were directed at her.
“Of course, mi querida. I’ll bring the wine. Seven o’clock?”
“Seven’s good.”
Trailed by her Secret Service detail, Stacy Andrews escorted Claire up a flight of stairs in the Executive Residence. The protective agents remained in the hall outside while the girl ushered Claire into a suite of sunny rooms that overlooked the South Lawn.
The suite blended early American history with the distinctive stamp of a lively teenager. A funky lamp with a leopard-print shade sat atop what looked like a genuine Chippendale tea table. Posters of the Jonas Brothers decorated one wall, a Frederic Church landscape hung on another. A laptop and iPod player occupied a place of honor on an early American slant-lid desk. D.C. schools let out in mid-May for the summer, so there were no backpacks or textbooks scattered around, but Claire noted with approval plenty of teen magazines and paperbacks.
Growing up the daughter of a popular and gregarious governor had instilled Stacy Andrews with social graces beyond her years. Forcing herself to shed some of her reserve, she played the perfect hostess.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Dr. Cantwell.”
Claire chose the oversize sofa, angled to face a wall-hung plasma TV.
“Would you like something to drink?” Stacy asked politely. “Tea? Coffee? A Diet Coke?”
“A Diet Coke would be great.”
A small army of staff catered to the First Family’s needs, but the teen kept a private stash of goodies in her suite’s minikitchen. She poured two soft drinks into ice-filled glasses, then filled a bowl with cheesy Corn Curls.
“These are my favorite munchies,” she confided as she positioned the bowl between them on the sofa. “Dad’s, too.”
Luckily, she’d provided linen napkins with the snack. Claire nibbled on a few morsels and dusted the orange residue from her fingers before taking a sip of cola. She didn’t push the subject foremost on both their minds. Instead, she and Stacy chatted idly about other favorite foods and the latest High School Musical movie. The subject of the teen’s plans for the summer led to an awkward pause.
“I’m going to camp,” she said slowly, twisting a strand of dark brown hair around two fingers. “After camp, I was supposed to accompany Dad on another goodwill tour, this one to Asia. I don’t know if he’ll want to take me after…after what happened in Cartoza.”
“What did happen, Stacy?”
“I don’t know! I mean, I was having fun. I met lots of kids my own age and went to a village fiesta and got to swim with the dolphins at a marine life preserve. Then I had these…these awful dreams.”
“Can you describe them for me?”
“There were people. Lots of people dressed in kind of weird clothes.”
“Weird how?”
“Old-fashioned, I guess you could call it. And real plain, like they were farmers or something. Some of the women had kerchiefs on their heads. At first they were just standing there, staring at me. Then they…Then they…”
She twisted the strand of hair into a tight spiral. Her breathing sped up. Carefully, Claire watched these visible signs of distress.
“They started crowding closer and closer,” Stacy said in a small, scared voice, “until I was surrounded.”
She swallowed. Her eyes took on a haunted look that accented the dark shadows under them.
“Then their faces start falling off,” she whispered, pushing out each ragged syllable. “The flesh melted away, until they were just skulls with empty eyes. All of them. Just skeletons. Surrounding me. Reaching for me. Like…Like I was going to die and they wanted to drag me into the grave with them!”
She ended on a note of rising panic. Claire anchored her with a calm observation.
“Skeletons quite often appear in dreams, but they don’t necessarily symbolize physical death.”
Hope replaced the burgeoning fear in the girl’s eyes. “They don’t?”
“No. In fact, some analysts think they represent life, not death. It could be your subconscious telling you to stop, take a breath, focus on the positive things around you, instead of the negative. Which must be kind of hard to do when you’re living in a fishbowl,” Claire added shrewdly, “and you see your father’s critics on the evening news. It must hurt to hear them question his leadership.”
“It does! I hate it when people criticize him. They did it back home, too, when he was governor, but they’re so much meaner here.”
Claire didn’t doubt that. Andrews was playing in the big league now.
“Did you have dreams like this back home?”
“No, never!”
“Tell me what books you’ve been reading lately. What Web sites you go to, the movies you watch.”
With her bright red jacket, jeans and Mary Janes, Stacy Andrews didn’t give the appearance of being into Goth or horror, but Claire knew appearances could be very deceptive. Nothing the girl related seemed likely to have implanted the hideous images she’d described, however.
“How about caffeine?” She tapped the frosted glass. “Do you usually have a soft drink before bed?”
“No. Dad says they’re not good for me and wants me to limit myself to one or two during the day.” Her eyes pleaded with Claire for another explanation. “The dreams really freaked me out, Dr. Cantwell. What else could have caused them?”
“Well, it could have been the stress of the trip, although threatening dreams such as the ones you’ve described can result from any number of causes.” Lifting a hand, she ticked off a quick list. “Anxiety, illness, loss of a loved one, excessive alcohol consumption, reaction to a drug, sleeping disorders, or even an inherited tendency toward nightmares.”
“Dad never mentioned having horrible dreams like this, and he’s got a lot more stress than I do.”
“How about your mom?” Claire asked gently. “You went through a rough time when you lost her. Do you still miss her?”
“Every day. But…” She worried her lower lip with her teeth for a moment. “It scares me, Dr. Cantwell. Sometimes I have to think real hard to remember what she looked like.”
“That’s a natural part of healing.”
As Claire knew all too well.
“We may not keep their faces or the sound of their voices in our heads, but we keep them here.” She laid a palm over her heart, reminded vividly of her own torturous journey. “You don’t need to feel guilty for going on with your life, Stacy.”
“I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do.”
They talked for a little while longer, and Claire heard nothing that suggested a troubled or deeply disturbed teen.
“Tell you what,” she said when they finished. “I’ll do some research and get back to you. In the meantime, try to go to bed the same time each night—even on weekends—to reset your sleep cycle. A warm, relaxing bath before you hit the sheets might also help. Also a good thirty-minute workout, if you exercise at least four to five hours before bedtime.”
“I can do that.”
“I can’t promise you won’t have these dreams again,” Claire cautioned. “If you do, call me and I’ll come over. Or you can come to my office. We’ll talk you through them and try to understand what they’re telling you.”
“Thanks, Dr. Cantwell. I’m…I’m not so scared now.”
“Good girl. Do you want me to speak to your father about our discussion? I won’t,