Page 17 of Stolen Dreams

Not really. The plan is to nap an hour before Fin comes over. But I guess there’s always time after.

“Sure. Head over when you’re ready. I may power nap on the couch until then.”

“I’ll be sure to bang loudly on the door,sunshine.”

I laugh. “Appreciate it.”

When the call disconnects, rather than sit on the couch and close my eyes, I head for the kitchen. Pull ingredients from the fridge and pantry for three more videos. Thankfully, some of the ingredients overlap for the recipes and I can use some footage more than once.

While I wait for Fin, I check my stats for the last few videos. Millions of views display on each post. As I work my way through the comments, liking and responding to as many as possible, Fin bangs on the front door.

“Wakey, wakey, porn star,” he shouts loud enough for it to carry through the trees to my parents’ house.

As I open the door, I roll my eyes. “Really, Fin? My parents will scold you every day for the rest of your life if they hear you.”

Goofy smirk on his face, he strolls past me and into the house. “Lucky for me, they aren’t home.” He kicks off his shoes and heads for the kitchen. “What meat are you molesting for your groupies today?”

Following in his wake, I peel my shirt off and toss it on the dining room table. “Something moist and juicy.”

“Should’ve known.” He chuckles as he surveys the ingredients on the counter. “I’m ready when you are.”

For the next three hours, I do what I love most. Cook and entertain.

FOUR

KAYA

From an early age,the desire to help others lived in my bones. It was different from that of my parents. My path was more abstract, profound, visceral. Scalpels, sutures, bandages, and medications will never be in my healing arsenal.

I mend the spirit. Restore the soul. Alleviate a different type of pain.

Sadness and heartache, hurt and frustration, anger and anxiety—my spirit cries out to heal the darkness in others. Show them ways to move past life’s hiccups and hurdles. Point out the good when they can’t see beyond the devastation. Guide them back toward the light and be a pillar when they need it most.

When I was a small girl, myanaanatsialirqiuti—great-grandmother—told me she saw a great energy around my spirit. Great-grandmother said it had been many years since she encountered such a powerful spirit in a person. Both myanaanatsiaqandanaana—grandmother and mother—had gifts too, but theirs was different. As unique as we were. She said this gift I had been given was my calling. That I amangakkuq—a shaman.

I remember asking her if that meant I would work with my mother or father at a doctor’s office or the hospital. She told meno. That my gift was distinct from theirs. I would heal people in a greater way, not with pills or thread, but with my heart and words.

It wasn’t until years later that I truly understood what it meant to heal someone’s spirit. When I neared the end of high school and started looking at college courses, it hadn’t been difficult to narrow down my major. Finding a way to blend my culture with modern healing and the need to relieve others’ anguish, I elected to study psychology. A year into my studies, after several conversations, a professor took me aside and said I’d be a phenomenal behavioral specialist. That I had a rare gift and saw more than a person’s superficial layer.

Working with children in Stone Bay has been… interesting, but I wouldn’t change a single moment. Once we overcome the hurdles and struggles and get to the root cause of their hurt, it opens a door for joy and gratitude. Nothing is more rewarding than seeing someone find their peace again. Gaining priceless connections with the town’s youth is an additional perk.

When the final bell rings this school year, many will silently rejoice. Naturally, I’m the oddball. The one who wilts in their absence. The one who wants to check in with her students over summer break.

And as I pack up office number two, a gray cloud looms overhead and has me melancholy.

“Why are you frowning?” Clarissa asks from her spot in one of the guest chairs.

Snapping me out of my gloomy introspection, I blink a couple times and school my expression. “I’m not.”

She peers up from her phone and arches a brow. “You were.” Her gaze drops back to the screen as she chuckles.

“What’s funny?”

“You’re the only person at school sad about not seeing students for three months.”

My eyes lose focus as I recall recent conversations with other school staff. Teachers, administrators, janitors. Several expressed their excitement for vacation and rest, but no one explicitly said they were thrilled to have student-free days.

I mentally wave off Clarissa’s comment and return to packing. “I’ll see some of them at the rec center throughout the summer.” Fetching an empty manilla folder from the filing cabinet, I fill it with drawings and paintings middle and high school students gifted me this year. “Though it’ll mostly be the elementary students.”

---