Altered Reality
Sleep came easily tonight, and with the sleep came dreams that could have been memories.
Again I was a little girl, two or three years old. I had a small handmade doll that a friend of my parents had made for me, a gingham cat that I carried with me everywhere. One night, while asleep in my crib, my parents heard me crying softly. I was still mostly asleep when my mother came in to check on me. “What’s wrong?”
“The kitty cat scratched me,” I replied.
She assumed I was dreaming, tucked me in kissed me goodnight and went back to bed. She heard me crying again half an hour later. “Angela? What’s wrong, baby?”
Again I said, “The kitty cat scratched me.” This time she was puzzled. I shouldn’t still be having the same dream after this long. She turned on the light and when her eyes adjusted, she saw the red scratches on my neck and arm. Looking at the doll, she discovered that a small pin that had held it together during stitching had remained inside and now worked itself loose to scratch me. I never felt the same way about the doll again after that night.
That dream led into another. I was older now, maybe nine, before my mother came back to die. My neighbors invited me to go to the lake for the weekend, and in spite of the fact that I wasn’t exactly best friends with their kids, I went anyway. We rose along in the station wagon, and I sat sideways watching the power lines beside the two-lane highways. Wires droop down, swing upward… pole. Droop, rise… pole. The ebb and flow of the wires was like watching waves crash and recede. Eventually the rhythm put me to sleep.
I’m in the back of the car, and as dreams go, I’m now the only person in the car. I’m still in the very back of the station wagon, and when I realize there’s no one driving, I have to climb over the seats to reach the steering wheel. Except every time I climb over a seat, another one appears between me and the wheel. The car swerves and I jolt myself awake.
I can hear my breathing in the dark room, heavy and rapid. It’s 3:12AM, but there are still cars on the road. I can hear the cars stop and start at the traffic lights. I listen for a while, imagining where all these people are going at this hour. My eyelids grow heavy and I enter a faraway world.
I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen, except I’m all grown up and she hasn’t aged a bit. She’s baking pies today, and needs my help cutting apples. I sit at the kitchen table, peeling and cutting, and we talk.
“How are you, my angel?” she asks.
“I don’t know, grandma,” I say. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was going to make things right. But they’re no better. I’m just making a mess of things.”
“How?” she asks me. “Have you hurt someone?”
“No,” I replied. “Not unless you include me.”
“Do you believe you’re doing the right thing? Or are you just doing what you’re supposed to do?”
“Oh, what I’m doing is far from what I’m supposed to do,” I tell her. “Everyone’s advising me against it. But in spite of the fact that it made me sick, I think it’s the right thing to do.”
She patted me on the hand. “Good for you, dear. You’re a strong one. Your sister could learn a lot from you.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not true. She’s living the right life for herself.”
“But it’s a boring life,” grandma said. “She’s never taken a risk.”
I thought about that for a moment. She was right. Susan always walked the straight line, as though someone were looking over her shoulder, waiting for her to make a wrong move. It wasn’t right.
“Grandma, what if I tried to teach Susan to have some fun?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, my angel. She needs to learn that on her own, just as you need to learn how to be strong and stand on your own two feet.” She rose from her chair, walked to the counter, and handed me a gingerbread cookie. “Here. Throw this against the wall.”
“What?”
“I’m the one that’s old and deaf. Why do you keep asking ‘what’”?
“I just don’t understand why I’m throwing cookies at the wall.”
“You’ll see.”
I wound up and pitched a sidearm, split-finger ginger man fastball at the kitchen wall. It hit with the sharp shattering sound of the glass that my parents broke while they were fighting on Christmas. I felt my heart skip a beat, then pound loudly in my ears.
“Here,” she said, handing me a dustpan and brush. “You’ll feel better once it’s cleaned up. It will give you closure. You have the control now, Angela. Don’t forget it.”
She left me alone in the kitchen, sweeping up broken ginger shards from the discolored linoleum with the dustpan and brush. By the time I had finished, it was late and she had vanished. I looked at her cookies sitting on the counter, and there were several of them lined up in a row marked, “Angela.” The first was me in a green velvet dress, like that Christmas. There was a cookie of me in a formal dress that looked remarkably like my dress for the homecoming dance in high school. There was me in khakis and a polo. There was a ginger version of myself at 24, broken into pieces. Looking ahead, I saw that the cookies reassembled themselves; there was a cookie with a smile, a cookie in a graduation gown with an honors stole, a cookie with a wedding dress, a cookie with a baby. It was amazing. Did she know things about me that I didn’t? How did she know so much?
I awoke to find myself alone again in my room, but swearing that I could smell the aroma of freshly baked goodies and apple shampoo.
Again I was a little girl, two or three years old. I had a small handmade doll that a friend of my parents had made for me, a gingham cat that I carried with me everywhere. One night, while asleep in my crib, my parents heard me crying softly. I was still mostly asleep when my mother came in to check on me. “What’s wrong?”
“The kitty cat scratched me,” I replied.
She assumed I was dreaming, tucked me in kissed me goodnight and went back to bed. She heard me crying again half an hour later. “Angela? What’s wrong, baby?”
Again I said, “The kitty cat scratched me.” This time she was puzzled. I shouldn’t still be having the same dream after this long. She turned on the light and when her eyes adjusted, she saw the red scratches on my neck and arm. Looking at the doll, she discovered that a small pin that had held it together during stitching had remained inside and now worked itself loose to scratch me. I never felt the same way about the doll again after that night.
That dream led into another. I was older now, maybe nine, before my mother came back to die. My neighbors invited me to go to the lake for the weekend, and in spite of the fact that I wasn’t exactly best friends with their kids, I went anyway. We rose along in the station wagon, and I sat sideways watching the power lines beside the two-lane highways. Wires droop down, swing upward… pole. Droop, rise… pole. The ebb and flow of the wires was like watching waves crash and recede. Eventually the rhythm put me to sleep.
I’m in the back of the car, and as dreams go, I’m now the only person in the car. I’m still in the very back of the station wagon, and when I realize there’s no one driving, I have to climb over the seats to reach the steering wheel. Except every time I climb over a seat, another one appears between me and the wheel. The car swerves and I jolt myself awake.
I can hear my breathing in the dark room, heavy and rapid. It’s 3:12AM, but there are still cars on the road. I can hear the cars stop and start at the traffic lights. I listen for a while, imagining where all these people are going at this hour. My eyelids grow heavy and I enter a faraway world.
I’m in my grandmother’s kitchen, except I’m all grown up and she hasn’t aged a bit. She’s baking pies today, and needs my help cutting apples. I sit at the kitchen table, peeling and cutting, and we talk.
“How are you, my angel?” she asks.
“I don’t know, grandma,” I say. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was going to make things right. But they’re no better. I’m just making a mess of things.”
“How?” she asks me. “Have you hurt someone?”
“No,” I replied. “Not unless you include me.”
“Do you believe you’re doing the right thing? Or are you just doing what you’re supposed to do?”
“Oh, what I’m doing is far from what I’m supposed to do,” I tell her. “Everyone’s advising me against it. But in spite of the fact that it made me sick, I think it’s the right thing to do.”
She patted me on the hand. “Good for you, dear. You’re a strong one. Your sister could learn a lot from you.”
“No,” I said. “That’s not true. She’s living the right life for herself.”
“But it’s a boring life,” grandma said. “She’s never taken a risk.”
I thought about that for a moment. She was right. Susan always walked the straight line, as though someone were looking over her shoulder, waiting for her to make a wrong move. It wasn’t right.
“Grandma, what if I tried to teach Susan to have some fun?”
She smiled and shook her head. “No, my angel. She needs to learn that on her own, just as you need to learn how to be strong and stand on your own two feet.” She rose from her chair, walked to the counter, and handed me a gingerbread cookie. “Here. Throw this against the wall.”
“What?”
“I’m the one that’s old and deaf. Why do you keep asking ‘what’”?
“I just don’t understand why I’m throwing cookies at the wall.”
“You’ll see.”
I wound up and pitched a sidearm, split-finger ginger man fastball at the kitchen wall. It hit with the sharp shattering sound of the glass that my parents broke while they were fighting on Christmas. I felt my heart skip a beat, then pound loudly in my ears.
“Here,” she said, handing me a dustpan and brush. “You’ll feel better once it’s cleaned up. It will give you closure. You have the control now, Angela. Don’t forget it.”
She left me alone in the kitchen, sweeping up broken ginger shards from the discolored linoleum with the dustpan and brush. By the time I had finished, it was late and she had vanished. I looked at her cookies sitting on the counter, and there were several of them lined up in a row marked, “Angela.” The first was me in a green velvet dress, like that Christmas. There was a cookie of me in a formal dress that looked remarkably like my dress for the homecoming dance in high school. There was me in khakis and a polo. There was a ginger version of myself at 24, broken into pieces. Looking ahead, I saw that the cookies reassembled themselves; there was a cookie with a smile, a cookie in a graduation gown with an honors stole, a cookie with a wedding dress, a cookie with a baby. It was amazing. Did she know things about me that I didn’t? How did she know so much?
I awoke to find myself alone again in my room, but swearing that I could smell the aroma of freshly baked goodies and apple shampoo.
posted by Ali at 4:21 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home