Oliver knows I’m here. I can see it, in the way his eyes slide toward mine when he thinks the psychiatrist isn’t looking. Can’t he understand that I need him more than ever? That this isn’t the time to fool around? That our entire future together might be dependent on him actually emitting a sound right now? I lean in and press my nose to the book. “Oliver,” I grit out.“Speak!”
There’s no response.
Well, if he wants to play games, I’m perfectly happy to do just that.
“Fine, then. Let’s trythisscene.” I turn to the last page in the book, where Oliver and Seraphima are locked together in a perfect kiss.
I think I see him squirm.
It serves him right.
“Do you ever have trouble telling the difference between… for example… a dream you’ve had the night before and reality?” the doctor asks.
“I’m not making this up,” I insist. “Hmm. Let’s look at that again.” Angry, I flip back and forth between a scene where Oliver is fighting the dragon and the final page. Is it my imagination, or is he actually kissing Seraphima as if he’senjoyingit?
Angrily, I open and close the book a few more times.
Then, faintly:
“I give up.”
“Did you hear that?” I cry.
“You heard something?”
Oliver. I heard Oliver, loud and clear. “Didn’t you?” I ask, but I already know the answer. Oliver told me that in all the years he’s been in this fairy tale, I’m the first reader who ever listened.
The psychiatrist gently pries the book out of my hands and places it on the coffee table between us, still open to the page where Oliver stands toe to toe with Pyro.
“Delilah,” he says quietly, “I know sometimes it’s easier to make believe than to have to deal with the truth.”
“This isn’t make-believe!” I glance down at the book, and my eyes widen. Something’s wrong, terribly wrong.My eyes fall on the text across from the illustration:
“Wait!” Oliver cried. “I didn’t come here to fight you. I’m here to help!”
The dragon took a menacing step forward and roared.
Because I have read this book a hundred times, I know what comes next. Pyro snorts and lights a tree on fire. Except now it reads differently:
As Pyro snorted, Prince Oliver rushed headlong into the ball of fire.
“Oliver!” I scream. “No!”
The illustration quivers and re-forms, like a pond after a stone’s thrown into it. Before my eyes I see Oliver being burned alive as the dragon rears its head behind him.
I reach for the book, hoping to slam it closed, but it singes my fingers. “Ouch! You have to help him,” I sob, grabbing at the psychiatrist’s sleeve. “Please. Before it’s too late…”
Dr. Ducharme puts his hands on my shoulders. “It’s all right, Delilah. Take a few deep breaths.”
I do what he says, but my eyes are on the book that’s on the table behind him. It’s glowing red, like coals, at the edges of the page.
“I’m going to get your mother to join us for these last few minutes,” Dr. Ducharme suggests. “Are you all right now?”
I nod. The minute he steps out of his office, the book bursts into flames.
Oh my gosh.I grab my coat, and using it as a giant pot holder, snatch the book from the table and thrust it into the enormous fish tank. Two angelfish scuttle out of the way as the book bubbles and fizzes down to the plastic-pebbled bottom.
With a small smile, I realize I’ve rescued the prince, instead of the other way around.
