Shadowed Dreams & Rippled Water

One The Sweet Scent of Honeysuckle The instant I stepped outside, the chill of the early morning air nipped at my fair face. It was unusually cold for an Australian February morning, an eerie coolness trapped between the dense forest of trees surrounding the farmhouse. Shadows danced across the gravel driveway, enveloping Mum’s dusty Holden wagon parked beneath the hanging branch of a crooked Mallee tree. Shivering, I tightened my dressing gown and moved from the doorway. The darkness seemed to follow my creaking footsteps, filling in the gaps between the worn veranda floorboards. “Oh g-geez!” I stuttered, perching on the crackling wicker swing seat beside my older brother, Dean. “I d-didn’t expect it to be so c-cold out here.” “Morning, Luce,” Dean said, grinning up from underneath the hood of his thick grey jacket. “I’m s-surprised to see you out here t-this early…” “M-morning,” I stuttered and shivered. “I-I know, but I-I have a p-piano lesson soon.” I stared at him, mesmerised by the contours of his godly defined jaw, and that lingering pang of envy that bubbled in my chest reared its ugly head. There was no denying Dean was handsome. If anyone could inherit the best characteristics of both their parents and look so darn good, it was him. He had Mum’s light brown hair, tanned skin, and Dad’s deep blue eyes that grew more intense the longer you peered into them. Even though he was nineteen, he could have passed for someone in their mid-twenties. Kane and Dylan, our identical twin brothers, who had turned seventeen last December, were Dad’s carbon copies, sharing his blue eyes and blonde hair that never seemed to fall out of place. Baby Stacey, our four-year-old sister, was Mum’s doppelganger with wavey brown hair and sun-kissed blue eyes. Then there was me—at sixteen, I was thin, awkward, pale, a little gangly, with jet-black hair and dark brown eyes. I resembled no one in the family like the doctors had swapped me at birth. “T-to think… I came out here to bask in the sun before work,” Dean quipped, lowering his hood and snapping me out of my thoughts. “Instead, I get serious f-frost bite and an extreme case of the st-stutters.” Giggling, I plucked my gaze from his and touched my icy cold nose. “Speaking of frostbite, I think my nose is frozen.” “Welcome to the typical Australian morning,” Dean yawned, stretching his arms over his head, his breath turning white. “Where Summer mornings feel more like Autumn days.” “Well, it’s too cold for me.” I shivered, scrunching my face and leaned against him. “And you’re usually warm, so I’m stealing your body heat…” “Whatever works for you, Luce…” He chuckled, letting me move closer. I breathed deeply, enjoying the sweet scent of the climbing honeysuckle that wrapped like vines around the worn veranda banister rails. Despite the cold, the delicate pink flowers were in full bloom, soaking up the chilly morning dew. I love these flowers. Streaks of morning sunlight peered between the gaps in the trees, chasing the morning chill away. The front yard sprang to life with the cheerful chatter of tiny grey sparrows as they flittered down from the safety of their branches. They danced along the banister rails, twisting their heads from side to side, searching for the first meal of the day. In the distance, a gaggle of playful galahs screeched, and a family of young magpies chortled. Lost in the tranquillity of the moment, I folded my legs underneath me and lay my head against Dean’s arm. “It’s peaceful, don’t you agree?” “Yep, it usually is at five thirty in the morning,” Dean added with a nod as he stared into the distance, his mind deep in thought. I wriggled, adjusting my legs more comfortably beneath me when something sharp brushed against my bony hip. “Ouch…!” I winced, recoiling. I ran my fingers over the pocket of my dressing gown to find the frayed edges of a book. I unhooked the corner from my pocket lining and slipped the book onto my lap, leaving clumps of crusted old glue and flakes of paper on my fingertips. The yellowing pages were held together loosely, and the dustjacket was long gone, leaving behind the indent of the title on the cover. ‘The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.’ “I forgot I had this…” “Why have you got that old thing, Lucy lady?” Dean asked, raising his brown eyebrows curiously at me. “I haven’t seen it in years.” When I was five, Dean came up with the nickname Lucy Lady, which stuck. Unlike our brothers Dylan and Kane, he never called me sis or anything that simple. It was Lucy, Luce, or my favourite Lucy Lady. Baby Stacey had decided that Lulu was more her thing, and when she said it, it always made me smile. “Umm, I don’t know,” I shrugged, wiping the flakes from my hands. “I walked past the bookcase on my way out here, and it fell at my feet. Strange things like that have happened to me all morning—like walking through the kitchen and catching Dad’s favourite mug when it fell out of the drying rack…” “Strange things always happen to you,” he chuckled. “Yeah, I know. It’s a curse,” I sighed. “Anyway, seeing I have it with me, I might have a look at it.” Dean snorted a laugh. “No matter how often you read a book, it ends the same way. And knowing you, you’ll end up with a paper cut or even worse...” I shot him a chastising glare. “Ha-ha, very funny… I’m not that clumsy…!” “What a load of rubbish…” he faced me, his smirk dimpling the corner of his lips. “You’re the clumsiest person I know.” He gestured his chin at my head. “You can’t even get out of bed without hurting yourself… This morning was proof of that.” “Geez, Dean, thanks for your concern,” I huffed, rubbing the lump above my right temple. The skin was tender but nothing like it had been earlier when I had collided with my bedroom door. “And for your information, I had a bad night’s sleep…” “Again…?” His face suddenly darkened. “Are you having nightmares still?” “The same one about the ferry collapsing while Dad was on his way to work…” I admitted, shivering at the memory. “This time, he saved a little girl before…” I swallowed. “Before he drowned.” His eyes matched his face as he rubbed his hand against the stubble on his chin. “Did you tell Mum?” I nodded, and my shoulder brushed against his. Static shot through us. I gasped and moved back. Dean shifted so his back was against the armrest of the swing seat. “What did she say?” “She said what she always says—that it’s just a dream, and I shouldn’t worry about it.” I sighed, opening the frail cover of the timeworn book. It fell naturally open to a page towards the middle. Dean exhaled. “And that was all she said? Nothing else?” “Why?” I asked, peering up at him. Why was he acting so weird? “What else would you expect her to say?” “Nothing,” he said, brushing his brown hair from his face. “Don’t worry about it…” I squinted at him and shrugged. “I’m not… It was just a dream…” Sighing, he turned his face away. “Yeah, just a dream…” Weird! Flicking my long black hair behind me, I returned to the book. I ran my fingers down the crusted glue, inhaling the scent of old shelves and dust. Fingerprints had smudged the bottom corners, and the page numbers had faded. A mustardy stain covered the centre, spreading in a splattered pattern over both pages. I scratched my fingernail over it to see if it could be scrubbed away, but it had soaked in too deep. “What is that?” I held the book closer, sniffed it, and recoiled. It was the unmistakable scent of coffee, and it covered the title. “What does that say…?” I squinted at it and just made out the first sentence. Love, lovers, marriage and sex... I giggled, peering over the top of the book. My cheeks began to burn, heating the skin under my ears. “Well, it didn’t take long to warm up,” Dean commented, loosening his jacket. His eyes flittered to mine as he slipped his arms from the sleeves. “What’s so funny, Lucy lady?” “Well, umm,” I bit my bottom lip nervously. “Well, it’s the section on love, marriage and—” I giggled again. “And s*x?” Dean teased, winking at me. He hooked his jacket over the swing seat armrest. “Isn’t that a bit of a taboo subject for your age?” “I’m nearly seventeen… I’m not a child anymore,” I snickered, the heat spreading to my chest. “I can talk about…” I lowered my voice, “s*x if I want to…” “But you’re not an adult,” He flashed me a sideways grin that made my stomach twist in knots. “Well, not yet, anyway.” I bit down on my bottom lip and returned to the book, hoping it would ease the flutters in my chest. What’s happening to me? The slightest touch or sideways grin left me in a swell of elated panic. It was happening more and more as I got older. “It’s completely normal, Darling,” Mum told me when I questioned her about these weird feelings. “You’re maturing, and those hormones will change your body. Give it time, and it will settle.” I swallowed nervously and fiddled with a strand of my hair. Was this normal? I understood my emotions were changing as my hormones changed, but was it normal to feel this way towards Dean?