The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [147]
“Who?” The three of them turned to look expectantly at the house. Oliver jumped up and ran to the top of the stairs to watch someone, an older boy, emerge from the thick fog that was the house. “Tell who what? Oliver?”
She was back on the cliff, in the dark, in the rain. The wind blew and lightning slashed the sky. She searched for the gazebo; caught sight of it, weathered and empty among the trees again.
Help me. Oliver’s voice reverberated in her head as lightning crashed, once and then again, in rapid progression along the slope of land in front of her. She wobbled backward, slipped, started to fall . . . then simply leaned back into a sunny field of blue and white and pink wildflowers. Help me.
Her eyes drifted open slowly—warmth from the sun cooling on her cheeks, the scent of rich earth and sweet flowers still in her nostrils. It sure beat waking in panic from an endless fall into darkness but . . . what did it all mean? If dreams meant anything at all, that is.
She slipped her palms under her head and stared at the ceiling with tired eyes.
Maybe her subconscious was working out the kinks in the Patty Ann story. What if her ghost needed help with something ? Patty Ann was an obliging sort of girl most of the time, but . . . what could he possibly need help with? Well, it wasn’t like he was a real ghost, right? Another youngster in a ghost costume—perhaps his sheet is caught on something or his bag of Halloween candy is too heavy to carry. Nah. But he could be lost. He might have wandered too far from home and can’t recall how to get back. That could work—lots of safety lessons to be taught there....
Clearly the story had to have a Halloween theme. Why hadn’t she noted as much on the storyboard and saved herself the confusion and needless anxiety? If she could ignore the fact that she’d drawn it in her sleep, of course.
Still, it was a start, she decided, rolling over and wiggling into a comfortable position with a sleepy but satisfied smile.
Finally, she slept, deep and dreamless.
FIVE
“I knew it. Once the valerian root kicked in and you started to relax, I knew your imagination would break through the block. Like a detox cleanse for your mind.” She chuckled at her own cleverness. “A big brain flush.”
Ivy glanced at the trash compacter where she’d tossed the herb tea when she suspected it of causing the sleep-working incident. Or what her mother was now calling her short blackout.
Four hours was not a short amount of time to be doing things she was unaware of—it wasn’t. In four hours she could have driven into town, robbed a bank, and shot the security guard. In four hours she could have baked a cake, eaten the entire thing, and cleaned up the mess. However, in her four hours of unconsciousness she had completed a five-page storyboard—a task she couldn’t have accomplished if she were conscious, not on the best of days.
Ivy believed most of her mother’s herbs and concoctions were, in general, harmless. However, some could be as poisonous as others could be helpful. Her mother had been studying them for years and was fanatically cautious when it came to mixing and dosing with them. But mistakes are made....
“Mm. Big brain flush. Good one, Mom. But maybe you shouldn’t recommend the valerian root to any of your friends until you’ve had a chance to do a more complete check into its potential side effects. I mean—”
“Oh my! A twofer. A brain and body cleanse. But that’s—”
“Mom! It didn’t give me diarrhea. Just don’t give it to your friends. There’s no way of telling who’s going to be . . . ultrasensitive to it, and I know you have lots of other things you can suggest for relaxation and sleep.”
“Honey, it’s been used for centuries. Hippocrates described its—”
“Mom?” She waited a beat for her mother’s attention. “Please. Rip that page out of your book.”
“No,” she said after a moment. “But I will look into it further. I’m sorry it made you ill, sweetie. As you say, you might be ultrasensitive to it or allergic, or it might even have been cured improperly, there’s no telling. Just toss it.”
“Okay.