Doctor Sleep (The Shining, #2)(90)

She came downstairs wearing the pink flannel pajamas Momo had given her last Christmas. Her father was watching the Red Sox and drinking a glass of beer. She put a big smackeroo on his nose (he always said he hated that, but she knew he sort of liked it) and told him she was off to bed.

“La homework est complète, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, Daddy, but the French word for homework is devoirs.”

“Good to know, good to know. How was your mother? I ask because I only had about ninety seconds with her before you snatched the phone.”

“She’s doing okay.” Abra knew this was the truth, but she also knew okay was a relative term. She started for the hall, then turned back. “She said Momo was like a glass ornament.” She hadn’t, not out loud, but she’d been thinking it. “She says we all are.”

Dave muted the TV. “Well, I guess that’s true, but some of us are made of surprisingly tough glass. Remember, your momo’s been up on the shelf, safe and sound, for many, many years. Now come over here, Abba-Doo, and give your Dad a hug. I don’t know if you need it, but I could use one.”


7

Twenty minutes later she was in bed with Mr. Pooh Bear Nightlight, a holdover from earliest childhood, glowing on the dresser. She reached for Dan and found him in an activities room where there were jigsaw puzzles, magazines, a Ping-Pong table, and a big TV on the wall. He was playing cards with a couple of hot spice residents.

(did you talk to Doctor John?)

(??yes we’re going to Iowa day after tomorrow)

This thought was accompanied by a brief picture of an old biplane. Inside were two men wearing old-fashioned flying helmets, scarves, and goggles. It made Abra smile.

(if we bring you)

Picture of a catcher’s mitt. That wasn’t what the baseball boy’s glove really looked like, but Abra knew what Dan was trying to say.

(will you freak out)

(no)

She better not. Holding the dead boy’s glove would be terrible, but she would have to do it.


8

In the common room of Rivington One, Mr. Braddock was staring at Dan with that look of monumental but slightly puzzled irritation which only the very old and borderline senile can bring off successfully. “Are you gonna discard something, Danny, or just sit there starin into the corner until the icecaps melt?”

(??goodnight Abra)

(??goodnight Dan say goodnight to Tony for me)

“Danny?” Mr. Braddock knocked his swollen knuckles on the table. “Danny Torrance, come in, Danny Torrance, over?”

(don’t forget to set your alarm)

“Hoo-hoo, Danny,” Cora Willingham said.

Dan looked at them. “Did I discard, or is it still my turn?”

Mr. Braddock rolled his eyes at Cora; Cora rolled hers right back.

“And my daughters think I’m the one losing my marbles,” she said.


9

Abra had set the alarm on her iPad because tomorrow was not only a schoolday but one of her days to make breakfast—scrambled eggs with mushrooms, peppers, and Jack cheese was the plan. But that wasn’t the alarm Dan had been talking about. She closed her eyes and concentrated, her brow furrowing. One hand crept out from under the covers and began wiping at her lips. What she was doing was tricky, but maybe it would be worth it.

Alarms were all well and good, but if the woman in the hat came looking for her, a trap might be even better.

After five minutes or so, the lines on her forehead smoothed out and her hand fell away from her mouth. She rolled over on her side and pulled the duvet up to her chin. She was visualizing herself riding a white stallion in full warrior garb when she fell asleep. Mr. Pooh Bear Nightlight watched from his place on the dresser as he had since Abra was four, casting a dim radiance on her left cheek. That and her hair were the only parts of her that still showed.

In her dreams, she galloped over long fields under four billion stars.


10

Rose continued her meditations until one thirty that Monday morning. The rest of the True (with the exception of Apron Annie and Big Mo, currently watching over Grampa Flick) were sleeping deeply when she decided she was ready. In one hand she held a picture, printed off her computer, of Anniston, New Hampshire’s not-very-impressive downtown. In the other she held one of the canisters. Although there was nothing left inside but the faintest whiff of steam, she had no doubt it would be enough. She put her fingers on the valve, preparing to loosen it.

We are the True Knot, and we endure: Sabbatha hanti.

We are the chosen ones: Lodsam hanti.

We are the fortunate ones: Cahanna risone hanti.

“Take this and use it well, Rosie-girl,” she said. When she turned the valve, a short sigh of silver mist escaped. She inhaled, fell back on her pillow, and let the canister drop to the carpet with a soft thud. She lifted the picture of Anniston’s Main Street in front of her eyes. Her arm and hand were no longer precisely there, and so the picture seemed to float. Not far from that Main Street, a little girl lived down a lane that was probably called Richland Court. She would be fast asleep, but somewhere in her mind was Rose the Hat. She assumed the little girl didn’t know what Rose the Hat looked like (any more than Rose knew what the girl looked like . . . at least not yet), but she knew what Rose the Hat felt like. Also, she knew what Rose had been looking at in Sam’s yesterday. That was her marker, her way in.