Memories from a Different Future: Jump When Ready, Book 2 (15 page)

Waking Up From a
Restless Night

Sleeping had never been a problem for Ian. In fact, both his
friends and family often poked fun at him for being able to go comatose pretty
much anywhere when he felt tired. Car, bus, couch during a party, even
classroom—although that had been a problem more than a few times. Pretty much,
you name it and Ian could manage to conk out there if his body demanded sleep.
Not last night, though, for some reason he couldn’t possibly wrap his brain
around. Sure, there had been that weird half hour or so he’d spent in Julie’s
apartment. God, he still couldn’t believe he’d put himself in that position,
but that really hadn’t been that big of a deal. So, she was a little on the
woo-woo side—okay, maybe seriously bent on the woo-woo side—but it wasn’t like
the experience had been scary or threatening. The rest of the day had gone fine
and last night he’d watched movies with his family. Margo had joined them and
she’d seemed like her old self, relaxed and happy. In fact, Ian recalled
drifting off to sleep feeling content and optimistic.

So, how to explain the dream? Even now, Ian reminded
himself that it had been just a dream, nothing more. There really hadn’t been
that much to it—nothing frightening. Ian supposed he couldn’t stop thinking
about it only because it had seemed so real—this strange moment when he’d
suddenly found himself standing in a room, not sure where he was. Then he saw
the girl staring at him. What had he seen in her eyes? Had it been fear? Not
exactly. Not quite surprise either. What came back to him now was pity and
regret. As if she’d somehow broken a promise.

Her words still echoed in his ears.
Curtis? Can you
hear me?

Ian pushed the dream from his consciousness, willing
himself to erase it. A girl sitting up in bed, fully dressed in jeans and a
t-shirt, staring at him. So what? If that was the worst his dreams had to
deliver, then Ian supposed he was doing just fine and couldn’t imagine why it
troubled him at all.

He opened his bedroom door and walked down the hall,
telling himself that the voice whispering in his ear was nothing more than his
imagination as well. He imagined hearing Henry again, the kid from the news
article.
No way, not going there
, Ian told himself. He shook his head
briskly and forced a song to mind, the one by that new band he kept hearing all
over the place.

He went downstairs just as the shower came on. Margo must
have gotten herself out of bed too. Earlier than usual. A good sign. He could
already smell coffee from the kitchen and knew his parents would be waiting
there to greet him, sitting at the counter or preparing breakfast. Sure enough,
they both smiled as he entered the room. Was it his imagination or did both of
them seem a little distracted, as if they had something on their minds? His
mother, especially, with dark circles under her eyes, but his father too with
his brow furrowed as if concentrating on some sort of problem.

Still, his father said, “Good morning. Sleep okay?”

“Coffee?” his mother said. “We just brewed a pot.”

“Slept fine,” Ian said. He saw no point in telling them
otherwise.

He glanced out at the backyard, where what seemed like at
least thirty butterflies had suddenly started swirling around. He blinked
against the strange sight, knowing it shouldn’t be possible in the middle of
winter. There was something dreamlike to the image and he turned to see if his
parents had noticed.

“I was thinking of making baked-stuffed shrimp tonight,”
his mother said. “How does that sound?”

Ian smiled at her. “Sounds perfect.” She’d known what his
answer would be, of course, since he loved her baked-stuff shrimp. He glanced
at the yard again but the butterflies were gone. Maybe he’d imagined it—just
his brain still climbing out of sleep mode or something.

“Then we have a plan,” she said. “Maybe with baked
potatoes and a salad. Sound good?”

“I will definitely be joining you for this.” Ian grabbed
a stool and clicked on one of the counter screens thinking he’d check the news,
but that weird hacking thing was going on again. He shook his head, both amazed
and amused. Damn, you definitely had to hand it to the guy. Why he’d chosen the
whole sixties greaser thing was beyond him but Ian had to admit it wasn’t a bad
touch. He turned the screen off again. Right now, he felt like spending time
with his parents anyway. He figured he’d hang with them for a while, then finally
get his shopping done.

~~~

Josh filled a mug with coffee and set it on the counter in
front of his son. He guessed that others might think it a little over the top
how happy he felt having Ian home this week, given that he lived just a few
miles away. At the same time, he knew his experience wasn’t all that different
from that of his friends whose kids went to school out of state. The fact was,
Ian remained much too busy these days—with his classes, his friends and with
Lisa—to come around much. Most of the time it boiled down to a call on the
weekends or a few texts here and there. He might as well be hundreds of miles
away.

Josh watched as Ian poured milk into his coffee and
swirled the mug. Funny how they’d come to share small mannerisms, since that’s
exactly what he did himself as if he didn’t have time to stir with a spoon.
Clara had always said Ian looked more like him than her although Josh hadn’t
really been able to see it before. But something in Ian had changed recently.
Hard to believe, but he really was starting to look like  a man. Josh had to
admit Ian did look a lot like himself. Good luck with the thinning hair, he
thought, but Ian probably had a long time before that might even be an issue.
God, though, hadn’t he been a little boy like ten minutes ago? Their first
child in those happy, amazing years after he’d met Clara.

Josh felt his eyes misting and rubbed them just as Ian
looked his way. Why this sudden nostalgia? Why this—Josh couldn’t think of a
better word—melancholy?

“Doing okay, Dad? You look a little tired.” Ian grinned
knowingly. “Stay up working on one of your novels?”

The fact was, Josh had done just that. But it didn’t
explain the strange feeling he’d woken up with that morning. Caused by that
dream, no doubt, an inexplicable mix of images. Where they’d come from, he
couldn’t imagine. A boy—no, not a  boy—a teenager with flaming red hair jumping
from the top of a building. Another man, pale and lying in a hospital bed. He’d
seemed disturbingly familiar, almost like a forgotten relative. A woman
crashing her car, the windshield shattering into a thousand fragments, her last
thoughts being only about her son. A Latino kid pointing a gun toward a crowd
of wide-eyed people. Craziness. The kind of dream you’d hope never to have but
absolutely hope not to remember. Still, what was there to do with any of that?
And where had it all come from? The fact was, even now it felt more like a
collection of someone else’s memories pushed at him than an actual dream of his
own.

Josh took a sip of coffee and forced a smile. “Well,
yeah,” he said. “I did probably stay up a little later than I should have. But
I’m fine. I’ll be even better when your mother makes her world-famous French
toast.”

Clara looked up from her screen. She looked tired too
today, Josh noticed.

“I guess that means I’m on,” she said.

“That’s exactly what it means,” Josh said. “I think I’ll
sit down right next to my son and wait for some grub.”

Clara cocked an eyebrow. “Call my food grub again and
you’ll be waiting a very long time.”

~~~

Margo towel-dried her hair, then ran a brush through it
while staring at her face in the mirror. Great, a new zit next to her mouth.
That should add to her overall appeal. Actually, it was so pathetic that she
had to laugh. At least she didn’t have to be anywhere today, so it wasn’t like
anyone would see it. She yawned again, realizing she hadn’t slept all that
great. She didn’t remember anything in particular—not about her dreams,
anyway—but she recalled tossing and turning early this morning just at
daybreak. She’d finally given up and remained in bed for a while, staring at
the ceiling, when she’d found herself thinking about the conversation she’d had
with Ian the other day.

She felt a little embarrassed now about feeling sorry for
herself. After all, there had been no logical explanation for why she’d been
depressed. What did she have to complain about? Her nice parents? Her comfy
house? The fact that her family had sufficient money and plenty to eat? Still,
that was the very nature of depression, wasn’t it? It wasn’t necessarily
logical. In fact, most of the time it was entirely chemical.

Thankfully, she felt better now. Maybe she’d just needed
a break from school. Shit, you’d have to be crazy not to find high school
depressing. Just not being around that scene for a while gave her enough
perspective to see how little it would matter in the future. And maybe that’s
why she woke up thinking about her talk with Ian, how he’d assured her that
things would get better soon when she went to college. But it wasn’t that part
she kept thinking about.

It was that weird moment when he’d said that if anything
happened to him she’d have to be there for their parents. Why had he said that?
And why hadn’t she been thinking about it before now? It felt almost like
someone had been whispering in her ear. Even now, she imagined someone trying
to get her attention, trying to warn her that bad things were going to happen.
She shivered thinking about it and a chill ran up her spine. God, too weird.
No, she wasn’t going to listen to her freaky imagination today. What she’d do
instead was go downstairs and spend some time with her family. She’d just
gotten it together and wasn’t about to crawl back into that dark hole of
sadness.

~~~

Clara forced herself not to say the words again as she
watched Ian put his jacket on. Yes, she felt strongly about asking him not to
go anywhere today. In fact, even more than yesterday morning. As soon as she’d
woken up, she’d kept thinking the same thing over and over. This strange mantra
of “Stop Ian from going to the mall” and “Don’t let him leave the house” and
“Think of some reason why he should stay home today.”

Even now, as she watched him walk toward the door—and she
knew this was totally irrational—she could swear someone stood right next to
her trying to get through. She could almost imagine the way he looked—a teenage
boy with long, dark hair and brown eyes. She’d imagined him the other day too.
The same day when she’d talked Ian out of going to the mall and absolutely
nothing had happened there that day. Even now, she felt embarrassed thinking
how foolish she must have seemed.

Ian checked his pockets as he always did, being sure he
had his wallet and keys. “Dinner at six, right?”

For a moment, Clara didn’t realize he was speaking to
her. But Josh had gone upstairs to change and Margo was talking to Donna on her
phone.

Did she have any excuse she could use? Any reason to make
Ian stay home or at least come home sooner? Not that she could think of and why
would she anyway? None of it made any sense.

“Sure, that sounds good,” Clara said. “Around six.”

Ian’s eyes met hers, those same kind eyes that once
looked up at her from a crib, even then seeming to know her as if he had
forever. As if somehow he’d known from the start he’d come to the right place.
“I should be back before then,” he said. “Just going to get some shopping done.
I bet I’m back by four.”

Don’t go, Clara thought. Please. I’ll miss you so much!

Ian stared into her eyes. “Mom, are you okay?”

Clara made herself focus. “Yes, honey. I’m…fine. Just a
little tired.”

“What’s with everyone being tired today?” He turned and
walked toward the door.

Clara closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. There he
was, the teenage boy again, inside her mind. Who was he and why did she keep imagining
seeing him?

Don’t let him go. Please, listen. You need to stop
him!

Just barely a whisper, as if someone was at her ear.

Clara opened her eyes. Irrational or not, it didn’t
matter. She needed to stop Ian from leaving. Clara opened her mouth to speak.

“Hey, Mom? Are you okay with me going to Donna’s house on
New Year’s? She’s having some friends stay overnight.”

Clara shifted her attention to Margo and heard the back
door close, part of her knowing it was already too late.

~~~

Julie knew they were there with her again. She felt their
presence as certainly as most people realize someone came through the front
door of their house. She didn’t have to hear them to know. Although, she did
hear them in a way, the murmur at the back of her mind that she’d long ago come
to accept being the voices of spirits. She also felt the fine hairs on the back
of her arm lift like antennae. The sudden chill in the room was always another
sure sign.

Julie closed her eyes but remained on her sofa, where
she’d been checking emails on her flexlet. She knew why they were back again,
of course. She didn’t wait for them to speak. Or, at least, him—the one she’d
heard so loudly last time, more than any spirit she’d ever encountered.

“I tried,” she said softly. “Don’t you know that?”

She kept her eyes closed and listened to the murmur as it
grew more intense. Like the hum of electricity, their conversation as they
spoke amongst themselves. Finally, he came through as Julie knew he would.
Henry. Such a strong soul.

We didn’t know. When?

“Yesterday. I called him and he came here.”

The murmured hum became more audible. She heard their
words, like a faint radio signal as they talked to each other. Then he was
back.

Did you tell him?

“I tried,” Julie said. “He didn’t believe me. I’m sorry.
He wouldn’t listen.”