Beautiful Dreamer

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

The thing about my mother that often surprises people is that she doesn't drink.

Ever.

I know plenty of parents in Callery who do drink, and others who are downright alcoholics, but my mother is not one of them. She doesn't even keep alcohol in the house. I discovered that when once, in a fit of rebellious rage, I stormed through the pantry in search of that elusive wine supply that every parent is practically obligated to have, only to find the usual array of crackers and canned soup.

My mother doesn't drink.

I suppose, if she were a good, kindhearted person, I would have been proud of that. It was something she always made very clear in situations where alcohol was involved, even though it vexed nearly every other adult in the vicinity. I always saw them shifting, ducking their heads, wondering what to do with themselves because my mother's piercing gaze made them feel inexplicably guilty.

But that isn't my point—my point is that my mom has no excuse for the way she behaves. I mean, sure, constant drunkenness is hardly a valid excuse, but at least it provides some kind of reasoning for acting like a crazed maniac. With Mom, there was none of that. It was just her personality; it was the way she acted on a daily basis. Her furious outburst had been unprecedented, but it was hardly outside of the norm.

Sending me to my room for over twelve hours, though—that was a little bit different.

As I sat listlessly on my bed, picking at a loose thread on my comforter and watching trees sway out the window, I tried to make sense of it all. My mother got mad a lot, and ninety-nine percent of the time, it was because of me. But I hadn't done anything this time except ask a simple question. A question which, I remembered, I had never received an answer to.

What had Chief Harding said? What words could have possibly escaped his lips that made my mother so angry?

Drawing Logan's jacket closer around my shoulders, I strained my ears to hear my mother clanging around downstairs. I didn't know what she was doing and I didn't dare check, but it was loud as hell.

It had just passed noon; I'd officially been locked in my bedroom for four hours. And since I'd skipped breakfast and hadn't eaten anything but the Eucharist during mass, my stomach was begging for food—loudly. I had half a mind to storm down the stairs right then and there and demand; that would show my mother to exercise her totalitarian authority on me.

But it would also involve effort, and I didn't feel like getting out of bed.

I tried to watch television, but there was nothing good showing. Not to mention that I was pretty sure my mom blocked half the channels, leaving me with a pretty scarce array of programs. When I couldn't find anything, I made a feeble attempt to finish the Nancy Drew book I'd fallen asleep on the night before. But I just couldn't seem to focus. My mind would hook onto a sentence for a fraction of a halted exhalation—then moments later, the words would twist and bend and spin out of sight in my head.

It was sunny outside. Burnt orange rays crept in through my curtains, but I felt a world apart from their tranquil brightness. My head was loaded with all kinds of messy, cluttered thoughts, and although I could make no sense of them, I knew they revolved around a single focus: the nightmares.

I wasn't sure why everything kept circling back around to those terrible dreams, especially now that I knew what they were. Sure, the experience of sleep paralysis was terrifying, but I knew the facts and the fear factor had decreased significantly. Or at least, I thought it had. So why was I sitting here, gnawing on my bottom lip and clutching that old necklace in my hands?