Between - By Kerry Schafer Page 0,1
need ever know.”
This she believes, as she kisses him good-bye, for she is very young and knows so little of what lies in the worlds beyond.
This, too, she will remember with regret.
One
Quiet.
The curse word of the emergency room, and Vivian had been careful not to say it aloud. Still, it wandered through her head and lodged there.
Too quiet. The waiting room was empty, as were all seven treatment bays at Krebston Memorial Hospital. Staff puttered in silence, cleaning and restocking with the watchful air of coast dwellers preparing for hurricane season.
Knowing the inevitable storm could manifest in any number of forms, Vivian took the opportunity to slip into the staff lounge and dial a number on her cell. Eight rings before a drowsy voice answered.
“How is she?”
“She, who? Who is this?”
“Sorry—this is Vivian Maylor.”
Silence.
“Checking in on Isobel.”
“Your mother is sleeping.”
Vivian suspected the speaker had also been sleeping. At River Valley Family Home we care for your loved ones every hour of every day, the brochure claimed. Comforting to families, but much more likely that the night worker was settled into a reclining chair with a blanket and a pillow, just resting her eyes.
“Are you sure?”
“Dr. Maylor.” Thinly veiled annoyance now. “It’s one-oh-five A.M. She was in bed and asleep by eleven.”
“Humor me. Check on her. Please.”
A heavy sigh. The sound of breathing and feet tapping on tile.
Vivian fidgeted, sank into a chair, and drummed her fingers on the table. Sticky. She withdrew her hand and wiped it on a napkin from the ragged pile next to the box of stale Walmart doughnuts.
“I’m standing in the bedroom doorway. Your mother is in bed. Snoring. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The words offered no relief for the unease itching beneath the surface of Vivian’s skin. So many years of watching out for Isobel, so many near disasters. It was hard to delegate all that to a casual stranger. “She took all of her meds?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? She sometimes cheeks them. Or stockpiles them in her drawer for—”
“Dr. Maylor—we are taking good care of her. Isobel is fine.”
“She’s breathing, right? Is—”
Click.
Roxie stuck her head through the door before Vivian could succumb to the temptation to call back. “Hey, Doc—burned teenager in five—walked in, no parental units in sight. Weird one—definite screws loose. All vitals copacetic except he’s running a temp—one-oh-two.”
Vivian sighed and pocketed her cell. Roxie cocked her head on one side, sharp nose twitching like an inquisitive rodent. “You look wasted. Big party on your night off?”
“Funny. My life is a little tamer than yours.”
“So, what then?”
“Not sleeping.” Understatement of the year. Over the last few weeks her dreams, always vivid, had taken on a new intensity that carried her into waking with a pervading sense that she had traveled endless miles through a twisting maze where dragons lurked, an armed warrior at her side. Today she’d wakened aching with exhaustion and found a blister on her heel that had no rational explanation. If this trend continued she’d be joining her mother at River Valley Family Home.
“Vivian?”
“Sorry.” She sagged in exaggerated weariness and held up her hands. “Too tired to move. Help me up.”
“Buck up, Doc, we’ve got miles to go.”
“Don’t I know it.”
The little nurse gripped her wrists and heaved her to her feet. “Go see crazy boy in five and then you can sneak a nap.”
Vivian followed Roxie out of the lounge, the door falling shut behind her with a small thud. Max, all three hundred tattooed pounds of him, sat at the desk paging through an edition of what looked like Oprah magazine. Shelly, the tech, intent on texting, didn’t bother to look up.
Everything was clean, quiet. Again, Vivian winced as that word passed through her brain, and involuntarily she reached up and touched the pendant she wore beneath her clothing, a dream catcher with a rough stone carving of a penguin woven into its center.
Her sneakers made sucking noises on the linoleum, all the way down the hall to bay five—squeak, squeak. She definitely needed to rethink her footwear. Outside the drawn curtain she paused, a cold finger of apprehension running the length of her spine. Dizziness rocked her as reality collided with dream. She stood still, listening to the rapid thudding of her own heart, until she was able to pull herself together, knock, and enter.
Arden Douglas, sixteen, location of parents unknown, resident of the small town of Krebston. Also a nameless player in one of Vivian’s dreams. This much she remembered, along with