Silver is for Secrets (6 page)

“Look at how she‟s staring at me,” Clara says, looking back at Casey‟s ex. “Like it‟s al my fault.”

“Clara,” I demand, nabbing her attention back. “You need to listen to me. What I‟m about to say is going to sound a little crazy.”

“But Stacey can help you,” Drea says. “I mean, she helped me.”

“Oh my god,” Clara says. “Is it something Casey said? Something he told you?”

“It‟s not about Casey,” I say, feeling a chil pass over my shoulders. “At least I don‟t think it is.”

Clara cocks her head like I‟ve confused her even more.

“It‟s about you,” I say, taking a giant breath. “I had a nightmare about you.”

“Excuse me?” Her eyebrows arch as though I‟ve caught her off guard—as though she‟s stuck somewhere between surprised and confused.

“You need to trust Stacey,” Drea says. “I know this sounds crazy, but she sees things in her dreams—her nightmares—and the stuff comes true. It happened a couple years ago with me. Stacey was having nightmares that some guy was going to try and kill me. And the nightmares came true.”

“But you‟re stil sitting here.”

“Because of Stacey,” Drea continues. “Because she was able to predict the future before it happened—so we could stop it.”

“Right,” Clara says. She‟s nodding her head, looking back and forth at the two of us, probably wondering who‟s more crazy.

“Just hear me out,” I say. “Please.”

She folds her arms and looks away, toward Casey‟s ex again, now sitting at one of the picnic tables. She and her friend notice Clara and start talking amongst themselves, letting out a couple obnoxious squeals loud enough for us to hear.

They look back over at us and Clara looks away.

“Clara,” I say, “are you listening to me?”

“Sure.” She giggles. “You were saying something about your nightmares?” I nibble the inside of my cheek, wondering how I can put this, how I can soften it in some way. But then I just say it: “You‟re in trouble. Serious trouble.” Clara nods at me, biting down on her lower lip, as though she‟s holding in a laugh.

“It‟s not a joke,” I say. “Has everything in your life been going normal?”

“Normal?”

“I mean, has anything different happened to you?”

“Different how?”

I shake my head, trying to think of something else to say, something that might lead me to an answer. “Is there something you don‟t want to tel anyone?”

“Like what?” She laughs.

“I don‟t know,” I say, remembering the voice in my dream. “Is there something you don‟t want other people to know?”

I feel stupid even asking these questions—like she‟d ever tel me, a complete stranger, her most intimate secrets. I take a deep breath, thinking how my grandmother always knew how to ask just the right questions, how none of her questions were ever too pointed, and how they always encouraged the fullest, most telling answers—like she was able to sense what people wanted to talk about. So why can‟t I do the same?

“It‟s real y no big deal,” Clara says. “I sometimes have creepy nightmares, too.

But nothing freaky happens. It was probably just like that.”

“No,” I say, “it‟s different for me. My nightmares come true.”

“Why don‟t you tel Clara what she was doing in your nightmare,” Drea suggests.

“You know, like, was she running? Was she hiding? Was she doing anything unusual or significant?”

“Wel ,” I grimace, “I didn‟t exactly see her in my nightmare.”

“Um,
what?”
Drea‟s mouth fal s open.

I sigh, completely frustrated with myself, with how I sound. “I know it doesn‟t make sense. But you have to trust me. I heard Clara‟s voice in my dream; I‟m sure of it.”

“And what did my voice say?” Clara asks.

“You told me not to tel anyone.” I wait a couple moments for her response, to see if the words from my nightmare might conjure up some memory—inspire her to tell me something significant. But she looks completely dumfounded—her mouth hanging open, as though waiting for me to finish my thought.

“I told you not to tel anyone
what?
” she asks.

“That‟s just it,” I say. “I don‟t know.”

“Wow,” she says, with a giggle, as though I‟m certifiably whacko. “That‟s real y weird. I don‟t know what to say.”

“Look,” I say, leaning in closer, “something significant is going to happen to you

—something that might be . . . not exactly good. So, if it‟s okay with you—even if it isn‟t okay with you—I‟m going to be looking out for you.”

“Sounds great,” she beams. “I mean, it‟l be fun to hang out; it can get pretty dull around here.”

“Onion ring, anyone?” Amber interrupts the awkward moment, smacking her tray down on the table. It‟s piled high with just about every artery-clogging snack the strip joint must be serving up today—fried clams, onion rings, a couple hot dogs, and four super-sized Chocoliciouses. “Couldn‟t decide what to eat, so I just figured I‟d order one of al my craves.” She sets the frappes down in front of us. “So what did I miss?”

“Stacey was just trying to explain to Clara about her nightmares, how they come true.”

“Yeah,” Amber says, pointing at Clara with an onion ring. “So, you gotta listen to her or else you‟l end up fertilizing dandelions.”

“Amber—” I snap.

“So much for the queen of ease.” Drea sighs.

“Try one of these, wil you?” Amber says, completely oblivious to her lack of subtlety. She stuffs her mouth ful of fried clam. “They seem a little sandy to me.” Clara grabs one and starts chewing away. I can‟t tel if she‟s nervous or hungry or merely looking for a diversion.

“So what do you think?” Amber asks.

“About the clams?” Clara asks.

“About everything.”

“I vote not to think.” She grabs another clam strip.

“Final y,” Amber says, “someone who sees things the same way I do.”

“A scary thought,” Drea says, taking an onion ring.

I dive in to the greasy treats as well. Perhaps we could all use a little thoughtless diversion—for at least a little while anyway.

When I get back to the cottage, Jacob is in the kitchen unpacking grocery bags.

“Hi,” I say, shutting the door behind me.

He pauses from unpacking, a bunch of fresh carrots dangling from his grip. “Are you al right?”

I shrug.

“Where is everybody?” he asks.

“Amber and Drea decided to go for a swim, and I think I might have seen Chad and PJ playing volleyball with some of the frat guys from next door. How come you‟re not out, too?” I ask. “The water‟s seventy degrees—practically spa conditions.”

“Didn‟t feel like it.” He comes around the side of the counter to greet me. He takes my hands, nuzzles his forehead against mine, and looks straight into my eyes—all of which under normal circumstances would turn my knees to absolute jel y. But today I‟m feeling oppressively rigid. “It‟s just you and me.”

“Yeah,” I say, managing a smile.

“What‟s wrong?”

“Where do I begin?”

“I take it you talked to Clara,” he says.

“That‟s just a fraction of my freak-show morning.”

“What do you mean?”

I proceed to tell him about my accidental encounter with the creepy photographer guy from next door and then I segue into my conversation-turned-pigout-fest with Clara. “She probably thinks I‟m crazy.”

“It doesn‟t real y matter what she thinks,” he says. “Al that matters is you‟re going to help her.”

“I know.”

“Then what?”

“I guess I‟m just feeling real y stressed.”

Jacob folds me up into his arms where it feels safe, and kisses my ear, and whispers that everything wil be okay, that we‟l get through this together. And I know that should make me feel better, but for some reason his super self-confidence is completely bugging me.

“Just promise me one thing,” he says. “No more breaking into the darkrooms of creepy photographers, you hear me? At least not without me by your side.”

“Deal,” I say, breaking the embrace. “I think maybe I just need to lie down for a bit.”

“Want some company?”

I shake my head.

“Wel , can I at least make you some iced tea?”

More head shaking, even though the thought of raspberry tea over ice sounds so completely heavenly right now. “I just want to take a nap.” I give Jacob an icy peck on the lips and head into the bedroom, feeling the windchill off my back plummet the temperature in the room from eighty degrees to ten below zero.

I close the bedroom door and press my back up against it, feeling like I‟ve plucked the Queen B crown right off Drea‟s head and propped it high atop mine.

That‟s when I notice the cream-colored vase by my bed and the thick bunch of fresh white lilacs gathered inside, making me feel even worse.

I‟m just about to turn and go back into the kitchen, to serve Jacob my special of the day—grovel cake, complete with two cups of apology and a half-dozen kisses

—when I hear a knock at the door. I turn to open it.

It‟s Jacob. He‟s balancing a tray in one hand, waiter-style. He comes into the room and sets the tray down on my night table, a tall frosted glass of raspberry tea perched in the center. “I had a feeling you might want some anyway.”

“You know me way too wel .” I wrap my arms around him and kiss his neck, wanting more than anything to whisper into his ear how much he means to me, how much I truly, madly love him. But instead I just say, “Thank you for the flowers.

They‟re beautiful.”

“Not to mention a certain person‟s favorite brand of cookies.” I look down at the plate of Mallomars and topple him over the bed, planting not six, not seven, but at least
ten
whopping kisses across his lips, topping them off with a feature-film-worthy make-out scene.

“Wow,” he says, when the kisses break. “I should have brought you tea and cookies ages ago. What‟l I get if I bring you a hot fudge sundae?”

“Very funny,” I say, sitting up. Aside from the tea and cookies, he‟s also brought a couple bottles of oil extracts. “Lemongrass and jasmine?”

“So your dreams wil be more tel ing.” He pours a few droplets from both bottles onto a ceramic dish and then dabs his fingers into the mixture. He rubs the oils onto my forehead, behind my ears, and at both sides of my neck. It smells sweet, like flowers and syrup, like freshly picked fruit. His fingers are warm on my skin.

They draw upward over my throat and then cup my chin. Jacob kisses me—a full, long kiss that turns my insides to a warm and sugary paste, like honey. “Sweet dreams,” he whispers, getting up to leave.

“No,” I say. “Stay. You‟l help me fal asleep.”

“Just what every guy wants to hear.”

“You know what I mean.” I get up from the bed and pul a suitcase from the back of my closet. The suitcase is full of all my spell supplies. I take out a stick of jasmine incense—coupled with the jasmine oil, it‟s sure to help me focus better in my dreams. I also take out a spool of yellow thread, a thin, plum-colored candle to help dispel confusion, a candleholder, and a jar of rainwater I‟ve been saving.

I light the incense and set it down on its holder. The smoke rises up in puffy, grayish swirls. I breathe it in and close my eyes, mentally preparing myself for traveling in my dreams, trying to picture something that reminds me of sleep. I imagine the rain coming down outside my window, even though it‟s sunny out; I imagine it warm and runny on my skin, bathing me, preparing me for the most delicious sleep. I open my eyes and charge the rest of the ingredients by passing them three times through the incense smoke. Then I cut a long piece of thread from the spool and dunk it into the rainwater. “This water‟s been bathed in three ful moon cycles,” I tel Jacob. “I‟ve been saving it for something important.”

“Where did you learn this spel ?” he asks.

“I got it out of there.” I gesture to my family scrapbook, taking up a huge part of my suitcase. It‟s old and tattered and at least six inches thick. My grandmother gave me the scrapbook just before she passed away. It‟s basical y this mishmash of stuff—spells, home remedies, bits of poetry, and favorite recipes—all written by people in my family before me, those like me who have the gift of insight.

I flip the book open and show Jacob the spel we‟re doing—a spell written by my great-great grandmother to unbind secrets. I‟m thinking that since the voice in my dream—Clara‟s voice—told me not to tell anyone, that there must be some dark, obstructive secret underlying this whole thing.

I stir the piece of thread three times clockwise in the rainwater, concentrating on the color yellow for clarity, making sure it gets thoroughly submerged. Then I take it out and run my fingers down its length, a few droplets of water falling back into the jar. Meanwhile, Jacob charges the candle with the jasmine and lemongrass oils.

His fingers fully saturated with both, he traces along the candle stem from north to south, west to east, and then he places the candle down in the holder on my night table.

“So now what?” he asks.

I take the thread and tie my first knot in it. “I need to tie as many knots as I have questions—as I want my dreams to answer.”

“And what‟s the first question?”

“I want to know what Clara‟s secret is. And my second,” I say, tying another knot,

“is why I can‟t tel anyone.” I tie a couple more knots, wondering how and if she‟d really make me pay if I told anyone her secret. And then a couple knots more for the blood—for why my nose is bleeding and if it has anything to do with Clara‟s secret.

I wind the knotted thread around the plum-colored candle and then light the wick, extinguishing the wooden match with a snuffer so as not to confuse the energies in the room. “As clear as water and as loud as rain,” I say, “may these secrets burn down as quick as a flame. For all that is hidden and all left untold, may you trust me enough to let these secrets unfold. Blessed be the way.”

“Blessed be,” Jacob repeats.

We snuggle up together on my bed, taking turns sipping the raspberry tea, eating a couple of the cookies, and watching the candle as it burns its way down through each knot.

It‟s dark, probably wel past midnight, and I can‟t seem to stop shaking. I‟m sitting alone on the beach, the chilling ocean air slicing right through me, sending shivers all over my skin. As each rain droplet hits against my body, it turns to ice and rolls off me, leaving a welt. In the distance, I can see the shadow of someone walking along the water. I squint to try and make out the figure. At first it looks like Clara. I can make out the sarong—a coral color, I think. It‟s wrapped tightly about her waist.