3
Nothingness engulfed the pair.
Nothingness? But this is so different from No Man’s Land. Would everythingness be a better description? Is everythingness even a word? It should be, I just discovered its secret.
Grace couldn’t think of a better way to describe this new place. She felt as if she were in a vacuum full of light and all its light-bearing properties. Completely contrary to this feeling, she was suspended in total darkness. Her eyes didn’t see light but every other sensory cue told her that she was immersed in something related to light. It tingled through her synapses, melting away tensions, smoothing flexed muscles, massaging her internal organs. Somewhere in the eye of her mind she could picture her poor battered heart floating in a warm bath of–
Of what?
Brandy. Gorgeous amber color, warm and liquid.
No, the smell is all wrong. Brandy makes me gag. This smell is perfect.
Ambrosia.
Ambrosia. Something golden, light, delicious, erotically perfumed, exotic and yet familiar. Ambrosia was as good a word as any Grace could find. They say that a lot of mythology stems from some truth. Maybe this is where the notion of ambrosia had originated.
Nectar of the gods. Definitely. This is another one of those things that I must have been missing without knowing it.
“Can we stay here forever?” The moment the words slipped out, the delicious sensation drained through the tips of her toes, right out under the nails. She wondered with helpless longing where the sensation flowed to.
Is there another lucky someone out there absorbing its benediction?
“I ruined it by talking?” The feeling of primordial disappointment and loss rocked her words loose.
“We have arrived at our destination anyway. Next time you might consider just resting in a beautiful place when it’s been offered to you.”
Grace knew he was looking at her. She felt his gaze compelling her to make eye contact. Against her will, she stubbornly refused his invitation. An exhalation of the
Mmmmm
ambrosia blew warm past Grace’s face. She rolled her eyes back in a brief moment of pleasure as if basking in the sun.
“Your sighs are beautiful,” she murmured involuntarily.
“It’s time to see.” His voice commanded her.
For a split second she struggled against the command of his voice. She did not want to see what must be coming. Grace’s dreams had always followed a strict protocol. For lack of better understanding of what this night’s journey might be, Grace, once again, inferred a dream protocol: a good dream, particularly one that the dreamer didn’t want to leave, must always be followed by a bad dream. Her last encounter with a stranger that left her with such an inexplicable ache of longing, must perforce, be counterbalanced by something so bad she was afraid to open her eyes. In order to restore equilibrium to the dream universe she feared she was in for something exquisitely ugly.
Her futile struggle ended and she opened her eyes, trying to adjust to what she couldn’t see. Her optic nerve behaved just as if she had been basking outside on a brilliant summer’s day, face sunward, when an insistent telephone called her inside. Indoors, she couldn’t see a thing, everything was too dark while bright flashes assaulted her retina as she groped for her ringing ocular receiver. She slowly adjusted to the transition, light separating from dark, defining itself into almost recognizable objects. The first thing Grace noticed was that the color was off kilter; someone had turned the tint knob of an old TV, overwhelming the screen with the same split pea green that infuses a summer afternoon just before a thunderstorm. Grace had to immediately admit this was an inaccurate description. The color in the air before a summer storm causes a thrill of anticipation. Skin tingles knowing the sheets of warm rain, low black clouds, goose-bump inducing cracks of rolling thunder and crisp wild designs of electricity are on the way, making arm hairs stand at glorious attention, just waiting for the onslaught. This drab, thick, wholly unnatural color didn’t carry any promise of wild natural force. It filled Grace with a sense of dread and descending doom.
I know what it reminds me of: that Laurel and Hardy movie, what was it called? Babes in Toyland, that’s right. It reminds me of that part where they fight the boogeymen in a place that looks like hell. Pretty creepy for a kid’s movie.
As her eyes adjusted some more, she began to recognize the tableau. She was looking down a hallway: the upstairs hallway of her own home. It grew darker as it receded. She could barely make out the figure of herself as child standing at the end of the hall. The walls narrowed too quickly, more quickly than normal perspective would allow for. Grace the observer was reminded of Gene Wilder as the purple velvet host of the Chocolate Factory as the wild haired kook leads his guests through a series of dysmorphic hallways and doorways. Anyone with the slightest claustrophobic tendency would feel its spacial oppression. The walls seemed to be closing in to squeeze and steal freedom. Grace wanted to help the little girl at the end of the hallway, a tiny figure on the black verge of being crushed.
Grace watched herself standing alone, a seven-year-old’s terror forcing her eyes wide. The child wore a short nightgown with a picture of Holly Hobby on the front. Holly’s blue calico bonnet matched the ruffle brushing small trembling knees.
“That can’t be right. My mom said we couldn’t afford that nightgown. Alexis down the street, who had everything including a pony in her backyard and monkey bars in her bedroom, had that same exact nightgown. She also had the coolest plastic belt filled with Wrigley’s Doublemint chewing gum wrappers. I must admit, I coveted that particular neighbor’s goods like it was my job.”
“It’s your dream. I guess you can wear whatever you like. I’m surprised you’re not wearing the belt with it. And those pink cowboy boots. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’ve ever worn in your dreams.”
She chortled involuntarily at the mental image of his described ensemble, down to the forgotten footwear pictured on a dog-eared page of the phone book sized Fall Sears Catalogue.
“I’m actually watching my own dream? From inside of another dream? That seems pretty tricky, even for you.”
Grace could feel his smile,
“Nothing is too tricky for me.” His strange way of delivering snippets that resonated with truth deeper than their surface tension was comforting and troubling all at once. “Do you think you’re dreaming right now Grace?”
Comforted by her decision to accept her journey as a dreamer, Grace had no intention of addressing or even acknowledging his question. Sometimes the truth is just too hard. She deflected,
“When I was little, I had this dream so many times I had almost come to think of it as real—as if it had really happened to me.”
“Of course it happened to you. In your dreams.” He squeezed her hand, cueing a scene shift.
Shift indeed. Her perspective rotated in a roller coaster undulation. The new location allowed observation of the hallway as if it had been bisected along its full length. The hallway had become a stage set and Grace was both audience and actress. Knowing the floor plan of her house, she figured they must be watching from somewhere in the vicinity of what should have been the countertop of the upstairs bathroom. The walls and a hall closet that would have blocked their view were gone, removed in the compartmentalized unreality of a sit-com or play. Grace found it difficult to digest the logistics of spacial reconfiguration to facilitate observation of a childhood dream.
Good luck explaining that to the folks at home, Dorothy.
At the other end of the hallway opposite from little Grace, a woman appeared. Grace knew this woman with the familiarity of dread. She had memorized that long, raggedy head of dreadlocks. Those coal chute tresses had always reminded Grace of one particular doll she had left at the bottom of the toy box after many years of abusive amateur hairdressing and frustrated neglect, complete with random irremediable matting and constellations of lint and anonymous debris. One or four pieces of debris seemed to crawl with guerrilla stealth through that black forest of hair. The strange ashen hue of the woman’s skin was also unforgettable. It seemed that all the warmth had been leached from her soul and the thirsty soul was trying to borrow from her pigment. And after all these years the woman still hadn’t changed her clothes: several layers of amorphous robes or blankets looked like a heap of soiled laundry she carried around on her back or an unwashed street bum who had caught her for a piggy back ride. Each article was dirtier, mustier, darker than the next; the cumulative effect was that of filthy chaos.
Grace, the dream child, began to tremble at the sight of this night time visitor. Her honeyed chocolate curls bounced faintly as her teeth tried to rattle inside her mouth. She clenched her jaw in a bid for control and held her fists tight.
“Tonight is the night isn’t it?” Grace whispered, frightened for the child. She wanted to help her: hold her balled up hand, calm her shaking shoulders, speak words of strength and peace to her self.
The woman reached into her robes and pulled something out. At first it was hard to see what she was holding as she held up her crone’s claw. The hand bore a near perfect resemblance to the witch’s in Snow White when she holds out her apple of death to the easily deceived innocent. The gnarled knuckles turned and a twist of her bony wrist revealed, instead of that tempting red fruit, an inordinately large hypodermic needle. At the end of the sharp, a single drop of silver liquid glistened, ominously balanced on the tip of the razor point.
“I’ve always thought this part was strange.”
“How so?” he always seemed so genuinely interested.
“Where did the hypodermic come from? I don’t mean from those dirty robes either. I mean in my child’s mind. I can clearly remember the other things that influenced my dream. There were movies I saw as a kid that affected the imagery in my dream. Each one had a big impact on me: it explains the creepy greenish hue of the dreamscape, the crushing perspective of the hallway, and that crone’s gnarly hand. But the needle doesn’t seem to fit in.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot.”
“Are you kidding me? From the first night I had this dream until I took my first Psych class, ‘til every time any bad dream triggered a memory of this dream, I’ve thought about it. And I can’t, for the life of me, remember any experience with a scary needle. Why did my mind create that imagery? Maybe something I don’t remember seeing? Maybe some movie I wasn’t even supposed to see. Did I have a bad experience at the doctor’s office? You know stuff. Can you tell me?”
He laughed at that,
“Yes, I know stuff. Not everything can be reduced to imagery created from a known source in your conscious life. Things you weren’t even aware of were occurring in your life, your home, your psyche, your spirit. Imagine, before tonight you have never travelled to the places I have taken you, but they have been there, unseen, hidden from you. Just because you can’t see a threat doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There is a war for the spirit that may manifest itself only when you have relinquished your vice grip on the sensual world of your consciousness. Dreams are a perfect venue for this release.”
“Real or not, conscious or subconscious, sensual or spiritual, she and her needle scared me to death.”
The witch, that’s the name Grace had given her thirteen years ago after too many confrontations, suddenly started advancing down the hallway. She moved with menacing swiftness without appearing to move her feet. To clarify, there were no feet in sight. Her robes swirled around the area where feet would make anatomical sense. As if the robe skirts were some sort of propeller, she gathered momentum, seemed to levitate, fly and sail, or some combination of the three, across the dull brown carpet. Little Grace turned to run as she did every night this visitor haunted her dreams. She had been running until waking for countless consecutive nights. Legs ready to spring to life, torso half-twisted to turn into one of the darkened doorways on the hall, Grace hesitated. She set her body rigid, turned back toward the accelerating horror, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in defiance.
“You have no place here. Jesus is with me and you have no power.”
The advance halted abruptly. The ugly face filled with wretched fury and disbelief. She opened her mouth as if to scream. Without sound, the opening got wider and wider, the growing blackness finally swallowing her entire face while her body simultaneously shrank into the gaping void that had once been her opened mouth. She vanished completely. The hypodermic clattered to the floor. A blink later, the needle was gone.
Big Grace watched this familiar scene washed afresh in her triumph.
“My mom told her to say that. Poor little kid couldn’t sleep. She was terrified of that lady with her needle coming night after night. Exhausted, she finally spilled it all out and my mom helped her.”
Grace remembered without seeing. She had come home from the next door lady’s Summer Vacation Bible School, so excited to tell her mom all she had learned that day.
“First, each of us made a felt banner with all sorts of shapes cut out. Birds, flowers, the sun, a tree. Mine was definitely the best. Then we sang a song. It was nice but I don’t really remember the words except the part that said, ‘His banner over me is love.’ There are hand motions that go with the song, kind of like a hula dance. Mrs. Gardner said we made the banner because Jesus’ banner is love. She said it means that I can be protected by the banner of love. Or something like that. I’m not really sure what she meant. Do you think I could be protected?”
Grace remembered the look of concern on her mom’s face as the words came gushing out of her agitated mouth.
“Why do you need to be protected Grace?”
With a flood of relief and words, she poured out the whole dream to her mom, describing it in detail, sharing how the dream had been coming back with relentless frequency.
“I wish you had told me this before Grace. It makes me sad that you were so scared.”
Looking at her mom’s face, she remembered wondering why she had kept this secret to herself for so long. Her mom seemed angry, sad and a little frightened too. Maybe this is why she hadn’t told. Had she felt silly? Or stupid? Or tainted by the lady in the dream? For some reason she had held the fear to herself.
“Do you think I could be protected in my dream?” Grace hoped. She remembered anew being surprised as her mom swooped down on her and scooped her into her arms in a bear hug. Her mom was not a particularly touchy-feely person and that moment of secure embrace in her arms was a secret treasure Grace revisited in times of need.
“Absolutely honey. When that mean lady comes, you stand your ground and tell her what Mrs. Gardner shared with you today. Mrs. Gardner is a good woman and she speaks the truth.”
Funny, as Grace had the memory, she thought of Mrs. Gardner for the first time in the twelve years since the woman had moved away from the rambling white house with the black shutters and giant porch. The porch had been so big that twenty neighborhood kids could sit at her informal classes, learning songs and stories of peace and love. As a pièce de résistance, there was always a craft project that allowed each kid to bring home a bit of that love and peace, fleshed out in felt, sequins and popsicle sticks. It struck her that Mrs. Gardner had been a truly beautiful woman. She had never thought of the quiet, pleasant woman with a gray ponytail and serene but completely unmemorable features as beautiful. She had been a nice, unassuming older lady. Grace had taken it for granted that Mrs. Gardner was so patient with the pack of summer stained locals that hung out on her veranda. Strange not to have thought of her for so many years when she had played such a vital part in ending those horrible nightmares.
As the memory within a memory faded from her mind, Grace’s attention returned to the scene at hand. She looked down the hallway and felt an enormous wave of affection for the child at the end of that dreamscape.
“She was great. She’d hop on her little green Schwinn just to see how far she could go. She played endlessly in ocean waves that seemed impossibly huge. Life was a good adventure and she was free to enjoy it. She faced the things she was afraid of, determined to overcome them because they stood in her way. I miss her.”
Her reminiscence cut itself off as she saw past the trembling child. A figure stood behind her right shoulder. She could only make out a faint outline at first. As she stared he became clearer. Grace froze, caught looking at the face she had, thus far, successfully avoided seeing.
“You were there that night.” Tears rushed to the wells of her bottom eyelids as she greedily gathered up the detail of his hands resting on her childish shoulders.
“I was. When you call, I am there.”
“I thought you would be more beautiful. I think that’s part of why I didn’t want to look at your face. I was afraid you would be so beautiful I would be ruined.”
“And now?” Too late she wondered if he could be hurt.
“Your face is kind of homely I think. From the first touch of your hand I pictured a face that would take my breath away.”
“I wonder what eyes you are seeing me with.”
Grace still hadn’t looked at his face in her own presence. Her will felt like a boat she couldn’t control against the stubborn winds driving the vessel away. She couldn’t find the strength to trim the sails in and take command of her actions. She never had been a very good sailor. Instead she looked at him across the span of thirteen years past.
“I don’t know what eyes I see anything with. I’m often fooled. What I thought was beautiful has turned out ugly so many times I can’t count them. Do you know that woman in the dream? She’s a real person, once upon a time my mom’s best friend. When I first saw her, I couldn’t help staring at how gorgeous she was. Her caramel colored skin, wild black waves of hair to the middle of her back were captivating. She wore these awesome flowing, wildly colored kaftans and the coolest beaded jewelry. I had a crush on her in the way only an impressionable girl can have on a beautiful woman. She even had the coolest name–Artemis. I mean, who has a name like that? I couldn’t wait to see her and was happy whenever we visited her until the dreams started. I definitely thought she was far more fascinating and compelling than comfortable old Mrs. Gardner. In the end, her ugliness wasn’t only limited to my dreams. I think she did some bad things to my mom. I never got all the details. It was all very hush hush, behind closed doors but they didn’t call me Harriet The Spy for nothing. I overheard enough to know that the woman I found so beautiful had hurt my mom pretty badly and brought an abrupt end to their friendship.”
“She was a beautiful woman once. Your dream witnessed the toll she had taken on her own spirit. She made choices that damaged her profoundly. Your dream saw what her spirit had turned into. She tried to drag your mother down with her. Thankfully, your mother made different choices. She chose me.”
Grace voiced a thought that had struck her the moment the dream began.
“She reminds me a lot of Marisa. You know?” Grace mentioned the name, carefully gauging her companion’s reaction.
“Oh, yes I do know. They are very similar.”
Grace hung her head, letting her mass of hair hide her shame. Against hope she had hoped he didn’t know about Marisa, about all that her friendship with Marisa had wrought.
Friendship?
Maybe association would be a better word in the light of experience. Grace wanted him to like her and knew he couldn’t possibly find a way if he knew all about Marisa.
“I find you beautiful Grace.” The words didn’t seem to make sense, incongruous, no logical progression. Had she hoped them into being? Had he really said them?
“Why did you show me my dream?” Grace again retreated to the safety of changing the subject. She placed her hope in a secret pocket for private perusal, later.
“What do you think?”
“You know, after I turned and spoke up, I never had that dream again. Not once. That night I felt so strong. When the dreams didn’t come back I knew I had been empowered in some mysterious way,” she replied without answering.
“Yes, I do know.” He seemed to be waiting for more, patiently.
Grace felt inexplicably uncomfortable. She thought she could outwait him. She squirmed and fidgeted, then realizing his infinite patience, she made a stab,
“I guess you wanted me to see that you were there for me even way back then.”
He chuckled. Grace supposed chuckle might just be the perfect word for it. Noises fell out of his throat. Joyful, delightful notes invoked memories of the delicious fruit flavored jelly candy covered with a dusting of sugar for crunch. Five flavors in one white cardboard and clear cellophane sheath: cherry, orange, lime, lemon and incongruous licorice. His laughter fell deliciously like those flavors onto her ears.
“Way back then. It has been thirteen of your years Grace. For me it has been the bat of an eyelash. I know this moment as if it were your yesterday. I can still feel the surge of joy I felt when I heard you call me. Your innocent frightened voice was so sweet to me, I couldn’t wait to rush to protect you. I remember your bony shoulder trembling violently under my palms. But you squared them up defiantly and trusted your Mom and Mrs. Gardner and, best of all, me. That was a good moment in time for me. Pure and clean and true.”
Grace was shaken by the force of his recollection.
Why should I be so important?
In the switch of a current, she was not sure she wanted him to think she was beautiful.
Too much. Too overwhelming. Too big.
She wanted to withdraw her hand from his, to distance herself physically. Now that she had reached out, she felt he wouldn’t let go of her. She couldn’t think of a way to extricate herself from the hand lock. So she distanced herself mentally, emotionally and then verbally,
“You only feel that way about seven year old Grace. She’s still virtually untarnished.” When he didn’t answer, she withdrew into a dark recess of her mind where she felt his probing light couldn’t find her out.
Wait till we get to the part of the story where I am not some innocent in a Holly Hobby nightgown. Wait till we are standing stuck in an unbreakable handlink and he is completely disgusted by me, shocked by what we can both see me doing. I will deserve it because I am disgusting. I’ll bet anything that he’ll let go of me then. I should get rid of him now. Maybe I can force him to quit me before I am stuck standing there, touching him, watching my deepest shame.
She panicked at the thought of him withdrawing his hand, withdrawing his love after seeing her gross depravity.
I wonder, if I hurt him badly enough, will he go away?
Her perverse logic made her repeat her earlier observation,
“You’re really not as beautiful as I thought you would be.”
Her desperate attempt sounded feeble. What had made her think this weak assault could wound him, much less cause him to flee? What arrogance to think her puny insult could shake the foundations of love. In addition to being ineffectual, her words were inauthentic. They had been true when she first stupidly blurted them out. Oddly, as she heard them empty out of her mouth for a second time, she no longer believed them.
how did i miss this?
ReplyDeleteboooooo grace! don't be such a booger!
why are you mad at Grace?
ReplyDeletefor trying to hurt Jesus' feelings...ryood
ReplyDelete