear that Mort missed her.

And because of it, because I was somewhat close to her age, he was determined to find a connection that, to be honest, just wasn’t there.

“So, do you ever visit her in her dreams?” I asked, trying to stay somewhat on topic, while steering it in a direction that was much closer to my own interests.

He nodded, mumbling, “All the time,” as he gazed out the window. Eyes narrowing as though he could actually make out the scenery, even though whenever I looked all I could get was a fuzzy, gray blur. “Kids are very receptive to that sort of thing,” he said.

“And Daisy’s no different. When she was younger, just a baby, I used to skip the dreams altogether and pop in for a visit instead. I used to sing to her, read her stories in her crib—we had ourselves a great time.” He laughed, gaze far away as though viewing it again in his head. “And then later, when she could talk, she used to tell her mom—my daughter Delilah—she used to tell her that Grampy had just stopped by. That’s what she called me, Grampy. Though of course her mom didn’t believe her. Adults never do.” He shook his head. “They’re too skeptical. Too close-minded. Think they’ve got it all figured out—that they know all there is. Heck, I was the same way … or at least I was until I found myself Here.” He laughed again and looked away.

“So, you’re allowed to do that? Drop in for an actual visit, I mean?” I frowned, that was certainly news to me. So far my only visits had been for Soul Catching, and a vacation that turned into Soul Catching. I didn’t think we could just drop in whenever we pleased.

But Mort, sensing my growing excitement, was quick to correct me. His expression gone suddenly careful, guarded, he said, “Now don’t go getting any ideas.” He shot me a stern look. “That was all a while ago. Way back before I knew any better. While nothing’s exactly forbidden per se … well, that kind of thing, those earth plane visits, they’re not exactly encouraged either. Besides, all it usually amounts to is a big waste of time.

Other than dogs and little kids, most people can’t see us.”

He went on and on, but I was no longer listening. I was still stuck on the part when he said nothing was forbidden.

Was it true?

Could it possibly be?

And if so, does that mean Bodhi had lied
to me?

“See, the thing is,” Mort continued, his voice pitching louder, invading my thoughts.

“They don’t want us interfering too much.

Each soul, each person, has to find their own way—learn their own lessons. And let’s face it, most people only learn the hard way. No one ever volunteers for change. Even when the situation they’re in makes them unhappy, most people would rather stick with the unhappy they know, than take a chance on something unknown. And I’ll tell ya from experience that it’s not an easy thing to watch. But, in the end, it’s all for the best. It’s all those rough bits that make us stronger.

The tough stuff makes us grow and mature.

Which is why you can’t go around protecting everyone from the world that they live in.

You have to let them learn to navigate it all on their own. If you interfere, if you don’t let them find their own way, you’ll stunt them, keep them from learning, progressing. And I’ll tell you right now, that sort of thing leads to no good.”

I nodded as though I understood every word, as though I agreed wholeheartedly.

Though, the truth is, my gaze was unsteady, unfocused, as a blur of thoughts and images swirled through my head.

“And, as you’ll soon see, they’re very careful to regulate that sort of well-intentioned interference when it comes to dream visita-tions. Though there are ways to get around it, the truth is, it’s rarely worth the bother. It requires loads of complicated symbolism, and for the most part, people either can’t remember it, or worse, they muck it all up when they try to interpret it. I gave all that up a while ago. It just got too frustrating.

Now I just pop in when I can, try to send a little comfort and love, and leave it at that.”

“And does it work?” I asked, remembering what I overheard Mort saying to his friend the first time I saw them. How he often visited his grieving wife in her dreams, wanting her to know he was A-okay. But the moment she woke up, she shrugged it off—convinced herself it wasn’t real. Just something her brain cooked up to make her feel good.

I looked at him, waiting for an answer, but then the train came to a halt, the doors sprang wide open, and Mort looked at me and said, “This is it. Dreamland. We’re here.”

8

I
t probably doesn’t make much sense to say:

“It’s not what I thought it would be,” about a place you never really thought about before.

And yet, those were the first words that sprang to mind when I gazed upon the big, sparkly, half moon–shaped sign that read: WELCOME TO DREAMLAND.

It wasn’t at all like I’d thought.

I guess I was expecting it to be more like a movie theater. A big dark room full of chairs with cup holders punched into the arms, and a large, wide screen projecting all kinds of crazy, mixed-up images that somehow found their way to the dreamer.

But instead, I was greeted by a tall iron gate and a glass-enclosed guardhouse with a very serious-looking guard who studied us closely.

Mort made his way forward, said a quick and friendly hello, then patiently waited, thumbs hitched into his belt loops, humming an unfamiliar tune, as the guard gave him a thorough once-over. Tapping the tip of his pointy red pen along the edge of a long sheet of paper until he found what he was looking for, placed a thick check mark beside it, then shot Mort another stern look as he waved him right in. And even though Buttercup and I were quick on Mort’s heels, hoping to sneak in alongside him, it seems Buttercup was quicker than I was.

The second my foot tried to sneak its way in, the gate slammed closed before me, as the guard glared and said, “State your name and your business, please.”

I gulped, gazed longingly at my friends who were standing where I needed to be, mumbling a quick: “Uh, my name is Riley Bloom.” Trying my best not to fiddle with my fingers, chew my hair, twitch my knee, or engage in any other kind of nervous giveaway as I watched him flick his pen down the long sheet of paper. “As for my business …” I arranged my face into what I hoped resembled a pleasant smile, thinking a little friendliness might help speed things along. “Well, I’m hoping to send someone a dream.”

Mort gasped, wheezed, cleared his throat in a way that was so much louder than necessary. And when my eyes found his, I knew just what he was up to—he was trying to di-vert the attention from me.

Although it may have seemed as though I hadn’t really said much of anything, apparently what I had said was enough to keep me from entering.

But it was too late. The guard had already narrowed his eyes, was already in the middle of saying, “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

He leaned forward, pressing toward me in a way that, well, had I still been alive would’ve made me blush crimson. Though, as it was, I just stood there all bug-eyed and mute, replaying my words, unable to pinpoint just where I’d failed.

I glanced at Mort, hoping he could help, but from the resigned look in his eyes, I was all on my own.

“Um, what I meant was that I’m here to send someone a dream.” Already cringing well before the words were all out. Seeing the guard’s mouth go all twisty and grim, as Mort just sighed and covered his face with his hands. “I mean, maybe I’m not familiar with the lingo, maybe I don’t know all the correct terms, but all I want to do is …”
Dream visitation. Tell him you’re here for
a dream visitation!

Although it seemed like the thought just randomly popped into my head, I knew there was nothing random about it. Not even close.

The words came with Mort’s unmistakable East Coast accent. It wasn’t so much a telepathic message, as an order I’d better seriously follow if I wanted to be on the same side of the gate as Buttercup and him.

“I just want to, uh, visit someone in a dream,” I said, holding the smile that was growing so stiff it made my cheeks sting.

“You know, like a dream visitation, that’s all.”

The guard looked at me, his face still stern.

Holding his silence for so long, I was just about to cut my losses and leave, when he said, “So why didn’t you say so?” He shook his head, scribbled my name at the bottom of his list before placing a fat red check mark beside it. “And just so you know, for the record, we don’t
create
dreams here, young lady.
Dreamweaving
hasn’t taken place for

…” He frowned, gazed into the distance as though studying an invisible calendar only he could see. “Well … let’s just say it’s no longer done. Though, if you’re interested in a
dream jump,
well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He smiled brightly, his eyes shining, his cheeks widening—the change so dramatic, so startling, he looked like an entirely different person. “Only a few hours ’til closing though. Not sure if they’ll get to you today. But just in case, you better wear this.” He slid me a badge that I immediately attached to my tee. The gate opened before me as I wondered how a place like this could actually close, when back home on the earth plane, people were dreaming in all different time zones. Loads of people heading for sleep just as a whole other load were starting their day. But knowing better than to push it, I decided to just shrug and smile and add it to the long list of things that didn’t make any sense.

No sooner was I safely inside, when a heavily accented voice said, “
Gah!
Who
is
this wonder? What is this vision I see here before me?”

I turned toward the voice, curious to see whom it belonged to. Noticing the way Mort stepped quickly aside, his face full of awe, as he made way for a short, rotund man with a wispy goatee and dark glossy hair that appeared solid black, aside from the thick white skunk stripe that fell down the front.