The Other Side of Dark

Chapter One

The dream is too long. It slithers and slips and gurgles deeply into midnight pools in which I see my own face looking back. It pounds with a scream that crashes into earth-torn caverns and is drowned; it surges with the babble of voices that splash against my ears; it whispers over words I can’t understand.

I have cried out in my dream. I have called, and ages ago someone answered.

Mom? Mama?

My voice violently shakes the dream. I open my eyes, as with a trembling roar the dream rushes from my mind and my memory.

I’m in bed, but this is not my room. Across the room is a statue of a nurse. Her pencil is held in midair above her chart; her mouth is open enough that I can see some bubbles of saliva on her tongue; her eyes are stretched and glazed.

Where’s my mother?

The statue comes to life. Oh! she says. Oh, my, you’re awake! Fluttering like a moth between too many lights, she pats at my bed, jabs at the controls that rest on the nightstand, and trots to the door. I’ll be right back, Stacy, she says. She takes a step toward me with palms up as though she wanted to hold me where I am and repeats, I will. I’ll be back in a minute, then scrambles through the door.

Where’s my mother? I call to the empty room. I try to sit up, but I can’t. It makes me dizzy. My mouth is dry, and there’s a spot on my left hip that is sore. What is happening to me? The blanket and sheet have slipped to one side, so I pull them up to my chest.

I gasp as my hands feel breasts that are rounded and firm. My shaking fingers slide past my waist, exploring, as the horror grows. I lift my head to look down, down at toes that lump the blanket near the foot of the bed, and the horror explodes in a scream. I am Stacy McAdams. I’m only thirteen years old, and I’m in the wrong body!

My room explodes with people, and they buzz like white-capped bees, reaching for my wrist, wrapping something around my left arm, and squeezing it until something beeps. And all the time I’m shouting, Go away! I want my mother!

A man with a trim blond beard sorts himself out from the confusion. He leans over me, studying me from under shaggy eyebrows, one hand gently stroking my forehead. Stacy, he says, in a voice that pours like dark molasses, I’m Dr. Peterson. I don’t want to sedate you. I want to talk with you. Will you please stop shouting?

I’m trembling so hard it feels as if the bed were shaking, and my voice is a raspy whimper. Where’s my mother? I need my mother. I’m afraid.

Of course you are, he says, but you don’t need to be afraid. Everything will be all right. His hand keeps soothing my forehead, sopping up the fear until the trembling is gone and the bed is still.

The nurses have disappeared, except for a short, round one standing by the door. For some reason I notice that her blue eyes are surrounded by crinkly laugh lines, so I don’t mind if she stays.

Dr. Peterson sits on the edge of my bed. My right hand disappears into his. Now then, he says, the members of your family are being contacted. They’ll be here as soon as they can make it.

My mother—

But he hasn’t finished. You’re in Houston’s Braes-forest Medical Center, under my care. You were brought here after hospital treatment for a gunshot wound.

I groan and screw up my face, trying to think, trying to remember.

Relax, he says. It doesn’t matter now if you recall what happened. That can come later. The fact is that you’ve come out of what can best be called a semicomatose state, a type of coma.

Dr. Peterson, listen to me! I clutch both his hands, and my voice grates like a rusty gate. There’s something wrong. My body. It’s not right. It’s—

You were thirteen when you were brought here, Stacy. We’ve tried to keep you in a good state of health—as good as your condition would allow—so your body has grown and matured naturally.

"But I am thirteen!"

He shakes his head. No, Stacy. You’re seventeen.

When my mother comes, she’ll tell you that you’re wrong! I don’t want to listen to what he has to say. I try to tell him to go away; but I can’t talk and cry at the same time, and the tears get in my way.

He reaches to the table by my bed and hands me a fistful of tissues. They’re soft, but they’re heavy. My hands are heavy, my eyes are heavy, and the bed is a warm cocoon, shutting away the things I don’t want to hear and see. Deliberately I slide into sleep.

This time I wake slowly, scrunching up my eyes, stretching and twisting and arching the way I love to do. You wake up just the way Pansy does, my mother always says, as she shoos our lop-eared cat off the foot of my bed and tousles my hair. Stacy, our other little cat.

Stacy? You’re awake?

I open my eyes quickly at the sound of my father’s voice. Oh, Daddy, you’re here! You’re here! I need you!

He quickly wraps me in a long hug. His chest, under his smooth white cotton shirt, smells cozy and warm, but my cheek grows wet from his tears. I hold him away, puzzled. Daddy? I’ve never seen you cry.

There are hollows under his cheekbones, and his brown eyes seem strangely faded. His hair is thin on top. He’s my father, but he isn’t my father—at least not the way he was yesterday.

Daddy, the doctor told me I’ve been here four years, that I’m not thirteen, I’m seventeen. It’s not true, is it? But as I study my father’s face I know it has to be true, and I gasp, How did it happen to me?

Nobody completely understands it. Not really. You were shot, and the bullet did something to you that caused a kind of coma; but you didn’t need life support. You were breathing on your own, and your vital signs were good. It’s just that you were in a world of your own, and you couldn’t or wouldn’t leave it. The people here were able to help you sit in a chair and walk and even feed yourself if someone was with you. You have a physical therapist who has worked with you on exercises every day.

I don’t remember any of this.

He pats my hand. I know, sweetheart. Mentally you weren’t responding.

Then why did I wake up?

He shakes his head. No one knows exactly. They can just guess. You fell and cut your hip. Then last week you developed an infection in the cut, and the doctors treated it with antibiotics and even some minor surgery. They think that maybe it was the reaction to the anesthetic that brought you out of the coma. I’m doing a bad job of telling you about it, I guess. Dr. Peterson can do a better job of explaining it to you than I can. My father wipes his cheeks with the back of one hand, then spots the box of tissues, wads one, and rubs it over his eyes.

The door opens, and a familiar face peers through. Donna’s the original. I’m the carbon. That beautiful dark hair, those tilted green eyes, Dad would say, and wink at Mom. We’ve certainly got lovely daughters, Jeanne.

Donna shyly whispers, Stacy?

Donna! I hold out my arms to my sister, laughing as she hurries through the door. She clumsily bumps against the end of the bed as she rushes to hug me.

I like your hair that way, I mumble against her ear. But don’t ever scold me again about munching Twinkies. You’re getting fat, big sister!

She sits back and beams at me. Her tucked-in smile reminds me of so many times when she has been where I couldn’t follow: her first dance; the red-haired basketball player she thought she was in love with when she was sixteen; the dorm friends she wrote about when she started college.

I’m pregnant, she says. In just two months you’re going to be an aunt.

My mouth is open, and I know I’m making owl eyes, but I don’t know what to say.

Last year, she says, Dennis and I were married. She glances at Dad from the corners of her eyes. I had to promise that I’d get my degree, and I will—in May of next year. See, Dad, I’m keeping the promise.

But I wasn’t there! I wail. I was going to be your maid of honor. You always told me I could be.

She holds the palm of my hand up against her cheek. She’s still smiling, but I see a terrible sorrow in her eyes. Stacy, love, things were—well, so different. Dennis and I didn’t have a big wedding. Just a few people and the priest.

But you always said when you were married, you’d have a train six feet long! And loads of bridesmaids, all in blue, and wear the pearls that Grandma left to Mom.

Dad clears his throat as though he were about to say something, but Donna interrupts. It doesn’t matter, she says. She shakes her head, lays my hand gently on the blanket as though it were made of fine china, and awkwardly gets to her feet, one hand pressing the small of her back. I can’t wait till you meet Dennis. Dennis Kroskey. Hey, you’ll have to get used to my new name! She walks to the door, turning to say, He’s patiently biding time out in the hall because I wanted to see you first.

Dennis enters the room, and Donna props open the door. He’s tall, with skin tanned the color of his reddish brown hair, and he has a summer smell of lots of soap and showers. I’ll bet he plays tennis.

I’ve met you before, he says, when you were—sleeping.

You came to see me?

Lots of times, with Donna. She introduced us, and she talked to you about our wedding, just in case you could hear her. Your family talked to you about everything that went on.

Maybe that was part of my dream. There were so many voices, and they came and went for so long a time. I can’t remember what they said. I don’t want to remember. He’s smiling, too, so I hurry to add, Donna told me about the baby. I’m glad you’re going to have a baby.

So are we. He hugs Donna in such a special way that I ache right in the middle of my chest. I wasn’t there when she fell in love and when she got married and when she first found out she was going to have a baby. I have to get used to all this at once, and it makes me feel lonely and shut out, no matter what they tell me.

I take a long breath, trying to keep things going right. I’ll baby-sit for you whenever you want. I guess I should say I’ll baby-sit if Mom gives me a chance. She’ll be so crazy about that baby the rest of us might not get to hold it until it’s old enough to go to school.

No one laughs. No one answers. There’s a funny kind of chill, like when you open the freezer door on a hot day and the icy air spills over your feet. When’s Mom coming? My words plop into the cold. Where is Mom?

Dr. Peterson is suddenly there, head forward, his shaggy eyebrows leading the way like the prow of a ship. Donna and Dennis, he says, we’ll keep your visit short. Why don’t you come back to see Stacy tomorrow?

Donna quickly kisses me, Dennis pats my feet, and they disappear before I can protest. The door swings shut, and the room is silent.

Dr. Peterson lifts my wrist in strong fingers and looks at his watch.

I try to tug my arm away from him. You interrupted, I tell him. I was asking a question, and I want an answer!

Take this, he orders. He hands me a pill and a glass of water from the table.

Not now.

Yes, now.

As I obey, quickly gulping the pill, he nods at my father, and Dad leans forward, holding my hand again. His skin is clammy and hot, and he has to clear his throat a couple of times before he can talk.

Honey, he says, all along we’ve had faith in you. We knew you wouldn’t give up. Remember even when you were just a little girl and you’d be so independent and set on getting your own way? You’ve always had a lot of courage, Stacy, and—

Daddy, tell me now. Where’s Mom?

He is hurting, and I can’t help him. I don’t even want to help him. My toes and fingers are warm and relaxed, and a numb feeling is seeping through me. It’s like the drowsy waking-sleeping in the early morning after the alarm has been turned off. But I’m awake, and I hear what he’s saying.

The day you were shot— His words are jagged pebbles on a dry, dusty road, and his voice trips as he stumbles through them. Your mother was shot too. But Jeanne—oh, Stacy, Jeanne was killed.

No, I answer, because I don’t believe these strange words that are as hollow as shouts inside a tunnel, ringing and echoing and sliding away. My father is gray and crumpled, and he’s