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Chapter Eight, Part One - What Dreams May Come

Chapter Eight

What Dreams May Come

            I had never been a daughter that could easily lie to her parents. It just wasn't in me; I'd feel guilty just thinking about it. But these days, there were so many things that seemed impossible for me to say aloud – even to myself. And what could I possibly tell my Dad that would make enough sense to justify what had been happening the last few days? So far, I had nothing.

Nothing but lies, anyway.

            "Dad, are you... angry with me?"

            I sat in the passenger's seat of the family car, in the process of buckling my seatbelt as he slipped behind the wheel. Home was only a short distance from school but I had recently discovered that small moments of silence could often equate to an eternity.

            He had placed the keys in the ignition but he didn't shift gears. Instead, he looked at me, obviously carrying his own guilt.

            "No," he shook his head. "No, Tammy, I'm not mad at you. I'm... just a little concerned. That's all."

            "But I'm fine," I quickly assured. "What happened at school today was just a misunderstanding. I haven't been drinking enough water lately so of course I passed out –"

            "Tamsyn, I spoke to your guidance counselor. And she's a little concerned. She thinks this might have had something to do with what happened to Dean –"

            "Wait a second, why was Ms. Lattimer talking to you about me? She doesn't even know me so why would she be concerned?"

            "Well I would hope that when a student passes out in the middle of school the guidance counselor would be concerned," Dad countered. "And I'm glad she was. So no, Tamsyn, I'm not angry, I'm concerned. With everything that's happened in this family, I think I have a right to be."

            Unable to argue his point, I held back a sigh and settled for trademark teenage silence.

            "Ms. Lattimer would like it if you stopped by her office tomorrow before first period. And I think it would be a good idea. It's either that or –"

            "What? Sending me to a therapist?" I interrupted, immediately defensive.

            "I think talking to someone about... everything could be good for you.  And so does she."

            Oh, so it was her idea then, I thought, starting to truly resent this woman.

            "Ok. Fine." I said, disappointed but backing down. If singing Kumbaya and making bead necklaces with an intrusive guidance counselor was all it took to keep my dad from totally freaking out, then so be it. After all, it was better than other options he could've come up with.

            "Thank you," Dad said, looking at me with obvious relief. "You know, when that nurse called she made it sound like you were dead. I ran three red lights just to get here."

            He chuckled to himself as he shook his head and placed the car in reverse, preparing to exit the school's parking lot.

            "Again, I really, really am sorry Dad," I repeated.

            "Don't worry about it – I'm just glad you're ok." He assured. "But I'm sorry I didn't get there any sooner. "Unfortunately, Erica was a little late getting to the voicemails this morning."

            Hearing the sound of his secretary's name, I stiffened, reminded of the so-called business dinner the two had supposedly shared.

            "Dad, do you see Erica a lot... outside of work?"

            "Well... yeah," Dad said, casting me a long, sideways glance. "I do, actually. Why? Is that a problem?"

            "Nope," I said quickly, turning my attention to the window. "Not at all."

            And oh how much easier the lies were becoming.

*  *  *

            It irritated me that I had been pulled from school for the day, because that meant I would have to prolong my conversation with Lana. And at that moment, speaking to her about Dean's death was even more important than obsessing over my impending visit with the Ice Queen, or wondering ceaselessly about who had tried to kill me. My mother had been targeted and I had been hurt, but Dean was dead.

            Nothing topped that.

            "Oh my god – are you ok?"

            Margie's small hand was warm on my arm as she stood with me in the kitchen, her backpack still slung across one arm.

            "I tried texting you ya know,"

            "I know, and I'm sorry," I said, looking down, guiltily, into the contents of my mug. I had thought that peppermint tea would make it all better. But that idea had been a complete bust. "I haven't been able to look at my phone," I continued. "I feel too guilty,"

            "For what? For passing out in school or for what happened to Dean? Because I'm telling you – none of that is your fault."

            "Margie, he called me yesterday," I said quietly. "Remember? Right before we found the box, Dean called... and I just ignored him..."

            I shook my head as my eyes began to sting and my throat began to swell.

            "Like I said – not. Your. Fault." Margie assured, closing the gap between us with a sisterly hug of affection that was worth almost spilling my tea.

            "You didn't know something was gonna happen to Dean," she said gently, stepping back to look me square in the eye. "No one knew. It's not fair to blame yourself."

            "Thanks," I said, sniffing as I used one hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

            "So what did happen to you at school today?" Margie asked, looking at me with intrigue. "Dad says you were "dehydrated" but I mean c'mon... You never get sick. You've never had a broken bone, hell when's the last time you even had a runny nose –"

            "It's ok – we'll talk about it later," I said hurriedly, hearing the sound of Dad's footsteps coming up the hall. A few seconds later he shuffled into the kitchen, removed of his business attire and now garbed in his usual outfit of t-shirt, jeans, and house slippers.

            "Do we have any more of that green tea?" he asked, scratching his head.

            "Oh, you mean the tea that Mom used to like?" Margot replied, raising an eyebrow and pursing her lips in a manner that was highly reminiscent of our mother. "We should still have some... unless you threw it out."

            Dad stared down at a much shorter Margot, looking for all the world as if his daughter had just turned transformed into an alien. After several seconds of this silence Margot scoffed and then swerved around him, strutting from the room.

            "Not to be a smart-ass or anything Dad, but, I think she was waiting for you to say something,"

            "I – I didn't know what to say!" Dad replied, throwing up his shoulders and looking completely helpless. "These days it doesn't matter what I tell her – it's always the wrong thing. And nothing's ever good enough for that kid either – I give her the moon she'll ask for the stars. Gah!"

            Dad walked past me and deeper into the kitchen, rooting through the cabinet that was filled with nothing but boxes of tea.

            "She doesn't mean anything by it, she's just going through a tough time right now," I said quietly. "We both are."