By her twentieth birthday, there are a few things Valarie Ricci knows for certain.
She knows that her waitressing job barely covers the costs of living out of a beat up old van. She knows she's stuck in the dead end hometown her high school friends...
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Nonno was in the other room. He was calling for her–calling out her name. Not Rosa or Maria or Guiseppe. Valarie. He needed help, and he was calling out her name. She tried to throw off the endless, suffocating duvet, but her chest heaved from the phantom weight pressing down on her heart, pinning her to the mattress. Her throat burned. Valarie's skin prickled with the sensation of a thousand pins and needles travelling over her body in waves. And the tubes. There were tubes everywhere, poking through her translucent skin: her hands, her abdomen, down her throat. She had to move. He was right there. Nonno. Just beyond the wall, and he needed–
Valarie jolted awake, a silent, half-formed scream planted on her lips.
She wasn't strapped to a hospital bed. She wasn't starving. She wasn't struggling to breathe. She certainly wasn't dying. It was a dream. She had the dream again. She wasn't dying.
But where was she? Not in her van or at Theo's. She didn't recognize the yellowed, popcorn ceiling or the walls around her. The bed and sheets weren't hers, and who–?
"Valarie." Alice was sitting up next to her, eyes tired but alert. Her voice was still rough from sleep, yet she spoke the name so gently, like it was a delicate thing. "You're safe. It's a nightmare."
She willed her heart to steady. Nonno was dead. They were in a motel somewhere in Québec. Grey light peaked through the room's curtains. The digital alarm next to her read 5:03 AM. She was chasing a ghost. With Alice. She was with Alice. At her side, Ithaca rested his chin on the edge of the mattress and stared up at her.
"F–Fuck." She blinked the tears out of her eyes, covering her face with her hands as she took deep, jagged breaths. The sharp numbness that poked around under her skin persisted, even as her mind slowly registered that there was no danger in that dark, quiet motel room. She threw her gaze to the wall connecting to the bathroom where she'd heard Nonno's voice. He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere anymore.
Alice was still watching her, lips parted in a silent question. Concern furrowed between her eyebrows. "Hey," she said.
Valarie inhaled. Exhaled. "Hi."
Ever so cautiously, Alice reached out, placing a gentle hand on Valarie's shoulder and easing her back down to the mattress. She carefully gathered the duvet back over the two of them, laying on her side as she watched Valarie in the dim light. "How long have you been having nightmares?"
"A while. They don't happen very often." There was still a slight tremor in her voice. She didn't know if it was from the nightmare or Alice's touch.
"Since Nonno died?"
"Yeah, pretty much." Valarie half-shrugged, staring up at the ceiling. "It's the same thing every time. I dream that I'm the one strapped to the hospital bed instead of him."
"You feel guilty."
"Thanks, Freud." She meant it as a joke but the words tasted bitter. "Of course I feel guilty." Her voice cracked, fragile as glass. "He's dead."
