Marilyn Kaye: Amy, Number Seven (Replica #1) 1 Amy didn't know how she had arrived at this place. She didn't know where she was, or why she was there. But she knew she had been there before, many, many times, so she wasn't frightened. She lay flat on her back. She could hear the faint, familiar, rhythmic sounds, like a muffled drumbeat, and she could see white all around. She couldn't discern distinct objects, though. The glass blurred her vision. She was surrounded by glass, thick glass. If she thrust out an arm, or kicked up a leg, she could almost touch it. It didn't bother her, being inside glass. She knew the glass protected her, although she wasn't quite sure what she needed protection from. Where she lay was soft, warm, and comfortable. The air was sweet to breathe, her stomach was full, she was safe and secure. But no. Something was happening, something that had never happened before. A streak of red-orange color had slashed through the whiteness. Then there were more streaks. She heard a new sound, a crackling sound. And now she was getting warmer, too warm. Fire! There was a fire blowing beyond the glass. It was getting bigger, it was moving closer. She tried to cry out, but she had no voice. She tried to move, but her body wouldn't obey her brain. Somehow she knew the fire would be stronger than the glass, that the glass wouldn't protect her anymore. She was trapped. She would be consumed by the flames. She would cease to exist. She experienced a new feeling, fear; and she began to shake. Maybe it was the shaking that woke her. With an effort, she forced herself to sit upright. She was still trembling, and despite the light breeze that came through her open bedroom window, she was sweating. But there was no glass, no fire. From the faint glow of a streetlight that filtered through her curtains, she could make out her shadow in the mirror that hung on her closet door. There was her desk, and her bookcase, and her old collection of Barbies. In the confusion of her mind, the one clear thought was that she really should get rid of them. At the age of twelve, she no longer played with Barbies. She switched on the lamp, climbed out of bed, and on shaky legs made her way to the mirror. The reflection was reassuring. She was a little pale, and beads of sweat had accumulated on her forehead, but she was still Amy Candler. Five feet tall, a hundred pounds. Two eyes, brown; two ears, one nose, one mouth, straight teeth; straight hair, also brown. She was completely normal and ordinary in every way--except for the fact that she kept having the same dream again and again, at least once a month, sometimes more. The whiteness, the glass, the soft drums--she was accustomed to that. But this time something new had been added--the fire. She was calmer now, but all that sweating and trembling had left her very thirsty. Water from the sink in the bathroom wouldn't do--she wanted the cold, fizzy kind that was in the refrigerator. She tiptoed down the hall, holding her breath as she neared her mother's bedroom. Nancy Candler had a sixth sense about her daughter--she always seemed to know when Amy got up at night. Amy went down the stairs, through the living room, and then through the dining room. In the kitchen she switched on a bright overhead light, went to the refrigerator, and took out the bottled water. She poured some in a glass and drank it thirstily. Then she poured some more. Next to her own room, the kitchen was her favorite place in the house. She liked the wallpaper, with its pattern of sunflowers and daisies, and the yellow-and-white checked curtains. Pots and pans hung from hooks in the ceiling, and in the center was an old-fashioned carved wooden table with four chairs. In the kitchen, Amy could pretend that she lived in a country cottage in the woods, not in half of a duplex in a West Los Angeles condominium community. Her mother had put a lot of work into this kitchen. On one wall were wooden shelves she'd found at an antique fair, and on the shelves were photographs in antique frames. With the glass of water still in her hand, Amy went across the room to look at the pictures. She'd seen them a zillion times, but they always made her feel good, sort of cozy. They were mostly photos of her, at every age, sometimes alone, sometimes with her mother. There was a photo of her mother alone--her graduation picture from the university. There was only one photo of her father. He looked so young--probably because he was young, only twenty-three when the picture was taken. He was very handsome in his military uniform. For the umpteenth time, Amy wished she could have inherited his curly blond hair. She wondered what he would look like now. She could never know. He'd died, less than a year after this photo was taken, just two months before she was born. He didn't die in a war--there weren't any wars going on when he was in the army. It was a dumb car accident, her mother told her. If he'd died in a battle, they would have had medals and certificates to remember him by. But because he'd died in a regular accident in some little country far away, they had nothing, not even a grave to visit. There were no other photos of him either, not even a wedding photo of her parents. Her mother said there had been a fire in the attic of the house where they lived, before Amy was born, and every picture, every memento of Steven Candler had been consumed in the blaze. Maybe that was why fire had come into Amy's dream this time, turning her dream into a nightmare. The photo she was looking at now, the only one they had, didn't tell Amy much about her father. It was a formal, posed picture, like the photos taken for the school yearbook, where everyone looked fake. Their smiles weren't sincere. She searched his face for something, anything that might reveal his character, but it was hopeless. She couldn't see anything of herself in him either. She wished she could make some sort of connection to him. But as hard as she would stare at the photo, he remained just a nice-looking man, a stranger. When she was younger, she used to ask her mother questions about him, but she never got very satisfying answers. Was he nice? Yes. Did he tell jokes? Sometimes. Could he turn cartwheels? I don't remember. What was his favorite flavor of ice cream? Strawberry, her mother had told her. But then, another time, when she asked the same question, her mother had said chocolate chip. It bothered Amy that her mother's memory was so unclear. She put the photo back on the shelf and moved on to the window. Was there a full moon tonight? she wondered. Her best friend and neighbor, Tasha Morgan, once told Amy that there were legends about full moons, that weird things could happen then. People could turn into werewolves, or have visions, or just go crazy. A long time ago, when Amy told Tasha about her dream, Tasha had suggested that maybe the full moon was responsible. Amy had never checked to see if the moon was full on the nights when she had the dreams. She never took Tasha's stories very seriously--her friend had a wild imagination. But she decided to check on the phase of the moon anyway. She drew back the checked curtain, but before she could begin searching the sky, something else caught her eye. There was a man on the sidewalk across the street, facing her house. He was looking through a camera, and the camera was aimed directly at her. Then a light flashed. Amy dropped the glass of water and cried out. She let go of the curtain so it would cover the window again. "Amy? Amy, is that you?" The frantic voice came from the stairs. A second later, Nancy Candler was in the kitchen. "Amy, what's wrong?" "I saw someone." "You saw someone? Where?" Her mother looked around the room wildly. Amy pointed a trembling finger at the window. "Out there." She looked away as Nancy pulled the curtain back. "I don't see anyone." "The man with the camera." "Where?" Was her mother blind? "Across the street!" "Amy, it's pitch black out and there's no streetlight. Even if someone was standing there, you wouldn't be able to see him." "But he was there! I did see him!" Now that she joined her mother at the window, Amy realized she was right. There was no way Amy could have seen anyone. She couldn't even make out the huge palm tree that she knew stood directly in front of their house. But the flash from the camera . . . it had happened, she was sure of that. Then she wasn't so sure. A firefly could have made that spark of light. And she could have fantasized the rest. She was aware of her mother hovering over her. "What are you doing up at this hour?" her mother asked. She placed a hand on Amy's forehead. "Are you feeling all right?" Amy didn't know what her mother expected to learn from her forehead. As far as she could remember, she had never had a fever in her life. "I'm okay." But now her mother's voice became even more anxious. "Did you have that dream again?" Amy had told Nancy once about the dream, and she'd regretted it ever since. Nancy had interrogated her about it, asking for all the details Amy could remember--was the glass warm or cool to the touch? Did she know what the drums meant? Did she recognize any other people in the dream? And now, anytime Amy woke up in a bad mood, Nancy would ask her if she'd had the dream again. Amy didn't feel like answering questions now. "No, I just woke up and I was thirsty." It was then that she remembered the glass of water she'd dropped. She looked down and saw the shards of glass on the floor. Nancy saw them too and immediately went into action. "Don't move, your feet are bare." She pulled over a chair and instructed Amy to sit down with her feet up. Then she scurried about, picking up the larger pieces of glass gingerly and using a...
widez2