Page 19 of The Wolf

Poppy

Dreams and reality are similar, like mirrors reflecting a backward image.

Vega might not think they're connected, but they are.

They're chaos and control in one place. They're wishes and desires.

They're the brightest and darkest of our souls.

Filth and beauty go hand in hand. You can't have one without the other.

It's like good and evil. Laughter and sadness.

Anger and happiness. To appreciate one, you needed to have the other.

But what happens when reality and fiction bleed together? When you can't tell one from the other? When your dreams and reality mirror each other so closely, you question which is true? If you can't tell them apart, then it all becomes chaos. And chaos is a wheel that just keeps spinning.

My dreams had become vivid movies. Movies that felt so real I could feel the sheets beneath my back and the comforter around my chest. I could smell the fabric softener in the fibers of the blanket and the shampoo in my cold, wet hair.

I was a child again, waking up in bed at home. I was confused. Something was off. It didn't feel right. I remembered men and the sound of someone screaming. I remembered the last feelings I had were fear, pain, and sadness.

My father was sitting at my bedside, running his fingers through my hair. He smiled at me. “Hey, Pumpkin,” he said as he leaned in and kissed my forehead.

“How did I get here?” I asked as I looked around with wild eyes.

“What do you mean how did you get here?” His smile broadened as he placed his hands on his knees. “You've always been here, Pumpkin. It's morning; time for you to get up now.”

“What do you mean?” I pushed up in the bed. “I was in Italy with mom.” My eyes shot open wide. “Oh my God. Where's mom? Is she okay? These men came into our hotel room and—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Pumpkin, slow down. What are you talking about? You weren't in any hotel room, and you certainly didn't go to Italy. I think I would have known about a trip like that.”

“Yes, I did. I went with Mom. We went to Paris first, and then we went to Italy. These men forced their way into our room, and one of them did something to Mom. I saw it, Dad. I was there.” My voice was crackling as I spoke. I could barely hold back my tears.

My father ran his hand down my head and said calmly, “It sounds to me like you had a bad dream. Actually, that sounds more like a nightmare. Your imagination is pretty wild.”

“I'm not lying. I'm telling you the truth. Where's mom? She'll tell you,” I sniffled and took a deep breath.

“Mom isn't feeling well today. She's sleeping. Mom needs as much rest as she can get when she's sick, you know that.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “No, that's not true. She was better. Mom wasn't sick. We flew on a plane. We were on an adventure. We used pretend names, and she even cut my hair. See?” I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling at the ends.

“Pumpkin, you cut your hair. Last night after dinner, you talked about wanting it cut, and when I said no, you stormed off.

I didn't think you'd cut it yourself, though.” He lifted the scissors off my dresser with a concerned look.

“Are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever?” He placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You're burning up.”

“Dad, I swear—”

“Look, sometimes dreams can feel real. And if you have a fever, it's even worse. I'm going to go get you some medicine.”

“I feel fine. It wasn't a dream. Go ask Mom. She'll tell you.”

“She's sleeping. I told you that.”

“I want to see her.”

He grimaced as he rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Alright, but you can't wake her up. You need to let her rest. She isn't well, Pumpkin. And then we need to get you something to bring down this fever.”

“Fine.”

My father stood up, tucked his hands in his pockets, and nodded. “Let's go.”

I followed him to her room. My mother and father slept separately because she was sick a lot. I wasn't sure what was wrong with her, but it seemed like she had been sick on and off my entire life. My father only told me that I would understand it better when I was older.

His penny loafers squeaked against the wood floor.

His pleated pants swooshed back and forth with each step as his thighs rubbed together.

My father's button-up shirt was tucked into his pants, and his gray vest was buttoned all the way to the top.

He always wore a tie, and that day, he chose a bright red one.

I remembered the red vividly because it was the same color red as the handkerchiefs the men had.

As we approached the door, my father stopped and turned to face me. “I'm warning you, Poppy, do not wake her up. I'll let you see her so you know you had a bad dream, but that's it. Understand?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm telling you the truth. We did fly to Paris, and then we took a train to Italy. I'm not lying.” I pushed past him and opened the door.

My mother was tucked peacefully into bed. The covers were tight and snug all the way up to her neck. She was sleeping, just like my father said. A towel was draped over her hair and across her forehead. The lamp next to her bed cast a yellow glow, making her skin the color of amber.

My father placed his hands around my shoulders and squeezed. “See. She's sound asleep, just like I told you,” he whispered.

“I'm telling you it's true. Look,” I said, pulling away and darting to her side.

“Her hair is black. She dyed it in France.” I gently pushed up the towel, exposing her hair, but to my surprise, it wasn't black.

Her hair was now the same beach-kissed blond it had always been.

“But. . . She dyed it. It was black. I swear she dyed it black.”

“Pumpkin, I don't know what else to do to prove to you it was just a dream.”

I was aghast. Was I going crazy? I remembered everything.

Every moment. Every sight. I could probably bring my father there and be his guide.

But now, I wasn't so sure. Could a dream be that memorable?

That real? That tangible? I could still smell the fresh pastries of Paris and the musty, brackish water of Venice.

I could still feel the silk sheets on my skin and the warm breeze as it blew through my hair.

“Poppy, as you can plainly see, Mom's hair isn't dyed.” He gave me a feigned smile as he held out his arm. “Let's go get you some medicine. That fever needs to come down. I'm getting worried now.”

“I don't have whatever it is Mom has. I feel fine.”

“You can't catch what your mother has that way. People sometimes just get sick, Poppy. It's a natural part of human life. A high fever can do all kinds of things, especially cause hallucinations.”

I walked by him and back into the hall, giving my mother one last look over my shoulder before my father shut the door. “I'm so confused.”

“That's why you need to trust me. I know what I'm talking about.” He guided me along with his hands on my shoulders to the kitchen.

“It felt so real.”

My father pulled out the stool at the kitchen island. “Hop up.”

I did as I was told. The stool was cold against the back of my thighs. I shivered. “Is there something wrong with me? How could I not know I was dreaming?”

“I told you, a high fever can cause hallucinations. People who have them think they're real. I've seen people think bugs were crawling on their skin, and one man even thought he was Benjamin Franklin. He recited historical information, and all of it was accurate, but he wasn't Benjamin Franklin.”

“Really?”

“Yup. He was convinced. In reality, he was suffering from a fever that was one hundred and six degrees because he had a brain tumor.”

“Do I have a brain tumor?” I asked. My voice was shaky, and my eyes popped open wide.

“No, Pumpkin. You don't have a brain tumor.” He gave me a smile and then began rummaging through his bag. He took out a brown bottle and poured some cherry-red syrup into a medicine cup. “Here, drink this. You'll feel much better after.”

“Are you sure I don't have a brain tumor?” I asked as I took the cup and drank down the sour liquid.

“I'm positive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm a doctor.”

“I thought you were a pharmacist?”

“I'm that too. I'm a doctor who develops medicine.”

“Well, your medicine tastes horrible.” I stuck out my tongue and scrunched up my nose.

“Think of it like vegetables. They don't always taste the best—”

“Like peas,” I chimed in.

“Yes, like peas. But they're good for you. They help your body get stronger.”

“Then why is Mom always so sick? You give her medicine, and it doesn't seem to help.”

“Mom is different.”

“Why? What's wrong with her?”

“Pumpkin—”

I cut him off. “You said you'd explain it to me when I was older. I'm older now.”

“Not old enough, Poppy, but soon. Alright?” He stood beside me and draped his hand down my head.

I pulled away and looked up at him. “When is soon? What if I do have what she has? Maybe I'm going to be as sick as her.”

“You just need to trust me. You don't have what your mother has, and I will explain it one day. Right now, I want you to go upstairs and take a shower for school.”

“But I thought I was sick? Shouldn't I stay home and get better like Mom?”

“The medicine will make you all better.”

“Yes, but—”

“Forget about the fever. I think school will help take your mind off that nightmare.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

I quirked a brow as I frowned. “But I'm sick. You said I have a fever. I shouldn't go if I'm sick, Daddy. I might get someone else sick.”

“It'll be fine.” He leaned on the counter and said, “I'm gone too much. I need to be around more for you. You need your father in your life, and I need you. Who's going to run my company when I'm gone?”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere right now. I mean in the future when I'm old. I want you to be the one who takes my place.”

“Dad, I could never run your company. I'm just a kid.”