Ignite the Shadows. Ingrid Seymour
the shadows can’t reach me.
The fact that I’m safe when the sandman whisks me away is proof that I am, indeed, off my rocker, because if there was something living in my brain, wouldn’t nap time be the perfect time for it to attack me? But what do I know? Maybe dreams are too fluid for the shadows to get a hold of them. Besides, I’ve trained myself to fall asleep in five seconds flat with music playing in the background to help my mind maintain a base level of activity.
With one longing, backward glance at my fluffy pillow, I abandon the idea. As much as I’d like to forget about IgNiTe and Xave and their games, they’ve trapped me in their web. I’m a helpless fly.
You are NOT the only one.
I need to know what this is about. And if, maybe, there are others who feel invaded, like a house occupied by a squatter.
I click play.
The president stands in the foreground. The Speaker of the House and vice-president sit behind him, looking as bored as I feel. President Helms talks about the economy, his stately face powdered to perfection, his salt-and-pepper hair as pristine as always.
Yawn.
Blink.
“Nope, don’t care about joining your workforce, Mr. Helms.” My words slur. “Unless you’re hiring hackers who get hacked.”
I prop my chin on my hands. The president’s words stop making sense. They don’t really register.
“Our country … deficit … committee …”
My eyelids close for a few seconds. Then they open.
“Congress …”
Eyes close again for long, long, long seconds.
Semi-blink.
“Approve …”
Dreams.
Something shatters. I jump to my feet, look around. I’ve fallen asleep in front of the computer. The screensaver flashes pictures of road bikes. Slobber shines on the desk. Gross. I’m looking around for something to clean it when I remember the sound that woke me.
Maybe Mom’s home. I step out of my bedroom and shuffle through the hall. I peek in her room. She’s not there. Rubbing my eyes, I head for the living room. Mom likes to watch the evening news after a quick dinner.
I find her sitting at the edge of the sofa, broken glass at her feet and a large wine splotch on the floor. Her eyes are locked on the TV. She’s shaking all over. I follow her gaze. The headline at the bottom of the screen reads: “Doctor found murdered in his home.” The frame is frozen. I look back at Mom. She holds the remote in her hand. Why did she pause it? My eyes bounce back to the TV. Above the headline, the picture of a familiar-looking man stares at me.
Puzzled, I step into the living room, trying to figure out where I’ve seen him. A vague recollection flashes through my memory.
“Oh, my God! I think that’s Luke’s dad,” I say.
I don’t recall Mom ever meeting him, but maybe she did. She attended a few PTO meetings during my early school years. Even if she knew him, though, why does she look so stricken?
“Mom?”
Her head turns my way, but she continues to stare at the screen. Then she blinks very slowly, and when her eyes open, she’s looking at me, lips trembling. A single tear spills and runs down her cheek.
“It’s him.” Her voice is a shaky murmur, barely audible.
“Who?” What is she talking about?
“That’s the man that took Max,” she says. Tears fall freely now, making her cheeks shine.
“Wait.” I look back at the TV. The word “Doctor” seems to blink at me. My eyes drift to the small print under the main headline: “Dr. Peter Smith, Seattle top OB/GYN and fertility doctor, brutally murdered.” Smith … Luke’s last name.
Mom leaves the couch and walks in my direction. “It’s him. It’s Ernest Dunn.”
I stare at the TV, a slight tremor starting in my knees. “No, Mom.” I shake my head. “It says Dr. Peter Smith. I think you’re confused.”
She’s standing right in front of me, her blue eyes huge and fierce. “I would recognize his face in the pits of hell. It is him!” she says, the words hissing through her clenched teeth.
My heart pounds like an angry fist against a locked door. “Mom, it’s been sixteen years. Maybe you—”
“NO!” she yells—startling me—then points a finger at the TV, even as her eyes drill into mine like I’m the enemy, like I’m the one standing in the way of something monumental. “That man is Dr. Dunn. That man took Max from me.”
She can’t be right. She can’t! There’s nothing distinctive about this man’s face. Nothing. He looks like any overweight, balding man out there: round and soft and doughy. He’s forgettable … so unlike Luke. I bite my tongue and taste deceit.
Mom’s hands drift upward and grip my shoulders. “Marcela, who’s Luke?” Her bottom lip trembles and her voice breaks at the name, heavy with something that sounds very much like hope, like a creature I’d thought extinct in her world.
“H-he’s nobody.”
“Marcela!” Mom’s nails dig into my shoulders as she begins to shake me. “Who. Is. Luke?” Her tone is desperate, maniacal.
He’s nobody.
He’s nobody.
He’s nobody.
“What does he look like?” she demands.
A current of frigid air travels from Mom’s stiff fingers down my back. My spine freezes, shatters into a million pieces, and I feel I could crumble.
Some part of me has always known this. Luke’s blond hair, gold-specked blue eyes, angular nose … so much like Mom. He looks just like her and I’ve always pushed the knowledge away. It’s the reason his flirtatious advances have always bothered me, the reason my stomach churned when he asked me out.
Luke is Max.
Luke is my brother!
I stagger backward, head spinning.
“Who’s Luke?” Mom asks again, her nails like claws. I knock her arms away in one swift motion and take another step back.
“It’s Max. It has to be Max,” she says. Life floods her gaze. Suddenly, her eyes don’t look empty and distant the way they have all these years, the way they greet me every time I walk in the room. They have fire in them now.
The burst of light, this flash of immeasurable hope, hurts me deep inside. I’ve been here all along. Was I not worth a little bit of this radiance?
My chest feels like a too-large cage for my shriveling heart.
Pain.
“Marcela, it’s Max, isn’t it?”
Yes, your son.
My ears ring and I take another step back.
My brother.
“Where are you going? Wait!” Mom’s loud command makes me realize I’m running, headed for the door. I burst outside into an afternoon that has started to blend with the night colors.
Gray. Dark. Blue.
The wind blows in my face. The motorbike hums as I speed away from home. How did I get here?
Stop. Get off the bike.
I make it as far as the wooded area where Xave and I crashed last night. Almost out of control, I drive off the shoulder, between two bushes and into a small clearing. The