“Essie!” Harmony hollers through the door.
I slide off the bed and crack open the door. “Well, hi there.”
“Where’s Siff?” she says, peeking her head into my room.
I open the door the rest of the way and Harmony struts in, excited for someone new to entertain, I think. Cytha giggles at the sight of Harmony in her Tinker Bell pj’s. “Is it time for bed already?”
Harmony rolls her eyes. “Yes. Mom said so.” But she walks to my desk and points at the mirror above it. The pink leaves Harmony painted are taped to the top of the glass. “Hey, Siff. I painted those.”
Cytha stands, darting a glance at me before smiling at Harmony. “Nice. You did a good job.”
“I’m gonna paint like Essie.”
“Yes, you are.” I reach out a fist and Harmony bumps it. “Come on, let’s go give Brayden a kiss goodnight.”
“Bye, Siff!” She waves, and Cytha resorts to snorts of laughter as we walk down the hall. She’s still giggling when I get back. “No wonder you’re staying. Forget the big beautiful house and the hottie at the bookstore, that kid is hilarious.”
Summer offered setting up a room for Cytha in her office, but neither of us wanted to be apart while she’s here. So, Rodrick set up a camping cot right next to my bed. It’s close enough I can reach out and touch my friend in the night. Cytha might be the only person I could have sleeping so close to me. She’s always felt like my other half, so it feels more abnormal to have her so far away.
I lay in bed thinking about Cytha going to school in Elko—Elko is hours from Reno, and I have no idea how far it is from Jackson. I also have no idea what I’ll do after graduation. And really it feels strange even worrying about something like that when I’m waiting for Finn to be able to walk down the stairs without the help of an oxygen tank.
My brain doesn’t stop until Cytha’s breathing is even and heavy. I reach my hand across her cot and slip my pinky through hers. Then, I drift to sleep with my best friend right where I need her.
I scan the row of empty parking spaces. The playground parking lot. I feel the anxiety and hope stirring within me—like I do every night. But when my subconscious roams over the wooden park sign, I tell my head to stop, to look—it doesn’t, but I tell it to anyway. It just doesn’t feel important though. I see the bench and try to twist back to the sign, but I can’t make myself do it.
I thrash in my bed and wake to gulping—expecting the air around me to be frigid, expecting a warm hand to fold into mine—but the dream ended prematurely. I pushed too far. I tried to see what was there, what my subconscious ignores.
“Esther?”
“Cytha?” I say, my breath shuddering. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just need a drink.”
I go out to the bathroom and gulp down a handful of water, splashing a little onto my face. But when I come back to the room, Cytha’s sitting on her cot, my lamp on.
“Did you see any names?”
She knows me too well. I sit on my bed, crossing my legs, and run a hand over my face. “I tried.” My eyes narrow as I think. “I did.” Without even realizing it, I did.
“Well, what is it? Come on, before you forget.” Cytha’s holding a notebook I didn’t notice before. Her pen waits to scribble down the information I saw.
“A wooden sign with words either burned or branded into it. They say, Woodhill’s Park and there’s a picture, a cluster of trees above the words.”
Cytha claps, her fingers just touching so that she makes no noise at all. “Yes!” she whispers excitedly. “You did it. Okay, what else?”
“I don’t know. I woke up.” I rub my head that aches from the effort. “I tried to manipulate it and it didn’t work. I woke up instead.”
“But at least you could focus on what was already there.”
“Yeah.” I lay back, closing my eyes, tired from the energy the dream has drained from me. When I close my eyes and fall back into a slumber, it’s a dreamless sleep.
“Why do I feel so nervous? He’s your boyfriend.” Cytha rinses her cereal bowl and sets it in the sink.
“He isn’t my boyfriend.”
Rodrick laughs, his head in the fridge.
“He isn’t,” I say with more conviction.
Rodrick stands and slides a hand into his pocket. Leaning against the refrigerator, he studies me a second. “Then…what is he?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
Cytha hoots out a laugh and bumps knuckles with my uncle.
“He,” Summer says, coming in from the living room, bouncing Brayden on her hip, “is probably waiting. You should go.”
I nod and pull Cytha out the doorway by her arm.
“Stop teasing her,” we hear Summer say, though we’re already around the corner.
I ramble on about Marley and Danny, the shop, and the heart tomb Rodrick and I made. Cytha listens, watching Jackson pass her by as we drive.
“You’re nervous, too,” she says, seeing right through me.
“Well, yeah. Cytha, you’ve always been like family to me. You are the one person whose opinion actually matters to me.”
She breathes out a small chuckle. “Really?”
“Um, yes, Thelma, really.”
I’m giddy as I introduce Cytha to Marley. “We’ve heard all about you,” Marley says.
Cytha smiles and it’s almost shy. “Likewise. Thanks for giving Esther the week off to be with me.”
“Hey, no problem.” Marley gives me a side hug before returning to counting the cash drawer.
Cytha and I pause to look at my window, before going upstairs.
“I wish I could have seen the tree, but this is cool, Es.”
“Me too. Come on, Finn—”
“Wait,” she pinches her lips together, looking about the bookstore, “where’s the statue?”
“Oh, right.” I’m not afraid of The Reading Mother. In fact, I feel this strange kinship with the artwork. And Cytha heard my dream about her a dozen times. It makes sense she’d want to see her. I take her back to the third-to-last row of cases.
We stop at the beginning of the row, Cytha staring at the statue that’s now missing an arm. “Whoa.” She laughs and it sounds delirious. “I mean, I believed you, but hearing about your dreams come to life and seeing it for myself is a whole other thing. She walks toward the statue and touches the mother’s foot, the infants head, and then the book. “She’s exactly how you described.”
“I know.”
“But how you described her to me months ago—when you lived in Reno.”
I chuckle and wrap an arm around her shoulders. “I know.”
“Whoa, I just need a minute to process this.”
“You believed me before—”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t have the words for it. “I did. But she’s here,” she knocks on the mother’s ankle, “and it’s just so real.”
It’s a strange wonder having Cytha in this world that feels like almost a separate life. Jackson is like the life of my subconscious, the life my dreams have led me to.