How can it hurt this much? I only used the drug once. No wonder my brothers went back to Jas and asked for more. No wonder Pete couldn’t convince my brothers to stop.
Suddenly, I’m breathtakingly, teeth-chatteringly cold. This is what people mean when they say their blood runs cold. This is a cold that’s coming from inside of me, as though my very bones are turning to ice. I burrow under my covers, an animal hibernating her way through the cold winter.
But my sleep is fitful, and when I dream it is always, always of Kensington. I see Belle on the water, flying over a wave as though she has wings—sometimes she does have wings—and soon I can’t remember whether I ever did see her surf or just dreamed I did. She’s so tiny, after all; surely if she’d tried to surf, the ocean would have swallowed her whole. Like they say it did my brothers.
I dream of—or do I simply remember?—sitting on the handlebars of a bike as it flies down a hill, slipping inside a mansion door. That must have been a dream. I would never have done that in real life.
I dream about a house with tiles so white they seem to glow in the moonlight, of boys who come back from the beach but don’t track a single grain of sand through the house. I dream of waves that come in perfect sets, with symmetry and grace that would dumbfound the scientists who insist that perfection doesn’t exist in nature. I dream of sand so soft and sunlight so warm, but I wake up shivering in sheets damp with sweat.
I dream of being held by a tall form with beautiful eyes, whose skin was dry and whose breath was cool as winter, whose voice sounded like rain. I dream that he took flight over the waves on a surfboard, as though the board were just some extension of his feet, a part of his body.
Or maybe I’m not dreaming. Maybe I’m just tossing and turning all night long. Or maybe it’s day. It’s so hard to tell here, in the glass house that never really gets dark.
And I dream of a boy named Pete, tall and skinny and covered in freckles. A boy who always looks like he’s laughing because of the tan lines that wink out from the corners of his eyes. A boy into whose hand my own fits perfectly, a boy whose laugh sounded like the call of a crow heralding the morning. A boy who held me against his chest and promised to help me. A boy who led me into the ocean and helped me fly.
I’m never sure if he’s a memory or a dream. My parents keep telling me it was all a hallucination. When she searched my bag, my mother took my notebook away, the one where I wrote down all my research.
I search my sheets for sand, but I find none. I don’t know why I expect to find sand in my bed—I haven’t been to the beach in weeks, haven’t even left the house since coming home. But every morning, I wake up disappointed. My mother thinks she’s helping me when she strips the bed and washes the sheets almost every day. Neither of us understands why I cry every time I slip between the freshly laundered sheets, sheets without a trace of the sea left on them, not even a whisper of the ocean; only detergent and a hint of my mother’s perfume.
“It’s gone,” I whisper.
“What’s gone, honey?” I look up at her; her eyes are so sad and far away, narrowed with concern.
I shake my head. “Maybe it was never there to begin with.”
“That’s right, honey,” she says, and I try not to think about the wrinkles around her eyes, the way they’ve deepened from so much crying. Just the opposite of the boy’s eyes, the lines around them that make it look like he’s always smiling. Even when I’m yelling at him. Which, apparently, I did, just before I left him.
Why does missing these people and that place ache like a withdrawal all its own? Every night, my dreams are filled with Pete and even Jas, images so vivid and so powerful that I think they, at least, must be a memory.
Because if they’re not real, then how do I miss them so much?
And then suddenly, one morning, the pain is gone. I wake up hungry. My stomach clenches food like a vise, and I think I’ll never be sick again. I practically skip to the shower and wash my hair three times, lather up soap over my skin until it looks like I’m covered in foam.
Pete told me once that surfers can breathe in the oxygen from the foam that crests on the edge of waves when they’re being pummeled and can’t quite make it to the surface. They call it soup, he said.
The memory comes like a flash of lightning and disappears just as quickly. I shake my head and wash my hair a fourth time. I’m sick of smelling like my bed, like cold sweats, sour with illness. I want to look and smell like myself again, want Nana to stop eyeing me warily, like I’m some kind of impostor in her best friend’s skin. When I get out of the shower, I start a load of laundry. I turn on my computer and find e-mail after e-mail from Stanford, briefing me on orientation, telling me that my dorm is called Branner Hall and my roommate’s name is Sadie. There’s a list of suggested items to bring, everything from extra towels to flashlights, and I print it. My mother and I can drive to the store later, get everything on this list and then some. I feel like a little kid who’s about to start first grade, eager to fill her backpack with school supplies.
I spend the next few days normally; driving to the mall with my mother, laughing during visits with Fiona. Once, I ask if Fiona and I can drive down to the beach, and my parents look slightly panicked until Fiona breaks in and says she’d rather not go. She’s been avoiding the sun this summer, she says, even though her tan belies her words. Some aunt of hers was diagnosed with skin cancer, she claims. Instead, we watch movies and my father picks up Chinese.
My parents seem almost back to normal; my father is going into the office regularly, and my mother gets dressed almost every day. Sadness still hangs over the house, but it feels lighter somehow, less likely to shatter the windows and walls. Maybe this is all for my benefit; maybe my parents think it’s their fault I went crazy, because they were so intent on their own loss that they forgot to pay attention to mine. It’s kind of a relief to have my parents back, despite everything else.
On a Wednesday afternoon, my father knocks politely on my door, bringing a blast of cold air along with him into the room. I’ve opened my windows to let dry California air fill my room, despite the heat of the day. The rest of the house is locked shut and filled with artificially cooled air.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, holding a new list out in front of me; I can’t stop making lists of school supplies, last-minute things to do. “Think Mom’s up for a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond today?”
He looks at the list like it’s gibberish and looks at me like I’m speaking Greek.
“Come on, I’ve only got a few weeks left to stock up.” It only just occurred to me to check the date this morning. Technically, it’s six weeks, since Stanford starts in mid-September.
“Wendy,” he says gently. I’m sitting at my desk, and he walks toward me until he’s standing over me. My father is not a tall man, but I shrink beneath his shadow nonetheless. “I know this stuff has messed with your memory, but surely you remember—”
“Remember what?”
“They called us from Montana,” he says. “A few days ago.”
“What’s in Montana?”
“The center.”
Slowly I lower myself onto my bed. They’re still sending me there? I honestly thought they’d have been over it by now. I’m back to normal. Even Nana is back to sleeping in my bed with me, nuzzling close, covering me in kisses. “Montana?”
He nods.
“Dad, I’m fine. It was just that one time. Surely you guys can see that by now?”
My father shakes his head. “They told us this place is the best.”