In Dreams (6 page)

I’d tell Grandpa he was nuts. Except he’s really a very sensible man.

But more than that. Now that he’s said it—out loud—some things I’ve always wondered about almost make sense.

6

A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

L
ater that night, I keep staring at the photo and the painting. And I replay a memory from when I was little again and again, like finding a seashell and turning it over in my hand different ways, studying it. The problem is, I don’t know whether it was a dream or real, and no matter how much I study it, it feels like grasping at fog. And now, of course, after all that’s happened in the past few hours, my dreams and my reality are all a jumble. As if the real world and the dream world exist together all the time somehow.

My mom took me to the museum where she curated an exhibit of Greek sculpture. Maybe I was six. The tail end of kindergarten. We were there late. A security guard in a gray uniform came and told
her he was going to be locking the building and she needed to finish up. She would be just a minute, she told him, just checking one last item. The guard left. And then a man emerged from behind a tall marble column. The man from the photo—the man from the painting. And he knelt down in the hush of the great hall and hugged me, and he told my mother I was beautiful. He whispered “Iris” in my ear. “Iris . . . what a beautiful name you have.”

And then he was gone. My mom was crying. I asked her why. And she said she was both happy and sad. That I would understand when I was a grown-up. Only, here I am, pretty grown up, and none of it makes sense.

There is something else strange in this day of strangeness. The photo is seventeen years old. And it’s faded a bit. The colors not as vibrant as I am sure they were when it was printed. Except for him—Morpheus. In the photo his colors are
more
vivid. It’s as if the photo is in sepia tones, and he alone has been rendered in Photoshop, using colors richer than real life.

I want to think none of this is true, that I am in fact dreaming. But there’s the little matter of the broken Don Mattingly bat. Of Grandpa confirming what I saw. I
saw
the man with the evil eyes. I
felt
his fingers
digging into my face. He was as real as I am. I have the bruise to prove it.

I look at my alarm clock. Midnight. When I fall asleep, is the place I go to the Underworld? Is that why Evil Eyes warned me to stay away? Maybe it’s not the insomnia at all that makes me different. Maybe it’s where I go when I shut my eyes. And if I go there, will the man with the evil eyes, or the other men in suits, or the strange gods and beasts of the Underworld be there? Will they kill me for real? My face throbs from where Evil Eyes grabbed me.

I need to know more about Morpheus. My
father
. Even thinking that word feels strange to me. And thinking I have a father and not a donor is one thing. Being part goddess—forget that—even
thinking
I might be part of that world, part god, is too insane even to contemplate. Again, my head feels as if it’s going to burst. My temples throb. My eyes burn.

I pull out my iPhone, hold my arm out, and take a selfie. I tap on the photo I’ve just taken, zoom in. The bruise is ugly. It is real. It is on my face. It is in the shape of finger marks, four stripes on one cheek leading down to my jawline. A thumb mark on the other side.

I keep staring at the photo on my phone, waiting to accept, somehow, what it means.

Gods are real.

I look over at the photo of my father that I have now tacked to my bulletin board. The photo of my father tells me I am part of them somehow.

And the destruction of our living room tells me that gods—and creatures—from the Underworld are after me. For something I can’t control. My dreams.

This is my new reality.

And I want to wake from it. Only this is my waking life.

I need my mother to come out of her latest sleep state. I desperately need to talk to her.

But for now, I start on my computer. I told Grandpa earlier that I saw his browser history, that I know he hasn’t been researching Sleeping Beauty syndrome. Grandpa ’fessed up that he’s been studying Greek mythology. He sent me a bunch of links. A crash course on my relatives.

Shaking. I click on the first link.

Turns out, I have a very weird family tree.

Morpheus is one of the Oneiroi—gods of dreams, nightmares, death, and darkness. Morpheus is the son of Nyx, the goddess of night, which I guess makes her my grandmother. Only I don’t see her baking chocolate chip cookies and coming to my
high school graduation next year. I certainly don’t expect her to give me a car.

And my father has brothers. One of his brothers is Hypnos, or Sleep. One brother controls nightmares. They are all related to Death. And apparently, according to Grandpa’s theories, these uncles of mine are furious I exist. Sure, apparently thousands of years ago, the gods liked to meddle in human affairs. They even
had
affairs and so there were half-human, half-god children running around. But not anymore. For some reason, the gods decided to keep to themselves and stay hidden from mortals. So the idea of Morpheus falling in love with my mom? Real love. Grandpa thinks that made the Underworld really, really angry. And then having a real, live daughter in
this
century? Grandpa’s right. We’re not all spending Christmas together.

But what about Sebastian? He’s in my dreams—he’s the man
of
my dreams. How does he fit into this world? Is he a god?

And
then
I wonder exactly how I’m going to tell Annie all this. How I could tell anyone this:

“Oh, by the way . . . I have a confession to make.
I’m a freak
—half god half mortal.” Like what does that even
mean
? Even Annie would think I’m nuts.
I’d be better off having the stigmata.

I read more, Googling like crazy. It’s overwhelming and exhausting. My eyelids are heavy. I look at the time function on my computer. It’s 2:22 in the morning. I put my head down on my desk. Resting for just a second.

I am in the long hallway of many doors, and the keys I carry jangle at my side. I hear a voice. His voice. But I don’t see him. The voice is in my head. And his voice says, “Come to our secret hiding place. Remember, Iris? Remember?”

But I don’t remember. At least I don’t think so. I look down at my key ring, and I see a key. A tiny key. It’s one of hundreds, but I can tell it’s special. And it looks so familiar. At the top of it a leaf is engraved, so small and yet so detailed. I touch the key, and it’s warm. So now I have the key, but how am I to tell which door it opens? I walk down the hallway. Behind me I hear growls like thunder in the distance. I don’t want to look back. I refuse to. I want to find the door that belongs to this key. I’m frightened. The hallway is dark. So dark. And I am so, so utterly and completely afraid.

I see a door. A small one, no taller than three feet high. A small door for a small key. That sort of makes sense. The door has a carving of a tree on it. I lean down and insert the key. I turn it to the right
. Click.

I get down on my hands and knees and open the door. Squirming just so, I crawl through, not knowing for sure what is on the other side.

But as soon as my head is through, I see it’s a beautiful garden, and in the middle of the garden is a tall, magnificent tree.

I finish squeezing through the door, shut it behind me, and stand up on the other side. It’s peaceful. Birds are chirping, and I can hear in the distance the gentle sound of the sea. I follow a soft, sandy path through phlox and lavender and hollyhocks. Their scents mix with the smell of the ocean, and I make my way to the tree. It’s an old oak, with a thick trunk and branches that reach skyward but seem to stretch out so far I can barely see their ends. As I walk closer, I realize it’s my oak tree. Mine. The tree from my front yard. And in it is my tree house, the tree house I have played in since kindergarten.

I smile and touch the trunk of the tree. It feels real beneath my fingers. I start to climb up the wooden boards Grandpa nailed into the trunk. But as I look at them, I realize they’re new, just like when he first built my special fortress in the branches the summer before I started school—not worn and weathered like in the real world. But it’s definitely my tree house. My secret hiding place. I smile, and I feel as if I’m five again.

I pass through the small trapdoor that leads into the tree house, and I see a little boy inside. He looks familiar.

He grins at me. His hair is long and black and wavy. He has two dimples. He’s playing with marbles, but he stops and says, “I’ve been waiting for you, Iris.”

I look down at my hands. I am five. I am a little girl. I sit down cross-legged next to him and put my elbows on my knees and smile back at him.

“Hi.” I want to say his name. I am certain it is Sebastian, though I have never seen this boy before. But I am afraid to say the name out loud. I think maybe then the gods will come. The gods who want to hurt me.

“Want to play checkers? Or pirates? Or . . . want to look through the telescope?”

“The telescope,” I say eagerly.

We stand and arrange the tripod of the telescope so it faces out the window. I peer through, and I can see far, far away, to a sea. A beautiful sea, shining and serene, gentle cresting waves dancing on its surface. I see a pirate ship in the distance, its skull-and-crossbones flag snapping in the wind.

He slips his hand in mine, and I look over at him.

“I’m going to marry you someday, Iris.” He reaches out the window and points to a branch and brushes the leaves aside. “Look.” And there he has carved a heart. And inside the heart is S + I.

We hear a noise, the growling of a dog. We exchange worried looks and both scoot down and move to the corner of the tree house to hide. We huddle together, and the growling grows louder. My heart thuds so loudly, it sounds as if it’s in my head.

“They’ll find us,” I whisper.

“No, they won’t.” He puts his index finger to his lips. Our faces are inches from each other. I think he’s going to kiss me. And that somehow this kiss will change my life. But then we hear the growls turn into full-fledged barking. Many dogs. Vicious ones, by the sounds of them.

Suddenly, Sebastian isn’t five. He’s older. Seventeen maybe, eighteen? And so am I. He is still holding my hand, and now I don’t know whether my heart is pounding because we’re touching or because of the beasts below the tree house. I look into his eyes—they are almost black, they are so dark—and I realize I have known him my whole life.

“Go!” he urges.

“No!”

He shakes his head. “I will find you. Just go.” He points to the tree-house window, then stands and half lifts, half pushes me out. I am on a thick tree branch, sliding my way along its rough bark. Down below, I see Cerberus. I hear angry voices. Someone shouts, “There she is!”

I panic. And then I lose my balance.

I scream and fall to earth.

And I am awake. I gasp. Like I really fell. I look at the clock. It’s only 2:26. It was a dream. It wasn’t reality, since I’m sitting inside my house. Or was I transported to the Underworld? How could I have traveled to the Underworld and back in just four minutes? Where is the Underworld? Is it a place, like when people believe they go to Heaven when they die?