This is the place. He doesn't know me. Probably never saw me before in his life.
I stand still in the dirt, hands tugging at the loose strings on my jeans, pretending not to stare at the porch. Cheii sits in his lawnchair, staring straight through me, just like before. Only he doesn't remember me either. Probably never saw me before in his life. A gust of wind blows his silvery hair across his face. He doesn't bat it away, but leaves it there, crossing in front of his nose, like the paintings you see of Red Indians in the old cowboy museums. He wears the same plaid shirt I remember from the first time, and the same shredded jeans, and the same beat up leather boots. But he never saw me before in his life.
I stand and stare at the piles of rubble that Cheii dares to call wares. Supposedly, he sells them, though I've never seen anyone stop at his shop. The only reason I stopped here before was that I thought I might be able to talk to someone.
That worked out.
Finally, I work up the courage. I am alone now, so it's all up to me. No more Cole to egg me on. I take a step forward and force a smile. A horrible feeling of déjà vu sinks my stomach, but I grit my teeth and smile anyway. I have to try. What kind of person doesn't even try?
I grin and wave at the old man and his lawn chair. He doesn't move. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even blink. Which is oddly comforting - it means he hates me in real life too.
"Hi there," I call. "I wonder if..." This is exactly how it happened in the dream.
Cheii growls under his breath, raises a fist to me, and jerks himself out of his chair and up onto the porch.
Too close. I don't like it.
"...you can help me," I finish, no louder than a mutter. No one is listening anyway.
Cheii disappears into the darkness of the open door, because the house has only one window and it's always dark inside. I feel myself making a face at him - sticking out my tongue. Glad his back is turned.
So close to before, but the dream feeling is gone. I stand in the yard amidst the piles of junk. I try not to stare at them, but I'm dying to know if they are the same piles of junk from my dream. Probably not.
"Hi," a voice says. "Sorry about that. My grandfather is..."
"I know," I say without looking up. "He doesn't like me."
"Hey," says the new voice. "I..." He hesitates, so I know it's him. And I know he is about to rip my heart out, metaphorically speaking. Or maybe not metaphorically.
I glance up, only peeking from behind my eyelashes for a second. Silky black hair dripping over his shoulders, tattered red shirt and cut-off shorts, and the creamiest blue eyes I've ever seen. And tall, so tall. Like a giant, almost. Except for the eyes, this is definitely him. But in the dream, he was certainly not blind.
"Hi," I say.
Great opening line.
"I know you," he says, his brow furrowing. "At least... well... I don't know. You sound familiar." He smiles. "Sounds crazy, doesn't it? Well, you wouldn't believe me if I told you why, so pretend I didn't say anything."
My mouth falls open. This is how it works? He remembers? How can he remember when it didn't really happen? But I remember...then again, it was my dream, or whatever you want to call it.
"Tommy?" I gasp. "Tommy Longfeather?"
He shakes his head slowly, very slowly. "It is you," he whispers. "Claire."
I nod, then realize he can't see me. He doesn't need to see me.
"You're real," he says.
I nod again. I can't speak; words have left me.
"I knew you were," he says. "They told me I was crazy, but I knew it. How could I see you otherwise?"
"You see me?" I hiss.
He smiles. "When I close my eyes. It's like you're imprinted on the backs of my eyelids. My eyes don't work, but I still see you."
"Wow." It's more work than you think to force air out through a closed throat. I can barely do it.
Tommy reaches out his hand. His aim is a little off, but I take it anyway. I remember how the bony, callused fingers felt in the dream. They are exactly the same now. And he holds on too tight, just like in the dream. I am about to step forward when he suddenly jerks me into him, wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my hair.
"I missed you," he says. "Why didn't you come back, or whatever you want to call it? It's been months."
"I don't know how it works," I admit. "I don't know why I saw you one night and not the next or the next or the next."
I put my arms around him too and try to ignore the bones poking out from his ribcage and spine. He is even skinnier than I thought. And shaking, though whether it's from fear or excitement or shock or weakness I can't be sure.
"Then it's a good thing you came back for real," he laughs.
"You really are starving," I remark. I don't mean to say it out loud, but I do. Probably hurt his feelings.
"You really are rich," he says, still laughing.
"How can you tell?"
"Silk shirt."
I gather his shirt in my fists and hold on tight, because if I let go I might discover this is just another dream. If it is, I don't want to wake up.
"Don't worry baby, I'm not going anywhere," he chuckles.
"Are we going to lunch?" I try to sound cheery, not scared like I am.
"Are you buying?"
"Always."
