I awoke with a start to a blast of sound so shrill and ear-piercing that I'd have bolted from the bed had I not been entangled in it. Bleary-eyed and anxious, I struggled to sit up and free myself from layers of pink linen as the high-pitched buzzing continued, repetitive and insistent and incredibly annoying. When I finally thrust my head from beneath the sheets, I spotted the culprit immediately: a razor-thin rectangle of what appeared to be metal and glass sitting on a nearby nightstand, the glass lit up with a picture of some boy I didn't recognize and numbers that insolently proclaimed the time to be 6:30 AM.
Staring at it a moment, bewildered, I reached out tentatively and picked it up. It looked exactly like the thing Nurse Anderson had spoken into that first time I'd dreamt of being Samantha, and as I studied it the numbers changed to read 6:31. The annoying buzzing continued, but beneath the numbers were two images that looked like pushbuttons of some sort. One said "Snooze" and the other said "Dismiss."
A sharp knock on the bedroom door drew my attention, and a woman called out: "Samantha, are you up yet?"
My heart skipped a beat. Samantha again?
"Sam?" More knocking. "Hurry up, honey. This is your special day."
"I'm up," I blurted out, immediately cupping a hand over my mouth in shock that the words had come so instinctively.
"Well, turn off that infernal alarm and get showered and dressed," the woman on the other side of the door said. "We have to be at the studio before eight."
"Okay," I said, still holding the metal and glass thing like it were something alien—which for me it was. I stared at it dumbly, watching the numbers change again, now reading 6:32. I fumbled with the device and recalled how the nurse had touched the glass and so I pressed the tip of my finger to the "Dismiss" button and watched in amazement as it seemed to change, brightening for a moment, and then vanishing as the room fell silent. I sat there, confused, staring at the glass, at the dozens of strange looking little pictures now arrayed in rows across it. But before I could even catch my breath, it spoke to me.
"You have fourteen messages," it said.
I jumped and dropped the thing onto the bed between my legs and gaped at it, astounded as the picture on the glass changed yet again. It was like magic, and I kept thinking it was the weirdest thing to have in a dream. A bit uncertainly, I set it back on the nightstand; then I just sat there a moment, trying to come to grips with where I was.
Where and who.
I'm dreaming again, I told myself. But when I glanced back at the nightstand, a shiver passed through me.
How can this be a dream?
"Sam!"
"Yes, I'm getting up," I cried; and I got out of bed, stood up, and promptly fell over.
What the hell?
It took me a moment to pick myself up and stand again, and when I did I swayed a little uncertainly. I felt awkward, and my body felt weird. My arms and legs were alien appendages, as though they weren't a part of me. Or was it that I wasn't a part of them; that I wasn't a part of this body?
I looked around, overwhelmed by my surroundings.
Samantha's bedroom was huge, dominated by an enormous four-poster bed, the floor littered with piles of books and clothes and stuffed animals and a ton of other things. Posters were pinned to the wall, large color photos of teenage boys, some with weird looking guitars, some just looking sullen or moody. One in particular sent a chill up my spine: a pale-skinned youth with piercing black eyes and gleaming fangs. A drop of blood trickled from his red lips.
A vamp.
So they were here, after all. But of course that wouldn't be surprising if this were just a dream. I'd populate it with what I knew, wouldn't I? Except I wasn't familiar with any of this clobber. It was all strange and unusual and like nothing I thought I could ever have imagined.
I shivered again and turned away, walked unsteadily over to a mirror that stood in one corner of the room and stood peering at myself. It took me a moment to accept that I was looking at me—or at least the me of this other place. The girl staring back was the one I recalled from before, but older now. She looked maybe fifteen; because I realized that under the sleeveless white top I was wearing there was a substantial bosom and fuller hips filling out the loose black pants that hung way too low on her...my hips. The girl in the mirror had longer hair than I recalled from before, but the eyes were the same—except there wasn't as much terror in them now; more confusion and bewilderment than anything else.
I lifted my hand and stared at it, thought it looked like mine. But in the mirror the fingernails were longer and painted with purple nail polish, and when I glanced down at the reflection of my feet I saw that the toenails had been done to match. It was eerie to touch my face and watch the girl in the mirror mimic my gestures exactly, watch as she fingered strands of the long brown hair. There was something mesmerizing about it, and it was hard to tear myself away, to force myself to look elsewhere. It surely has to be the strangest thing to wake up in someone else's body and not have a clue how you got there or what you're supposed to do.
The woman who had knocked on the door had mentioned something about a studio. But what did that mean? I felt renewed anxiety and wondered how I could pretend to be this girl Samantha and do whatever it was she was supposed to do.
"Samantha!"
"I'm coming," I said irritably, responding the way I sometimes did with Mom. But that wasn't Mom out there and this wasn't Haven and I'd no idea what I was going to do.
It's just a dream. You don't have to do anything.
I poked around the room, picking things up and trying to find some connection to them. There was a framed piece of cork paneling hanging on the wall like a painting. It had notes and pictures and other bits of card and paper pinned to it with colorful thumbtacks. I studied it, stepping closer to examine a strip of photos showing Samantha and another girl, heads pressed close together, making faces at the camera, looking as though they were having the time of their lives. Another picture, in color, showed Samantha standing beside a boy—the same one on the glass and metal thing—holding hands, looking like more than just friends.
How many times had I wished I could have a different life? How many times had I so desperately wanted something "normal"? Now I was standing in another girl's room, in another girl's body, living her life, and there wasn't anything normal about it. It was all foreign to me, and when I opened the closet I realized just how much. The contents made me gasp in astonishment. There were more clothes in there than a dozen girls back in Haven could ever have hoped to own. I didn't even think the richest of Cliffside's little princesses could possibly have as many outfits and accessories. There were dresses, tops, skirts, blouses, sweaters, and shoes in unimaginable numbers, supplemented by a variety of hats, belts, and bags. On one shelf a jewelry box was overflowing with bracelets, bangles, necklaces, earrings and rings. It was as if I were Ali Baba and had just stumbled upon the treasure of the forty thieves. I found myself pulling out dresses just to look at them and see fashions that were like nothing you'd find in Haven. It would cost a month of electric rations and weeks of fulltime pay to buy just one of the fancy dresses in Samantha's closet. As much again for some of the shoes.
What was I supposed to wear to the 'studio'? I just stood there, flummoxed, and was still standing there when Samantha's mom came in. She paused just inside the doorway, then threw up her hands and started toward me, an impatient scowl on her face. "Sam, why on earth aren't you ready?" She shook her head in exasperation.
"I...I don't know what to wear," I stammered.
Samantha's mother heaved a theatrical sigh. "Honestly, Sam, we discussed this last night. You're almost fourteen years old, not a baby."
I stared at her blankly as she pushed me aside and started going through the clothes hanging in the closet. "Here," she said, taking out a pretty, short-sleeved top and thrusting it at me. I took it as she turned back to the closet and rummaged some more.
"You'd better hurry and have your shower," Samantha's mom said, handing me a pleated black skirt and a silver sequined belt. "And this time don't forget to put your wet towels in the hamper. And remember to unplug the blow dryer when you're finished with it." She paused, looked speculative a moment, as though going through a list in her head. "Wear the nice slingbacks I got you. Oh, and not too much makeup, okay? You're going on national TV, so I don't want you looking like a—" Her hands fluttered dismissively. "Never mind. Just a little lip gloss, eh? And go easy on the mascara and eye shadow. Less is more, they say. I know it's all the rage with you girls these days, but really, you all wear far too much. It's not a mask you're putting on."
I nodded meekly and watched her go, my heart still racing, anxiety a caged animal inside me. Closing my eyes, I took deep, calming breaths and stood there telling myself this wasn't real. It hadn't been real last time, had it? Or the time before? It was a dream, and in a moment I'd wake up from it. Except I found myself wondering: Do you really ever know you're in a dream? When you're in one, can you actually tell yourself you're going to wake up soon?
Somehow I found the rest of the clothes I needed and managed to navigate my way to the loo. The bathroom took my breath away. It was at least twice the size of my bedroom in the cottage we'd had in Pau'Launni, and stepping into it felt like walking into a fairytale: everything was so ostentatious—rich and fine and new looking. It reminded me of some of those places you'd see in the old movies from before the Fall.
The shower was like standing in a tropical rain, and the shampoo smelt like perfume and foamed and made my hair feel all light and luxurious. There was nothing like it in Haven. I could have stood in there for hours, letting the water beat down on me, but someone started hammering on the door and shouting, "Hey, dorkess, get the lead out. Some of us have school today."
The uneasiness that had ebbed now washed over me again and I quickly got out of the shower and toweled off and dried my hair. But getting dressed presented me with yet another hurdle, because although I'd been after Mom to get me one, I'd never actually worn a brassiere before. Martine and I had practiced having bosoms by stuffing socks under our shirts, but this was unexplored territory for me. It took me a moment or two to navigate the mechanics of the thing and get everything properly settled in place, and when I did I was kind of flabbergasted by the result.
More pounding on the door, and the boy on the other side said, "Come on already, Spam! I don't have all day. My ride's going to be here in thirty."
There was makeup on the vanity countertop, but I'd no idea whether or not it was Samantha's. Her mother had mentioned lip gloss, so I rifled through the jars and tubes until I found something that looked promising.
When I finally opened the door to the bathroom, I found myself face-to-face with a gangly boy who was a good foot taller than I was. A brother, I figured. He must have been at least sixteen, though it was hard to tell, and he had long dark hair and gray eyes and the beginnings of a mustache. Baggy shorts hung about his waist, and he wore a tee-shirt that had a silver skull on it and a bunch of letters that didn't seem to spell anything.
"About time," he growled, bumping past me. "What the heck takes you so long, anyway?" Before I could answer he slammed the door, and a few seconds later the shower was running.
"Samantha!" It was Samantha's mom calling.
I followed the voice to a flight of stairs, went down and found her waiting for me in the foyer. It was more than a year since I'd been here, but clearly even more time had passed in Samantha's life. Yet there didn't seem to have been any dramatic changes. On the surface, at least. I'd a feeling that in other ways a lot was different, and I was sure it had something to do with the last time I'd been Samantha. The time when I'd encountered the Old One. I shuddered and tried to put it out of my mind, but it was hard to forget the utter terror I'd felt when I'd found myself his prisoner.
I had never told Mom about that, though it might have helped if I had, because I'd had terrible nightmares for weeks after. Cold sweats and tremors and waking up abruptly in the middle of the night. On a few occasions I'd even puked my guts out, and I felt like doing that right now and had to swallow and take quick breaths and will myself not to.
"Don't worry," said Samantha's mother. "This is going to be good for you. Cathartic. You'll see." She stepped closer and inspected me, adjusted my blouse and brushed a wayward lock of hair from my eyes, pinning it behind my ear. "You look so pretty," she said, smiling with maternal pride.
I smiled back. "So do you," I said. And she did. She reminded me a lot of Mom, though with darker skin and lighter eyes and faint facial lines that suggested someone in her early forties. And while she might not have been as beautiful as Mom, she was still attractive. Her brown hair was cut to just above her shoulders and flipped under at the ends. She was wearing a smart red suit contoured to a trim figure, and matching stiletto heels that made her seem so much taller than she actually was. She wore jewelry, but nothing gaudy or cheap. It was all tasteful and expensive looking.
"Where's your handbag?" she asked. A bit of frustration crept into her voice and flared in her eyes. She looked a little on edge, maybe slightly flustered. "And where are your shoes?" She huffed a sigh. "Honestly, Sam, where is your head this morning?"
"I...I'm sorry," I stammered.
"Well hurry up and fetch them." Samantha's mom made a shooing motion with her hands. "And make sure you have your cell. I'm not letting you use mine to text your friends."
Cell? Text? She might as well have been speaking a foreign language.
"Don't just stand there." She gave me the look Mom gave me when she was at the threshold of her patience. "I'll be in the car."
I ran back upstairs and into Samantha's room, looked around and spotted a black leather handbag hanging off the footboard bedpost. I grabbed it up and searched inside. It was stuffed with cosmetics—a lot more than I think Samantha's mom would have approved of—and tons of items whose purposes were a complete mystery to me.
Next I went to the closet and looked over the shoes. Samantha's mom had said something about slingbacks, but the ones I saw had three inch heels and I knew there was no way on Earth I could navigate wearing those. I'd never worn heels before, and now wasn't the time to experiment, so I picked what I thought were rather stylish-looking flats and slipped them on, pleased with how they looked and how comfortable they felt.
"Hey, Spam, shouldn't you be gone by now?"
I jumped, self-conscious, like I'd just been caught going through someone else's things—which I had, I guess. The boy from the bathroom was standing in the doorway, eyeing me curiously. He actually looked quite handsome, all cleaned up and in fresh clothes. "You okay?" he asked; and I thought it was genuine concern.
"Yeah. Sure," I said in a tiny voice. But I didn't feel okay. I was frightened. Terrified. I wanted this dream to end. I wanted to be back with Mom, because I didn't understand any of this. I felt tears stinging my eyes, and I swallowed a lump in my throat.
"Um...I...I'm looking for my...my cell?" I said, not having a clue what that was.
He glanced at the nightstand, gave me a little frown, then walked over and picked up the glass and metal thing I had thought was a clock. "Right here," he said, tossing it to me.
"Thanks," I said, catching it clumsily.
"You sure you're okay?"
I sketched a nod.
He came over and stood towering above me, then unexpectedly put his arms around me. "It's going to be okay, sis," he said softly. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. Just tell Mom to go to hell."
I felt myself relax in the cocoon of his embrace, closed my eyes and let some of the fear drain away. It was so easy because he made me feel that someone cared, that someone understood, and that nothing would ever hurt me again.
"I should go," I said. But I didn't want to. I wanted to stand there with him holding me because then I didn't have to think about all the other things I didn't understand. If I just stood there I didn't have to make sense of it.
The boy followed me down the stairs, snatched up a backpack of some sort, and locked the door behind us as we stepped outside. The woman was sitting behind the wheel of an enormous black truck that was parked in the driveway. It was different from the one I remembered, and even bigger and more luxurious than the big black Mercedes limo the president drove around in. Escalade it said on the side. As Samantha's brother ran by he waved to the woman, then trotted across the street to a waiting car. I was sorry to see him go.
The window of the truck's passenger door slid down, and across from it Samantha's mom yelled, "We're going to be late, honey!"
****
The studio was chaotic: a maze of corridors and rooms with people walking in a hurry this way and that. A few minutes earlier, we'd checked in at the reception, and from there a young woman who had introduced herself as "Joyce, one of the production assistants" had led us deeper into the building. Now Samantha's mom and I followed Joyce past busy offices and pieces of strange machinery and walls bedecked with framed pictures and posters and signs indicating "Studio A" or "Video Editing" and any number of mysterious destinations. A hum of activity permeated the place and gave me the impression that in this world everything was rushed, that there was no time to just sit and relax and do nothing.
After we went through "Makeup" we were left in the "green room"—which wasn't green at all but painted in a drab beige. The furniture was all sharp angles and done in black leather and chrome, the chairs arranged about a glass coffee table, on which were stacked glossy magazines that had odd titles like Cosmopolitan, People, and Maclean's. There was a small refrigerator in one corner and a counter ran along one wall and plates of fruit had been set out, along with a pitcher of orange juice and a basket of enormous muffins. A massive, complicated looking apparatus squatted in the corner of the counter, its sole purpose apparently to make and dispense coffee. There was also a large picture hanging on the wall. At least, I took it to be a picture until I saw the image moving and realized it must be some sort of television.
Samantha's mom and I sat down.
"Maybe you should eat something," she said, gesturing with her chin toward the table. "You didn't have any breakfast."
I didn't feel like eating. I thought if I tried to I'd probably throw up, because I was feeling dreadfully ill. My heart was going a mile a minute and I could feel my blood thundering like a cataract in my head. All I could think was that I wanted to get away from here, and I sat tense, leaning forward, my knees tight together, my hands resting on them, fingers entwined. I was trying not to tremble, but I don't think I was doing a very good job of it.
"Relax, honey," said Samantha's mom. She gently rubbed my back, exactly the way Mom did when I was upset. "No one's going to hurt you here. They just want to hear about what happened to you. You just tell them whatever you can. That wonderful Doctor Marks is going to be on the show, so you'll be fine."
They wanted to hear about what had happened to me? What was she talking about?
Suddenly my mind was filled with the image of that dead body on the floor of that awful basement and the dark blood spreading out from it like it was oil leaking from a can. I couldn't escape the feeling that that was what Samantha's mom was talking about.
My eyes went to the television. It resembled a movie screen, several times the size of the biggest TV I'd ever seen in Haven. And it was in color. I didn't think even the vamps had stuff like that. The picture was so sharp and clear that it was as if I were looking out a window. I stared, fascinated, watching the woman on the television, marveling at how she looked like a younger, thinner version of Mrs. Ndomo, except she was dressed in an immaculate white suit and had a poise about her that spoke of wealth and refinement and the confidence that came with power. I thought of the Cliffsiders and was sure she'd have no problem fitting in there.
She was talking to someone else, and I'd the impression the two were engaged in some sort of interview. Every so often the image would change to close-ups of the woman or the person to whom she was speaking. Occasionally it showed a bunch of people sitting in rows, like at a theater, and they would clap and even sometimes cheer or nod their heads approvingly.
"We'll be up in a few minutes," Samantha's mom said. "Once she's had a bit more time with Doctor Marks." She put a hand on my arm, her fingers applying a gentle, reassuring pressure.
I just nodded, afraid to say anything.
Time crawled by, and then the television image zoomed in on the host. Samantha's mom picked up something from the coffee table in front of us and pressed a button on it and the voices on the television suddenly got louder.
"Next up, after the break, we have Samantha Jarvis. I'm sure many of you may recall from a few years back the sensational tale of this extraordinarily brave young woman who was abducted while walking home from school and held prisoner for several days before defying the odds and overcoming her captor. She'll join us right here in the studio, and for the first time since her ordeal will answer questions about the events that garnered attention the world over."
I didn't hear the rest of what she said, because suddenly Joyce was at the door of the green room telling Samantha's mom and me that we were on. I swallowed and thought I couldn't possibly feel any worse if I were being led to slaughter. Samantha's mom took my hand, and I clung to it, feeling like the frightened child I was.
I wanted to go home.
I wanted to wake up.
****
There were scores of them, and I could feel them all staring at me, like I was some sort of specimen under a microscope or an animal at a zoo. The moment we stepped onto the stage a roar went up from the audience and my heart rate skyrocketed with it. The woman who looked like Mrs. Ndomo stood and clapped with the watching crowd, then stepped forward and embraced Samantha's mom and pretended to kiss each of her cheeks. She did the same to me, but hugged me tighter and gently touched my face with her soft hands, beaming with compassion, her eyes even hinting at tears as she smiled benevolently.
And then we were sitting on the cream-colored chesterfield, the man Samantha's mom called Doctor Marks seated at one end and me at the other, with Samantha's mom in between, holding my hand again. I was closest to the host, and as the audience quieted she prepared to settle in for the business at hand. There followed a moment of silence, during which she seemed to be making an effort to rein in her emotions. And then it all became rather surreal.
I found myself answering questions about a life I really didn't know. She asked me about friends and family and I could only answer in vague generalities, telling her the things I thought she and the audience wanted to hear: how wonderful my family was, how supportive they'd been; how my friends and school had helped me get through all the hard times in the past few years.
The odd thing was, as I spoke I had faint flashes of memories that weren't mine, and I could only surmise they were a residue of Samantha's, somehow breaking through into my consciousness. It was an eerie thought that maybe Samantha was still in there somewhere, looking out, seeing all this yet in control of none of it. A spectator in her own body. I shuddered to think of it, wondering how I'd feel were I in the same situation and realizing I wouldn't like it one bit. It would be terrifying and wrong and I'd resent whoever had usurped me; and I'd think I was going crazy or something.
But I thought of that bedroom and those clothes and all the things that seemed to point to a girl who was coping. And I contrasted that with myself, and wondered if she just buried all this stuff or passed it off as dreams and kept it hidden from everyone else the way I did. Perhaps we were more alike than I had ever imagined.
Does she remember?
Did she recall any of this? Would she remember being here?
I felt a wave of guilt because I was the one doing this to her. And then I reminded myself that it was just a dream—except that it was getting increasingly difficult to convince myself that that could possibly be true.
"It must have been a terrible ordeal," said the host. She shot a querying look at Samantha's mom, and not getting any protests from her, pressed on.
"You were abducted while walking home from school," the host of the TV show was saying, drawing me from my thoughts. "Can you tell us how that happened?"
I couldn't. I hadn't been in Samantha when she'd been kidnapped, but it didn't take much of an imagination to figure out how terrifying it would have been. I thought my heart was going to burst just thinking about it.
Samantha's mom glanced at me, smiled in that warm maternal way that immediately reassures, and said, "Sam doesn't remember everything. There are still gaps in her memory." She flicked a glance in Doctor Marks' direction, as though seeking qualified input.
"Well," said the host, picking up on that, "perhaps our resident expert, Doctor Marks, can comment on that." She turned to him with an air of expectation.
Doctor Marks sat up straighter, straightened his suit, and smiled benignly at the audience. "Well, I haven't met Samantha until today, but I have to say that this isn't uncommon in traumatic situations like this," he said. "It's sort of the brain's coping mechanism, its way of dealing with something beyond its normal paradigm."
"But Samantha has come a long way since the, um, incident?" said the host, the last word raised in pitch, making the statement a question.
"Oh, yes. It's my understanding she's made remarkable progress, and I would imagine she'll continue to do so. But as with most things, it takes time and patience."
There was much more of this sort of back and forth and in between. I did a lot less talking than Doctor Marks and Samantha's mom, but I could sense that it was leading to something much bigger. Finally the host turned to me and said, "You defied all odds and expectations, Samantha. Many experts assumed the police would never find you alive. Your attempted escape and subsequent subjugation of your captor are considered extraordinary for someone the age you were at the time of your abduction." She paused and flashed a luminous smile. "Extraordinary for anyone, for that matter." The audience cheered and clapped, as if on cue. "Can you tell us how you were able to overcome your fear and do what few adults would have the courage or wherewithal to do in a similar situation?"
It was a question I could at least partially answer, because it had been me who'd done the killing—not the girl they knew as Samantha. I opened my mouth to speak, but Doctor Marks interjected: "Victims in cases like this often have great difficulty accessing memories of that nature. Many block out most of the worst aspects of their predicament. Despite our best efforts, these memories often remain locked away forever. It wouldn't be surprising if this should prove to be the case for this young lady."
The hackles rose on the back of my neck, and I was conscious of a sudden and intense dislike for this man. I couldn't explain why, but he rubbed me the wrong way. He had a wizened face and a fringe of unkept graying hair and looked like he was pushing sixty. Though he probably wasn't as old as he appeared to be, and there wasn't anything overtly sinister about him, there was just something that unsettled me and set off alarm bells. I stared at him, saw him look back at me, and there was something about his eyes that made me shiver. It took me a moment to realize that some of what I was feeling was similar to what I'd felt when I'd seen the Old One in the basement. But he couldn't be an Old One, because I'd have seen that. So what was it about him that made him so disconcerting?
"I can tell you what happened," I said to the host, interrupting the doctor. Out the corner of my eye I saw a look of mild surprise on Doctor Mark's face and concern in the eyes of Samantha's mom. She reached out and took my hand in hers again, and I glanced at her and forced a little smile, as if to say, "I'm, okay. I know what I'm doing." Only I wasn't sure I did; but suddenly I was talking fast, the words just spilling out of me like I couldn't stop them, and I was telling them things I'd kept bottled up inside of me for more than a year, things I hadn't had the courage to talk to Mom about though I'd so desperately wanted to.
I told them everything I'd experienced that day in the basement, with such detail that I felt like I was back there reliving it. And without warning I was crying and sobbing and my whole body was trembling, and I bent over and hid my face in my hands, rocking, overcome by the terror that still dogged me and the horror of what I'd done. It was as though a bomb had gone off within me, and my emotions were the shrapnel flying in all directions.
I could see the man lying in his blood, and he was the man in the mirror and not the Old One any longer. And I remembered the thought that had gone through my head: What sort of man had he been before the Old One had been in him? When it had happened I had thought he must be a monster like the Old One. But now I wondered if maybe he'd just been some ordinary bloke, the sort of guy who'd never really done anything bad in his life and certainly not the sort who'd kidnap a little girl on her way home from school. But something evil had gotten inside him, and I'd slain it. Only in slaying it I may have killed an innocent man in the process.
"I killed him," I said, hiccupping a sob to punctuate the claim.
"Oh, Sam," said Samantha's mom. She shifted closer, her arm stealing around me as she enfolded me and held me tightly to her, the pressure of her embrace loving and full of reassurance. She was a shield, protecting me from the rest of the world—only there are some things no one can save you from because they're inside you, the demons that haunt the dark places in your mind and camp out in the dungeons of your soul.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do it. It just happened. I was trying to escape and he grabbed me, and then the screwdriver was in my hand and I just wanted to get away. I just wanted him to let me go so I could get home. And then he was dead and there was all this blood and I knew I'd killed him." I couldn't stop; it just kept coming and I kept crying. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just wanted to be with my mom."
The audience had gone still. There was utter quiet throughout the studio, except for my tears and my sobs and the words that wouldn't stop. And Samantha's mom was soothing me, telling me it was okay, that it wasn't my fault, that I did what I had to do and he had deserved it. Only I wasn't sure he had, and that made it worse.
The host leaned toward me and put a consoling hand on my knee and kept telling me it was all right. "No one blames you, dear," she said. "We all understand how it was. He was a monster, and anyone else would have done the same thing in your situation. But you don't have to worry anymore, because he's gone and he's never coming back."
She had tears in her eyes and she sounded so sincere, but I couldn't help feeling she wasn't, that it was just a performance, that she was an actor on a stage and nothing for her was real. And I wanted to tell her she was an idiot, that she didn't understand anything and that none of them did. I wanted to tell them that there are real monsters in the world, the type that live in darkness and feed on fear and care only about inflicting pain and misery. Real monsters who can destroy everyone and everything and overnight turn a world into a nightmare.
But I didn't say any of that, because they'd have thought me mad. And when I considered the possibility of that, I thought of Doctor Marks and my dread grew proportionately. I didn't want to have anything to do with people like him, didn't want them rooting around in my mind, digging out my secrets. Clearly they'd been doing that with Samantha; and I wondered again if she'd any memories of what I'd done. Or was it just an unfilled blank? I was pretty certain that Samantha wasn't seeing Haven, because I'd either been unconscious or mere seconds had passed before I found myself back in my own body.
After unleashing so much pent up emotion, I eventually cried myself out. Samantha's mom continued to hold me, rocking me gently, trying to calm me. I felt exhausted and I wanted to lie down. I thought of Samantha's bed, of how nice it would be to crawl under those sheets and burrow into those soft pillows and just shut out the rest of the world, and I imagined that she'd done that on many occasions, had just hidden away from everyone and everything, safe in her own little kingdom. But I had to get through this before I could afford the luxury of doing the same.
Someone brought me a glass of water, and I clutched it in shaking hands, drinking thirstily, each gulp like swallowing a pebble. In the audience people leaned toward seatmates and whispered in their ears as they looked in my direction, and I could imagine what they were saying and it made me feel so small and uncomfortable, like I was something freakish and alien, which maybe I was. Some were weeping, and I could tell they felt sorry for me, but it didn't change the fact that none of them really understood. How could they? How could they possibly know what it was like? You could never imagine anything like what had happened in that basement, because in a way it defied all reality.
The show continued, but there were no more hysterics. At the end of it the audience was on its feet, everyone clapping enthusiastically. I didn't pay much attention to what was going on after that. The host shook hands with all of us, gave me a hug and kissed me on the forehead and spoke meaningless platitudes I suppose she thought would somehow make me feel better. But it just made me think that perhaps she was one of those people who always had to say something, even when silence would communicate so much more.
I was glad when Joyce-the-production-assistant finally came and led us away. Half an hour later, after having our studio makeup cleaned off, we were back in the lobby of the building and I felt as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
"I have to use the loo," I said to Samantha's mom.
"What?" She gave me a puzzled look. "What did you say?"
"The washroom," I said, quickly correcting myself. I jerked my head in the direction of a sign that had funny little pictograms of a man and a woman and said "Washrooms."
"There's nothing wrong, is there?" Samantha's mom looked concerned.
"Just got to pee," I said in a low voice. "All that water."
"You want me to come with you?"
I gave her a look I knew even Samantha would have had in her repertoire.
"Okay. Fine. I'll wait for you here."
It was as I was coming out of the washroom that I encountered Doctor Marks. I almost turned around and went back in, but he'd already spotted me, so with a sigh I walked up the hall toward him.
"Ah, Miss Jarvis," he said, a munificent smile spreading across his face as he reversed direction and fell in step with me. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah. Lots. Thanks." I quickened my pace, but he easily matched it.
"That was quite an emotional scene," he said. "Quite liberating, I'm sure. I was just talking to your mother about it. I think it would help if we booked you some sessions."
No thanks, I thought. I forced a grin, but it must have looked pretty wretched because his expression faltered. If I'd offended him in any way, I didn't care; I just wanted to get out of there and away from him as fast as I could. But he followed me across the lobby, toward Samantha's mom, who was waiting before a wall of mirrors, primping her hair and checking herself out.
"There you are," she said, catching sight of us in the mirror and turning around. She smiled at Doctor Marks and looked toward me. "Sam, what on earth is wrong?"
I didn't answer. How could I? I stood there thunderstruck, eyes fixed on the reflection of Doctor Marks. How could I tell her the man I saw wasn't the same one she saw? The image in the mirror was Doctor Marks as he appeared in this world: young, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and extremely handsome. No wonder Samantha's mom reacted to him the way she did. But the man I saw when I looked directly at him was the older, gray-haired guy.
In the mirror Doctor Mark's eyes darted to the reflection of me and his mouth dropped open. Stunned, he turned to face me directly and said, "Who are you? What time are you from?"
Samantha's mom frowned at him. "Are you all right, Doctor?"
"We should go," I said to her, taking her hand and tugging. "I'm not feeling well." It wasn't a lie. An awful sensation had welled up within me, and I felt weak and nauseated and was certain I was going to vomit.
We hurried outside, over to the truck, and I glanced back and saw Doctor Marks start to run toward us. "Wait," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to know who you are. Tell me what time you come from."
"What on earth is he talking about?" Samantha's mom said, her frown deepening.
"I don't know," I said. "I just want to go home. I feel terrible." I was hot and sweaty and getting dizzy.
She opened the passenger door and was helping me in when I barfed.
"Sam!"
"Mom," I gasped, falling back into her arms. I looked up at her; and then the other place faded away.