Page 40 of Nothing Less than Magic

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The big orange pumpkin balloon from the parade is hovering above me, clinging to the ceiling. Every time I reach for its string, the balloon moves, its candy-corn mouth laughing at me. I laugh back. Soon, both of us are giggling until we’re gasping for breath.

Austin is here. He keeps kissing my forehead and my cheek, which is wet from my tears. The fox growls at him, and he starts to sob. A woman in white, maybe Mary, tells him if he doesn’t get a grip, he has to leave. And I feel at once grateful and sad.

Uncle Sylvester is here, too. He’s on his phone, pleading with someone. I think it’s the new Bond girl, because she’s so pretty.

The only one I want is Lolly, but she’s nowhere to be found. I keep calling her, but she doesn’t answer.

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Then I see my mother, my beautiful mother. I reach for her, but I can’t move my arms; they’re too heavy, like bricks. My father is here, too. He’s in his policeman’s uniform, more handsome than I even remember. I try to talk to him, tell him I forgive him, but my mouth is so dry, no words come out. Just squeaks.

They’re leaving, and I want to follow them. Maybe if I follow them, we can be a family again. Mom, Dad, Lolly, and me.

“Wait for me,” I say, but no one hears me but the fox. Its ears prick up, and it cocks its head to one side before running off into the forest.

I try to get up to go with Mom and Dad, but my body won’t move no matter how hard I try. I look down at my feet, willing them to carry me away, but they are blue, and I can’t see my toes. I start to cry, but no one notices.

Then out of nowhere, Knox is here. He’s holding my hand and I feel better, safer.

“I want to go with my parents,” I tell him.

“Not today,” he says.

“Misty says it’s okay,” I whisper back.

“No, she doesn’t. She wants you to stay. Please stay.”

That’s when I wake up in a cold sweat.

Chapter 10

In the morning, I go to the lake to sit with my cup of coffee. The sun hasn’t quite come up yet, and the sky is awash in color. I wrap the wool blanket I brought from the house tightly around me, trying to keep warm and ward off all the weirdness of the previous night.

I’m not the kind of psychologist who studies dreams, but Freud would probably have a heyday with mine. There’s a noise coming from a nearby bush, and I sit perfectly still in hopes of seeing my friend the fox. But it’s one of the Muscovy ducks that roam, or rather waddle, along the shoreline. I don’t think they’re native here. One of my neighbors says they are from Mexico or South America. My guess is someone originally brought them to the lake as pets, where they reproduced and thrived. They’re funny-looking creatures, black and white with red faces, and half the time sound like they’re having an asthma attack. The same neighbor says the sound is normal, though the first time I heard one, I wanted to rush it to the nearest vet.

I watch as it grubs for insects, immune to the cold. I should go inside and make a fire, but I need the air and the open space for a few more minutes. And the lake is so tranquil this time of the morning, it would be a shame to miss it as it wakes up.

So I wait for the sunrise, pulling my blanket tighter as I lean back in one of Austin’s plastic Adirondack chairs, making a decision to buy real ones today. Perhaps I can persuade Knox to pick them up in his truck.

I’m down to the last of my coffee when I hear him drive up. It only takes him a minute or so to spot me in the chair. He waves, goes inside, only to join me a short time later.