That night, I don’t dream about Lachlan. Or Max.
I dream about Lana.
She’s twelve. Her waist length hair was in a French braid. She had just finished eating and was rinsing out her bowl. Her teacher would be there in ten minutes. Every day they would meet in the spare office upstairs for her lessons. Lana would start out with Social Studies and move on to Math. There would be a small break in the day for lunch and after she would have an hour of quiet reading. The last two classes would be English and then P.E., but Lana just saw that as extra time to ride her horse.
Her life may seem ridiculously boring to some. But she loved her simple routine.
She shook the water from the bowl, turned off the water and put the bowl on the drying rack. That’s when she felt him.
Her body became frozen as her dad approached. Her muscles locked up and all she could do was stare straight ahead. She counted the backsplash tiles as her dad stood behind her, his body against hers. He ran his fingers down her braid.
45, 46… she mouthed. Her eyes ran over every smooth tile piece. The square pieces were so small. She could count them for days.
“All that pretty hair,” he said.
65, 66. Her mouth was moving frantically. Her hands were shaking, but she stood still, waiting for her dad to stop talking and touching.
She waited, but he never moved.
“You have lunch at 11:30, correct?” her dad said. His breath touched her skin. Tobacco mixed with coffee. It didn’t mix well.
71, 72, 75… she messed up. It instantly threw her off. Her heart started to thump wildly inside her chest. Her lungs began to constrict, making her breathing shallow. She couldn’t think straight.
“Lana?”
Lana swallowed. “Yes, that’s my lunch.”
“Good.” He stepped back. “I’ll see you then.”
He walked away. The back door shut behind him. Lana sagged against the counter, feeling relief over his departure and dread for when he came back.
My eyes burst open.
Twelve-year-old Lana is bent over me. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying. Braid is loosened with strands all around her face. She has on a pink shirt, with flowers all over it. A pair of jeans, slightly rolled up and with chalk fingerprints.
She’s a genuine kid. Except for those eyes. They’re a decade older.
My fingers curl around my sheets. She exhales and it appears in the air like a fine mist. I gasp, sucking in the same air she’s breathing.
“Will you still help me?” she whispers. Her voice is small and young and so scared.
I answer instinctively. “Of course.”
Twelve-year-old Lana doesn’t look convinced. She stares at me with distrust.
“I will. I promise to help you!” I sit up. My arms reach out in between us. I want to hold her. Console her. Reassure her that I will keep my promise. But my fingers slash into thin air.
She’s gone.
I jump out of my bed, like it’s on fire. “No…” I drag out. I check under the bed. There’s nothing. I stand up on shaky legs. “No, no, no. She was here. She was right here,” I whisper out loud.
There’s nothing in my room.
No Lana.
No voices.
No dark eyes in the corner.
I turn in a circle, looking over every inch of my room. Everything starts to spin. Something akin to desperation takes over my body. I stop. The room continues to move. There is double of my bed. The walls multiply. Yet there is no Lana.
I drag my hands through my hair and groan. “I’m sorry, Lana,” I whisper. “I’m trying to get out of here.”
There is only the sound of the wind hitting my window. I turn and stare at it, like it’s the reason for all my problems.
I become angry. At Fairfax. My inability to get out of here. And Lana’s silence.
“I’m awake!” I yell inside my small room. “You have my attention! Why won’t you talk to me?”
Silence fills my ears.
“Come and talk to me. I’m listening! Talk… please.”
The light turns on. I whirl around. Mary’s standing in my doorway. She’s frowning at me.
Without thinking twice, I run to her. “Lana was here.” My finger shakes as I point to my bed. “She was standing over me and she was asking me to help her.”
The look in Mary’s eyes makes my voice shake. Pity mixed with disappointment. That’s never a good thing.
“I promise she was here,” I insist. “She was.”
Mary’s hands are on my shoulders. She slowly guides me to my bed. “Of course she was.”
I look over my shoulder. “You don’t believe me.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” I accuse. “She showed me what happened to her as a child and it’s a sign. She needs my help and that was her way of reaching out.”
There’s that pity and disappointment. Maybe I really am insane. Maybe this place is where I belong. My legs buckle. I drop to the floor. My knees curl.
Mary doesn’t call for assistance. She quietly sits down next to me. Through the blur of tears I see her stretch out her legs, her hands disappearing into the pockets on her shirt.
She lets me cry. I don’t know why she’s staying and what she plans on doing, but I’m grateful that she hasn’t left. Her silent support makes my tears subside.
Mary speaks up. “There are so many people here. Every single one has a life and a story to tell. Each one worse than the last. I don’t know your story, but I know it’s bad, and I know you’re terrified.” She tilts her head and the look she gives me is so motherly. “Naomi, I don’t want Fairfax to become your home. You deserve so much more than this. You deserve to live a good life, because you only get one chance to live.” She holds up a finger. “One chance. There are no returns. No redos, no matter how bad we want them.” She pats me on the shoulder. “Please make your life worth living.”
We sit there in silence. When I first came here I thought Mary was some uptight nurse who couldn’t care less what happened to me.
I realize now how wrong I was.
I tap my shoulder against hers. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She smiles. Her hand disappears from my shoulder as she stands up.
“Where are you going?” I say.
I like her company. I love her words. I want more of both.
“You need something to make you sleep,” Mary says.
She leaves. I sit there quietly. I stretch out my legs, just like Mary did. I don’t have pockets, so I just cross my arms. I don’t move a muscle. I’m hoping that if I mimic her movements, some of her strength will rub off on me.
It doesn’t.
Mary comes in a few seconds later. Pills in one hand. A small cup of water in the other. She holds them out to me. “Here you go.”
I take them numbly. Mary helps me up and I lay back down, waiting for the pills to do their job,
Mary walks to the door. Before she closes it, she says quietly, “Sleep well.”
I turn on my side and stare at the wall.
Doesn’t she know? I don’t sleep.
I dream.