Sleepless (13 page)

Quickly, I step down, toward the massive in-ground pool, wishing I had someone, anyone, to save me, even …

“Hey, you.”

Even Bret.

“Hi,” I say, relieved, thinking, So what? Being with Bret is definitely better than being completely alone. “Congratulations, Mr. High School Graduate.” I throw a hand onto his chest, not meaning to suggest anything, but he takes it and starts to massage it. He doesn’t speak. He’s just smiling dumbly, swaying to the music, eyes half closed. And that’s when I realize something. He’s not swaying to the music. He’s swaying as in ready to topple over. And his eyes are half closed, as in two steps away from dreamland. He’s falling-down drunk.

“Bret,” I say. “Let’s go sit down.”

“Oh, yeah yeah yeah,” he slurs, pulling me by the wrist. We pass plenty of open lawn chairs, but he keeps tugging me, nearly falling over the side of a miniature wooden bridge into the koi pond below, before leading me into a darkened cabana room. There are two couches, and when I realize they’re both occupied by couples doing things I probably shouldn’t be an audience to, I look away from them, embarrassed. He escorts me toward a mat that’s been set up on the ground, all cozy and covered with pillows. As if he was expecting to take me here. Reluctantly, I follow, then manage to set him down and stand over him. I don’t know what he’s thinking, probably a whole lot of nothing.

“You should just rest here,” I say. I make a move to leave, but then I realize I don’t have anywhere to go.

He reaches up from the pillows and yanks on my hand. “Stay.”

I sigh. “Fine,” I say, and kneel down next to him, trying not to get too close or too comfortable. But he has other plans. He moves in. I shift my body away from his.

“Julia.” He says my name so singsongy, so passionately, I have to laugh. It’s not possible to be that drunk and still be romantic. But he keeps trying. He strokes my face. “You are so gorgeous.”

I squirm away. “Stop, Bret. Just rest.”

“I don’t want to,” he says, his tone changing. Suddenly, he sounds annoyed. “Stop saying that.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I want.” When I see his face in a sliver of light filtering through a cabana window, he looks really pissed, worse than I’ve ever seen him. Then he leans toward me again, going in for a kiss.

“We can’t,” I say, giving his chest a little shove back.

“Why not? Don’t you get it? Griffin and you … never would have worked. He was going away. I’ll be here. We can—”

“I’m going away,” I tell him. “I’m going to the city in two weeks, for the rest of the summer. For the
Architectural Journal
.”

His eyes narrow. “What? I thought you—”

“I know, but I got in. There was a cancellation.”

This is where any ordinary friend would be happy for me. Instead, Bret’s face sinks in misery. That smile—the permanently glued one—has peeled from his face. He looks around haggardly, like he’s trying to find something to throw, and then his eyes focus on me. “You can’t. You
can’t
,” he moans, his voice climbing an octave.

“I’m going to, Bret.”

“Fine! And I’ll be stuck here, in Loserville. Alone.”

He looks at his feet, and I sit there awkwardly. As a good friend, I should be offering him compassion. So I reach over and wrap my arm around him. And that’s when he turns and clamps his wet mouth on mine. This time, it feels exactly like it did in the dream, like a vacuum, sucking me dry. He grabs me by the shoulders and then pushes me back, pinning me against the mat. I’m so shocked that I’m caught breathless as he grinds his body against mine. I try to say something, to scream, but his mouth is on mine and he’s stealing all those words from me. The most I can manage is a muffled “Stop,” but it’s so powerless that it doesn’t have any effect.

At once, the pressure is lifted. I open my eyes, but my sight is blurred. “I believe she asked you to stop,” a voice, edged with authority, says.

An angel? Griffin?

My vision clears, but in the darkness, all I can make out is the outline of Bret, breathing hard. Someone is holding him by the arms. He struggles to release himself, then shakes himself loose from the hold he’s in, spilling his beer. It’s wet between my toes. The other figure pushes him toward the door of the cabana, away from me. I see Bret’s face, white like the moon, in the minimal light, but it’s blank of all understanding of what has just happened. Finally, he mutters, “Jules …,” but he can’t seem to get anything else out. He staggers away, head down, leaving me alone with this stranger.

His frame is smaller than Griffin’s, though he’s just as tall. He moves closer, extends a hand to me. The light streaming through the window casts an aura upon his back, yes, just like an angel.
In the dark, all I can make out is that he’s wearing a suit jacket. He’s very well dressed—too well dressed for a high school graduation party.

I take his hand, and as he pulls me to my feet, he murmurs to me, “Julia, I have a message for you.”

CHAPTER 18
Eron

I
lead Julia out of the cabana. I realize it’s the first time in sixteen years that I’ve ever touched her skin. It feels just as I imagined: warm, smooth. Her fingers are delicate and thin, like flower stems.

She’s still trembling, babbling, trying to smooth down her hair. When we’re in the moonlight, she drops my hand, seeming self-conscious. “Bret’s a good friend of mine,” she explains. “He’s just drunk. I am sure he didn’t realize what he was doing.”

I shake my head. My fists are still clenched. As Mr. Anderson slinks away, I see my stepfather’s cruel face on his body. Mr. Colburn was right. “You do not know what he was thinking.”

She squints at me. “And you do?”

“I—” I begin. “No, I just—” I hold my tongue when I realize I appear more mentally unstable than Bret Anderson.

“But thank you,” she says. “You’re that guy from school yesterday. You have a message for me?”

“Yes,” I say. I’m fairly certain Mr. Colburn is with his
charges, holding up his end of the promise. There is no chance he would have let his best friend take such liberties with his girlfriend without interfering himself had he been watching. So now is the time for me to hold to my promise. “You … you need to be careful. To stay away from people like that.”

“Like I said, he’s my friend.” She wraps her arms around herself and lets out a short laugh. “Was that a message from my mom?”

“No, actually …” I stop before I can get out the words. My mouth knows what to say—
It’s a message from Griffin Colburn
—but my head won’t let me say it. She’s still trembling. I think back to last night, when we were luring her to sleep and she quivered in the same way. Clearly she is in no state to hear this news. Not now. “It’s not exactly a message. It’s more of an observation. Er … you need to be careful.” I feel my face growing hot; this is all too familiar ground that I’m treading on. I sound like a fool, like I always have with women.

“Bret wouldn’t have hurt me,” she repeats.

“He would have,” I mutter, thinking of Mama. She said the same thing about my stepfather.
He may not always act good, but he’s a good man
.

“How do you know? Who are you, anyway? Why is it any business of yours?”

I forget that though I’ve known her since she was an infant, I’m still a stranger to her. This is frightfully awkward. “It’s obvious you need some looking after, if you consider that young man to be a friend.”

She sighs and scans the yard. “It was a mistake coming here. I’ve got to go.”

“Allow me to escort you home,” I offer.

She gives me a sour look. “You could be a serial killer for all I know. I can take care of myself.”

“Oh?” I say, pointing a thumb toward the cabana.

“At least I know Bret.” She studies me. Curse that Harmon for not having suitable attire for me; it puts me at quite the disadvantage. “Are you from the museum or something?”

“No. I’m not from around here.”

“Obviously.” We both turn toward a commotion as someone dives into the pool across the yard, splashing several young ladies, who shriek and scream. Julia turns back to me, her face forlorn, and takes a step backward, toward the gate. “Really, thanks. But no thanks. I’m tired. I’d better be going home.”

I’m not human enough yet to have lost my sense of her needs. She’s so riled up by adrenaline that she’s nowhere near sleep. Still, I don’t think she would be happy if I told her that. “Sleep is very important,” I agree.

She lets out another short laugh. “Are you sure you’re not conspiring with my mom?”

“I do not understand what you are suggesting.”

She mutters, “Sometimes I think she’s not from this planet, either,” and turns away from me. She unlocks the latch on the gate, pushes it open, and slips beyond.

It’s impossible simply to turn away, to forget someone whose life I have valued more than my own for sixteen years. Since I am the one who didn’t believe Mr. Colburn when he said she was in danger, the least I can do is make sure his beloved is returned safely to her bedroom. So I follow at a
distance as she hurries down the street, her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

Several blocks pass. I tread softly in the grass, and she never turns to look back at me, so at first I think that she doesn’t know I’m there. Then, in a streetlight, she stops. She doesn’t turn around, just shouts out at the night sky, “Could you please leave me alone?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you,” I say, walking toward her.

She whirls around, her face blank.

“I want to make sure you return safely home,” I explain. “Where I am from, a gentleman never lets a lady walk alone at night.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Gentleman?”

I catch my breath. Is that an obscure word these days? “Ye-es.”

“Well, I’m almost home,” she says. I know it’s a lie, as I could find her house in a blizzard. Sandmen have a strong tie to the homes of their charges; I feel comfort and security, as from a familiar blanket, whenever I’m near one. I don’t feel it at all now, and I doubt it is because I’m becoming more human, because I felt it strongly only last night.

I can’t very well tell her that, so I say, “I see,” and let her continue. I follow, as before.

A few blocks later, she whirls around again. I see a small light in her hand; it’s her portable telephone. “I have my cell. Nine-one-one is being dialed as we speak.”

“Nine-one-one?” I wonder aloud. Is that a new way of referring to the telephone?

She sticks out her chin. “I am calling the police,” she answers, her face saying,
Perhaps you’ve heard of them?

I hold up my hands. “Oh, no. Please. No need. I’m simply returning to my home as well.”

“Where do you live?”

“Hart Avenue,” I say. It’s not necessarily the truth but it’s not a lie, either. And though I’ve been there only once, I am nearly sure that Hart is in this direction.

“Oh.” She continues on, silent, this time faster. She’s quite athletic and jogging at a steady pace, so I find it difficult to keep up. My muscles ache; they haven’t been tested in such a way in a hundred years. Ten minutes pass. I huff like a locomotive, wondering if I will survive the next few blocks to her home. Then, just when I’m certain she’ll run into her house and shut the door without another word to me, oblivious to my panting and dying on her front lawn, she calls back, “What’s with the strange clothes?”

I smile through my labored breath, pleased to be making progress. “Where I’m from,
you’d
be the one dressed strangely.”

Thank goodness, she slows a bit. “And what planet is that, again?”

“Er. Canada.”

“Canada?” she asks, her brow wrinkling. “Are you here visiting someone?”

“No, I have … relocated here,” I say. “If you can suggest a place of employment, I’m looking for work.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“My previous job was at a textile mill. I was a picker.”

“A picker? What’s that?” she calls back. Then, without
waiting for a response, she says, “You can work in the mall. They’re always hiring.”

“The … mall?”

She stops, turns toward me. “Don’t they have malls in Canada?”

I hope she can’t see how breathless and weak I am from this distance. I shake my head.

She shrugs. “Interesting.” Then she turns back again, and I resume my chase. Finally, at the walk beside her house, she points, as if I don’t have every last shingle and blade of grass outside it memorized. “This is me.”

I nod, and just in time, because when she turns back to me, I feel a twinge. Looking down, I can barely see my hands. My body was twitching and aching so much from the exertion that I didn’t realize I was already beginning to fade. Luckily, it’s too dark for her to notice anything, or else I’m sure her screams would have woken half the neighborhood by now. “Good night, Julia,” I say quickly. “Sleep well.”

She gives me a quick nod and hurries inside. A few minutes later, light floods her bedroom window. I wait a few moments, until I’ve completely faded, then scale the tree. Mr. Colburn is there, at his post, chewing on his lip, watching her. He sees me coming up and offers a hand to hoist me to a nearby branch. “And?” he asks.

I nod. “You were right. About that friend of yours.”

“What?” His voice is ragged. “Did he hurt her?”

“No. But he might have, had I gotten there a moment later.” He’s standing up, getting ready to climb down the tree. “Where are you going?”

“To his house. I’m going to put him to sleep. Forever.”

I grab him by the sleeve of his tuxedo jacket. “You’ll do no such thing. You will surely go to the Last Place.”

“But see? I told you he was no good for her. So you let her know? About me?”

“No,” I say. He whips his head around and focuses on me, jaw tightening. I can tell he doesn’t know how to deal with disappointment; he’s used to getting his way. “I delivered the message. But she has already been through quite an ordeal. I didn’t see how telling her of you would improve things.”

“You don’t get it. It
will
,” he says. “She needs to know I’m there for her.”