Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Ash
I’m not sure how long I lie in bed after Dylan leaves, refusing to get up. If I stay here, safe under the covers with Onyx, then I won’t have to face my aunt.
It’s only when I hear the front door slam and Aunt Claudette call out she’s home that I begrudgingly rise and tug on clothes, feeling like I’m about to march to the gallows.
God, melodramatic much?
I know having a conversation with my aunt’s not as bad as all that. But confiding in Dylan about my mom had been rough enough, and that was when he already knew about the dreamwalking. There’s no way for me to talk to Aunt Claudette about Mom’s death honestly without telling her as well.
What if she doesn’t believe me? Or worse—what if she does and treats me like a freak the way the Ellingtons did? I’ve still got another half-year of senior year left to go, not to mention Dylan here. The last thing I want is to give her an excuse to send me away.
You made Dylan a promise.
With a heavy sigh, I rally my courage and head downstairs, Onyx following me as far as her oversized cat tree in the living room. Aunt Claudette’s bustling about the kitchen, preparing a pot of her favorite chamomile tea. She glances up when I enter.
“Ash,” she says, seeming surprised to see me. “I wasn’t sure if you boys were still here or if I’d missed you.” She peers past me. “Is Dylan with you?”
I shake my head. “He went home a while ago.”
“Shame. He seems like a nice boy.” Her discerning gaze sharpens. “You’d tell me if he was in any real trouble, right? That black eye of his has me worried.”
“He’s fine,” I say quickly. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Good.” She takes out the jar of honey and drizzles some into her cup. “You let me know if that ever changes. Would you like any tea?”
“No. Thanks,” I add belatedly as she nods.
I stand there awkwardly, unsure how to get the ball rolling. Things aren’t as strained between us as they were when I first arrived in Banton, but we’re still not exactly master conversationalists, and our last family discussion ended with me about to storm off before Dylan’s fortuitous arrival.
“Need anything from the store?” she asks, opening and closing cupboards as she takes stock. “I was going to pick up a few things before my house call later this afternoon. Assuming the shelves aren’t all picked clean the day after Thanksgiving.”
“I can visit people in their dreams.”
The confession bursts out of me. My eyes widening, I clamp a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late to take it back.
Aunt Claudette’s movements slow. Carefully, she lowers her arm from the cupboard and shuts it, turning to face me. I can’t read her expression, though at least she’s not screaming or calling me insane…yet.
Maybe it just needs time to sink in.
“You can visit people in their dreams…” she repeats slowly, as though testing out the words for herself.
I nod, gulping. “It’s…it’s something I’ve been able to do since I was a kid.” Haltingly, I explain the basics of dreamwalking to her. As I speak, she pours herself a steaming cup of tea and takes a seat, listening attentively.
Only when I’ve finished and begun shifting awkwardly from foot to foot does she finally speak. “You know, Hannah used to talk about how her son was special. I always sort of assumed she meant it in the way all mothers think their children are special. I guess I was wrong.”
She chuckles, shaking her head in a bemused sort of way before taking another sip of tea.
I stare at her, incredulous. “You…you believe me?”
“Of course.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” When I continue staring at her, she sighs and nods to the table.
I reluctantly take a seat across from her.
“At the very least, I believe that you believe it. And I believe that there are plenty of things in this big ol’ world we can’t explain.
So, if my nephew tells me has this gift”—I wince at her use of the word—“then I choose to believe him until proven otherwise.”
Her lips quirk. “Though, I must admit that I’d love to experience this dreamwalking myself some time, if you’re comfortable sharing it with me.”
My eyes trail to the hall leading to the living room. From here, I can barely make out Onyx on her cat tree, along with a few of the shelves full of objects from my aunt’s trade.
A sudden thought occurs to me, one I hadn’t seriously entertained before. “What about your work as a psychic? Is that…are you…?”
She looks confused for a moment before bursting into laughter.
“Am I actually psychic? God no, at least not that I’m aware of.
If there’s any real magic in me, it’s well hidden.
No, what matters in my work isn’t whether I can actually commune with the dead or see the future.
It’s how I make other people feel—the entertainment I offer them or how I help them process their grief.
Did you know I got my master’s in psychology? ”
I shake my head.
Her eyes take on a distant cast. “My own parents were furious when I didn’t pursue a respectable career with it.
But I was always interested in the occult, so here we are.
” She takes another sip of tea, shrugging.
“I may not be a licensed therapist, but sometimes I’m the next best thing, offering people the light they need to guide themselves out of the darkness. ”
It wasn’t that far off from how Dylan had described my own power. Thinking of my attempt to help Greta, I suppose I can understand why my aunt does what she does, even if there’s no actual magic involved.
Then, I recall the Greta from my nightmare last night, along with everything else that had followed. That’s what this conversation has been leading up to. It’s time I force those fears out into the light once and for all.
“There’s something else I need to tell you.” My voice drops to a mumble, a desperate desire to be anywhere else but here filling me.
Exhaling, I picture Dylan’s smiling face. I just need to get through this. Then, regardless of how it goes, I can see him again.
The thought bolsters my resolve and, voice cracking, I tell my aunt the rest. About how I’d shared my gift with my parents.
About how the dreams had gone dark when Dad got sick.
About the aftermath once he passed, the recurring nightmares that plagued Mom and me no matter my best efforts to suppress them.
And about that final dream we’d shared that had bled into my waking nightmare of coming home to discover her lifeless corpse.
“D-do you b-blame me?” My voice trembles while fresh tears streak my cheeks. Fear and anguish war in my breast. “For w-what happened?”
My aunt had paled while I relayed my story, but at that, her nostrils flare. “Of course not! Why on Earth would you think that?”
“B-because I k-killed her,” I whisper.
Her chair scraps against the tile as she surges to her feet. My eyes snap up to her, widening at her indignant expression. “Now you listen to me, Ash Ellington! What happened with your mom was a horrible tragedy, but none of it, not a lick, was your fault.”
“But—”
She raises a finger to silence me, and I cut off.
“Hannah struggled with depression her whole life. Things were better for a time after she met Greg and had you, but those feelings never fully went away. She was on medication, but she never liked it—claimed it made her feel numb. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she’d stopped at some point after your father’s death. ”
Guilt warps her face. “I…I tried to convince her to seek help after Greg passed, for your sake if not her own, but she refused. We had a huge fight over it. That was the last time we spoke before…well, you know.”
My mind reels as I struggle to reconcile this new information. I could remember Mom sometimes seeming down or going quiet growing up, but I’d never given it much thought. Dad would always just say she was ‘in one of her moods.’ Had she really been struggling all along?
“Y-you stayed away,” I say, swallowing. “After Mom died, you hardly even approached me at the funeral, and you never once reached out to me in the years since. Why did you stay away if you didn’t blame me?”
Tears stand out in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembles as she hesitantly steps around the table.
“I didn’t stay away because I blamed you, Ash.
I stayed away because I blamed myself. I should have done more to help her after our fight.
I never should’ve left her alone so long when I knew something was wrong.
But I was stubborn. And the way you avoided me at the funeral…
well, I thought you might’ve blamed me, too. ”
My memories of that awful day are vague. I know there’d been a packed service, lots of speeches and flowers and tears. But most of what I remember is the dull anger and fear burning inside me—the hate I’d harbored for myself ever since Mom’s death that I didn’t have the first clue how to process.
Until I met Dylan.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I seize the opportunity for a distraction. Checking it, I discover a text from Dylan and type out a quick response.
“You want to get something to eat before my appointment?” Aunt Claudette asks hesitantly, still standing in the middle of the kitchen. “We could go to the diner…talk some more?”
The impulse to flee from the heavy emotions suffocating the room propels me toward the door. “Sorry, can’t. I’m going to go meet up with Dylan.”
I reach the doorway, hesitating. Then, I spin and swoop into my aunt’s surprised arms, hugging her for the first time since…well, probably since I was a boy. “How about a rain check—maybe tomorrow instead?”
She squeezes me tight before letting go and stepping back, wearing a soft smile. “I’d like that very much. You boys be safe!” she calls after me as I tug on my coat and head outside past the tinkling windchimes and the watchful gnomes. “And say hi to Dylan for me!”