Running Home – Chapter 4 (Penn and Sword series)

Once my confusion finally dissolves and I fall into the syrupy world of dreams… the creeping-crawling begins.

I cradle my red felt blanket close, inhaling the soft, peachy remnants of my sister’s shampoo. For a moment, I feel safe. Dreams take me back to a place where I can trust, connect, breathe. Mom and dad clink around in the kitchen downstairs, bickering about ordering more flour or salt or bacon. Some thick, greasy, mouth-watering scent fills the air. Across the bedroom I share with my sister, I hear Eudora humming to herself and giggling at some dinging message she receives on her chunky, cheap laptop. The overlapping aromas and sounds of a cozy morning in the Sword’s apartment above the family diner. The last place that I could ever and will ever call “home.”

A tickle between my toes cracks through the dream.

My sister pokes my dream face. “Can’t expect me to drag your lazy ass across Europe, Cantha.” She laughs, and my heart squeezes around the sound. I want to open my eyes so badly, to see my sister’s excited, sparkling eyes cast off into our wonderful future traveling the world, tasting every dish, scavenging every ingredient. All to one day open our own diner or cafe or five-star restaurant to share our culinary arts with the world. But a piece of me remains in the moment, this single moment of safety, of longing, preserved in time to taste and savor.

A teeny tiny crawling ascent circles my calves, crests over my hips. Clacking whispers twist into my unconscious ears.

I feel them but remain stuck between dream and reality. What is real? My sister’s laugh or the strange march of feet tickling up my arms?

Small masses trail through my hair until finally fuzzy bodies prod between my frowning lips. Probe inside. Nuzzle my watering, sensitive tongue with sticky-sweet feet. Their tiny whispers smog into my mouth, lurch down my throat, “Where… is home…” And I can’t wake up!

The techno beat of my cellphone alarm breaks the spell.

I jolt awake. Heart pounding, skin slick with sweat. I spit fuzz and feet, scratch down my arms, check my blanket and hair for any sign of creeping insects. The creepy-crawly nightmare had felt so real. But after several minutes of checking the mattress and carpet for bed bugs, I find no trace of the swarming mass.

I sit back on folded legs and push fatigue from my eyes. It had been such a pleasant dream, at first. More real than a memory. An amalgamation of senses, building the perfect scene. Sighing, I cling to the embers of that feeling. Of safety, belonging. Of knowing my exact place in this world.

A world now turned gray, dismal. Stagnant and unspiced.

Neck prickling, I scan the carpet again for the skittering bugs and shiver the echo of their touch off my shoulders.

Checking my phone, I realize there’s no hope for a few more minutes of sleep. I have an hour to get ready and figure out public transit downtown.

Before I can stand and get dressed, however, my bedroom door steals my attention. Fantasies of safety melt away, replaced by tensing shoulders and expectant, unblinking eyes. The door stands, unmoving. Like a door should be. But I scan the edges for a reddish glow. Listen close for a nervous laugh. Inhale the musty bedroom air, expecting citrus and spice. The unknown tingles through the soles of my feet.

Ghost does not appear.

Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? Shivering, I chalk it up to my lack of sleep over the past week. There’s a high chance I dreamed the whole thing. The creepy-crawlies had felt so real. So it’s possible I’d conjured up this mysterious Ghost figure as well. Which made the most sense. Simon hadn’t seen him, and no one came running when I was bantering with the guy in the hallway. Besides, how could a red-glowing library appear out of thin air? It’s impossible. A childish fantasy.

I absently fiddle with the triangle charm around my neck. A necklace once belonging to my sister. Wishing she could laugh about the made-up dream man with the impossible door with me.

Within minutes, I’m freshly dressed in a gray polo, waves of hair wrangled into a ponytail, and peach lipstick applied generously. Not exactly the cutest outfit, but I don’t have time to care.

Itching down my arms where the creepy dream insects crawled, I tiptoe downstairs. Early morning light filters through the windows of Excalibur. Sizzling bacon and buttery scents thicken the air down here. My tongue waters on instinct, steps quickening. Brain flickering between the past and now, wondering, hoping, for a split second that the last month of my life wasn’t real.

I find Landon in the kitchen, flipping pancakes. He shoots me a sideways smile. He’s barely dressed, only a black tank top covering his torso and basketball shorts, leaving little to the imagination of his toned physique. “Look who’s up and at ’em early in the morn.” He waves me over. “Have some breakfast with me.”

An awkward tingle swirls in my stomach, but I shake my head. “Sorry. Can’t. Gotta run.”

“Even working girls need protein, yeah?” Landon holds out a plate stacked with bacon.

My stomach betrays my hunger, eating very little over the past few days. Even the prospect of over-cooked, burned-edge bacon prickles the tip of my tongue. I hesitate, but only a second before taking the plate with a sheepish blush. “Thank you.”

Landon grins, flipping pancakes. “How’d you sleep?”

I munch on a piece of bacon, more ravenous than expected. And it’s not bad either, just crispy enough for a savory crunch. I finish another piece before answering. “Uh, all right.”

“No spooky dreams?”

My neck tenses, echoes of the prodding feet around my mouth making the bacon feel like heavy ash on my tongue. I swallow fast. “I mean, nothing spookier than usual.”

“No creepy-crawlies, then?”

I balk, nearly dropping the plate. “How did you…?”

“Well, Sarah was very forthcoming with details of her nightmares. You know, before the mental snap.” Landon plates his pancakes and slides two fluffy discs my way. “Something about this place…” He scans the ceiling with a dramatic frown, then flashes me a grin. “There, proper breakfast.”

I clear my throat and thank him again for the food. “I have to run, though. Gotta get downtown in…” I check my phone. “Forty-two minutes.”

Landon pouts, sliding against the counter next to me. This close, towering over my short-stack height, I can discern some sort of soap or cologne on him, warm and ambery. He implores me with his thick-lashed brown eyes. “Not even gunna try my famous silver dollars?”

Sternum pulsing, stomach twisting, I try to shove aside the memory of my dad cooking pancakes for Eudora every year on her birthday. That comforting scent. I want to sink into it. Play with words with a cute boy. Pretend like the world isn’t prickled and dangerous. But I shake my head. “Sorry. Gotta run.”

Landon grins though is obviously disappointed. “Here. At least take some drugs with you.” He hands me a blue thermos. “Figured you for a sugar no cream girlie.”

My eyes go wide. “Uh, yeah actually.”

Landon winks. “See you later, Sword.”

The nickname heats my cheeks, but I fast-walk out the door without embarrassing myself. He’s going to be a handful to live with for sure, especially if he’s an early riser, like me. I note to myself to set my alarm for thirty minutes earlier in the morning to avoid further flirtatious escapades.

No matter how good he smelled.

One bus ride and four-block jog later, my nerves rattle and my skin crawls with the ghost of those nightmare bugs as I step through the sliding glass doors into the fluorescent brightness of the mall. Still, I paste on a customer service-worthy smile, push the ever-growing dark cloud of despair into the icebox at the bottom of my mind, and dive into work. Money trumps comfort.

The first half of my shift flies by in a blur of hanging clothes, folding jeans, and ringing up leggings for smiling girls getting ready for their start of school, too. They’re young and happy. Unknowing of the dark, moldy parts of the world. I strain to keep up my smile, not let any sadness leak out the sides. Keep their happy world light and fun.

When my lunch break finally comes, I collapse in a spent heap at one of the rickety plastic tables in the food court and dig through my bag for my stack of index cards and a sparkly red gel pen. I flip a blank card to the table, the routine automatic. Then I realize what I’m doing. The perpetual panicky knot in my chest pulses. For years, Eudora and I would brainstorm a recipe a day on an index card and tack our ideas up on our bedroom wall every night. My dream must have inspired my hands before I realized that scribbling an idea onto this card would lead nowhere. Eudora isn’t here to share it with me.

Still, the pen feels natural in my hand and the red gel touches down on the card. Slow, steady. At the top, I scribble “Ghost” in loopy cursive. What was that smell coming from the mysterious red room? The heady scent of spiced oranges.

Fresh-squeezed blood orange

Submerged cinnamon sticks

A crack of pepper

A floral warmth, a steeped herb or tea leaf?

My red pen pauses, and I bite my lip. I shouldn’t be doing this without my sister.

That’s when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, stomach lurching when I see the name at the top: Mom. I reject the call at once and shove the phone in my bag.

I swallow hard and shut down the emotions. I finish my lunch break by staring at the black and white speckled lunch tables in silence.

The second half of my shift is torture. All I can think about is getting back to the safety of my new room. I ring people up on autopilot, fingers fumbling with hangers and pins.

Finally, the clock shifts to the afternoon, releasing me from the stagnant mall smog. But my day is only half over. I hop on another bus and make it to my second job with a minute to spare before my shift at a drive-thru only café.

On my break, I’m drawn to my index card, reviewing the ingredient list with scrutiny. As if pinpointing that alluring, honeyed scent will manifest the dreamed-up stranger and his mystery into the world. A mystery to keep the rattling icebox in my mind quiet and cold. Yet, the knot in my chest pulses during the rest of my shift. When the cafe closes, and I’m finally free, I sigh with exhaustion against the cooling brick building. Is this my life now? Back-to-back work shift days, creepy-crawly nightmare nights? No recipes, no red pens, no future?

A long bus ride later, I trudge up the creaking steps of the shared house, immediately comforted by the odd quiet inside.

Taking this chance to be alone, I head to the kitchen for a glass of water. The pile of dishes from Landon’s breakfast this morning still has bits of pancake left behind. My fingers twitch around my glass, maple syrup scents curling into my nose. Landon’s cooking was fine and all, but a proper breakfast, a birthday breakfast, sounds like the most delicious meal after this long, monotonous day. Or maybe that soothing blood orange tea. I could test a few ideas—

I stop myself. No. I… can’t. Not without Eudora. Still, I approach the stove. Mind swirling with blood oranges and sizzling steaks and creamy sauces and boiling noodles…

When I catch the digital time on the oven clock, my heart sinks. “Crap.” I smack my forehead.

Footsteps creak on the stairs as Simon descends, smiling when he sees me. “Hey, welcome back.” He notices the late hour, too. “Were you gone all day?”

I grimace. “Yes, but I forgot to do the one thing I needed to do today. Stupid boxes.” I head back for the door, but can’t help the frustration leaking out. “Uber’s gunna cost me all of today’s hours—”

Simon follows me. “I can take you.”

I pause, shaking my head. “No, it’s fine. I can do it.”

“It’s seriously no problem.” Simon grabs his keys from the hook by the door. “I can drive you over right now to pick it up. Free of charge. No wasted work.”

I hesitate. I’m exhausted. And Simon’s solution would be the quickest. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Simon grins. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t help a lovely new resident in need?”

I resist an eye roll. “Alright, only if you’re sure. I just need to grab a few things. It’s the last day of my contract, so if I can get it all out of there, that’s like sixty bucks toward rent next month.”

“Excellent.” Simon holds the door open gallantly.

I hurry past him to get this over with, scratching at a tickle at my elbow.