there was no answer. The silver grew warm, probably from the heat of my body. I placed the medal beside the little calendar and reread the letter.
What had Rosa planned to show me this afternoon? I shuddered, pushing the question out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about it. I was afraid that I knew.
I began to yawn again. My eyelids were heavy. I wrapped up the little bundle and tucked it back into the drawer. I showered, put on my pajamas, and literally fell into bed.
I dreamed about a young woman, not much olderthan I. She sat near the foot of my bed, huddled inside a large, woven shawl. Her skin was a deep brown, her black hair pulled back tightly, and her dark eyes never left my face. The sorrow that drew her features into a tight mask was so intense that in sympathy I reached out to her.
She straightened and extended her hands to me. But as she sat upright the shawl fell back, and I saw that her body was soaked with blood. The dark blood dripped from her fingers onto mine, and I was helpless to pull away.
“No!” I tried to cry out.
“¡Ayúdame!”
she pleaded.
Terrified, I tried to shout at her to go away, to run from those eyes that stared into mine. But I couldn’t move or speak. Finally, desperately, a guttural, animal sound escaped through my lips, waking me. I was tangled in the sheet, my body drenched with sweat. Struggling, kicking away the sheet, I managed to sit up and turn on the bed lamp to chase away the last remnants of the nightmare.
There were no other sounds in the house, so it was obvious I didn’t make enough noise to wake Mom and Dad. I slumped against the headboard, unable to get the picture of the woman out of my mind.
Rosa. It had to be.
I’d promised to help her and had opened my mind to her. I’d allowed her to come.
“Not in my dreams,” I murmured aloud. “There has to be someplace where I can escape. Rosa, I don’t want you to frighten me like this. Do you understand?”
There was a special silence, like a door closing softly, and I knew she had left.
I didn’t understand the dream. Why had Rosa been covered with blood? What did she have to do with Darlene Garland’s murder? What had really happened in this house? I squirmed back down under the sheet, punched at my pillow and rolled on my side. I ached for sleep but I was afraid to let go, afraid that Rosa might return.
The next day, after breakfast, Mom decided to hang pictures, and I helped her, the measuring and hammering and pounding mercifully driving all thoughts of the dream out of my head.
Around eleven she asked, “Where’s Dee Dee? I thought she’d be over to see you.”
“She said something about having to go shopping all day with her mother. This is Dee Dee’s day off from her lifeguard job.”
“Speaking of shopping,” Mom said, “I’ve been making a list. Hardware, plumbing supplies, that sort of thing. It’s going to take me all afternoon to find everything on my list. Want to come? Or would you rather stay home?”
I smiled at her. “Going to a plumbing-supply store is not my idea of real excitement. I could stay here and work and be of more help. Would you like me to unpack the books and put them in the bookcases? I know how you like them arranged.”
“I’d love it if you’d take care of the books,” Mom said. “I’ve been dreading that job.”
The mail came, but no letter from Marcie. Why should I have expected one? I hadn’t written to her, either. I’ll write today, I promised myself. I’ll tell her about Dee Dee. Maybe about Tony. But I knew I wouldn’t. I was distancing myself, afraid to write a letter that might not be answered.
Mom left after lunch, and Dinky settled into a nap on the top box of those marked BOOKS . I moved Dinky to another perch. Upset at being moved, she narrowed her eyes and mewed a complaint, then pretended to go back to sleep.
I was so busy checking titles and reading snatches here and there that I jumped when the doorbell rang. Dinky
What had Rosa planned to show me this afternoon? I shuddered, pushing the question out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about it. I was afraid that I knew.
I began to yawn again. My eyelids were heavy. I wrapped up the little bundle and tucked it back into the drawer. I showered, put on my pajamas, and literally fell into bed.
I dreamed about a young woman, not much olderthan I. She sat near the foot of my bed, huddled inside a large, woven shawl. Her skin was a deep brown, her black hair pulled back tightly, and her dark eyes never left my face. The sorrow that drew her features into a tight mask was so intense that in sympathy I reached out to her.
She straightened and extended her hands to me. But as she sat upright the shawl fell back, and I saw that her body was soaked with blood. The dark blood dripped from her fingers onto mine, and I was helpless to pull away.
“No!” I tried to cry out.
“¡Ayúdame!”
she pleaded.
Terrified, I tried to shout at her to go away, to run from those eyes that stared into mine. But I couldn’t move or speak. Finally, desperately, a guttural, animal sound escaped through my lips, waking me. I was tangled in the sheet, my body drenched with sweat. Struggling, kicking away the sheet, I managed to sit up and turn on the bed lamp to chase away the last remnants of the nightmare.
There were no other sounds in the house, so it was obvious I didn’t make enough noise to wake Mom and Dad. I slumped against the headboard, unable to get the picture of the woman out of my mind.
Rosa. It had to be.
I’d promised to help her and had opened my mind to her. I’d allowed her to come.
“Not in my dreams,” I murmured aloud. “There has to be someplace where I can escape. Rosa, I don’t want you to frighten me like this. Do you understand?”
There was a special silence, like a door closing softly, and I knew she had left.
I didn’t understand the dream. Why had Rosa been covered with blood? What did she have to do with Darlene Garland’s murder? What had really happened in this house? I squirmed back down under the sheet, punched at my pillow and rolled on my side. I ached for sleep but I was afraid to let go, afraid that Rosa might return.
The next day, after breakfast, Mom decided to hang pictures, and I helped her, the measuring and hammering and pounding mercifully driving all thoughts of the dream out of my head.
Around eleven she asked, “Where’s Dee Dee? I thought she’d be over to see you.”
“She said something about having to go shopping all day with her mother. This is Dee Dee’s day off from her lifeguard job.”
“Speaking of shopping,” Mom said, “I’ve been making a list. Hardware, plumbing supplies, that sort of thing. It’s going to take me all afternoon to find everything on my list. Want to come? Or would you rather stay home?”
I smiled at her. “Going to a plumbing-supply store is not my idea of real excitement. I could stay here and work and be of more help. Would you like me to unpack the books and put them in the bookcases? I know how you like them arranged.”
“I’d love it if you’d take care of the books,” Mom said. “I’ve been dreading that job.”
The mail came, but no letter from Marcie. Why should I have expected one? I hadn’t written to her, either. I’ll write today, I promised myself. I’ll tell her about Dee Dee. Maybe about Tony. But I knew I wouldn’t. I was distancing myself, afraid to write a letter that might not be answered.
Mom left after lunch, and Dinky settled into a nap on the top box of those marked BOOKS . I moved Dinky to another perch. Upset at being moved, she narrowed her eyes and mewed a complaint, then pretended to go back to sleep.
I was so busy checking titles and reading snatches here and there that I jumped when the doorbell rang. Dinky
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