Aftermath of Dreaming(49)
I am midscream, volume full throttle, eyes open and staring, in my bedroom. Then my sound disappears as I realize that what I was seeing is no longer there. I want to see it again so I can know what it is. It is two-forty A.M., and my apartment is completely quiet—now that I’ve stopped screaming, at least. I find it so weird that Gloria has never said anything. Unless she thinks I’m entertaining my own “visitors” who have really odd tastes—like scaring the be-Jesus out of me. The rotten part is that it’s hell trying to get back to sleep after one of those dreams. I wish it would f*cking end.
I go to the kitchen to make myself a cup of chamomile tea. While waiting for the water to boil, I lean against the kitchen counter in my antique silk slip and try to figure out what in real life does terrify me that might be causing the dream.
Cockroaches head the list. Particularly the huge flying ones I had to grow up with on the warm wet Gulf Coast; they continue to inspire in me a fear unequal to most.
When I was seven, I decided to take matters into my own hands about those fearsome pests since obviously the bug man (a regular visitor to every Southern home) and Daddy were unable to keep the horrible monsters away. Kneeling on the floor of my bedroom with my favorite teddy bear beside me, wearing an only-for-mass-and-certain-parties dress, I told God—out loud for double effect—that I was ready for a deal. I would let a roach—one of the big nasty flying ones that came in from the outside, like some true owner of our home whose generosity toward us could only last so long—crawl over my hand if for the rest of my life I never had to see another one. I thought this an extremely fair exchange.
No roach appeared. For once, where is one when you need it? I couldn’t tell if that meant God was going to skip my part and, being all-loving, just do His, or maybe other people were praying out loud, too, and mine had gotten lost in the din. Or worse, maybe one crawl across the hand wasn’t enough for Him. All right, I’d try again. I recited the plan, but this time upped my end, saying that the roach could crawl along my entire arm. Again, nothing happened.
Just as I was about to try again, Daddy stuck his head in and asked what I was doing. I explained the rules to him—maybe if I got him involved, the whole house could be an insect-free zone.
He walked over to me, sat on the floor, and wrapped me up in a hug. “You can’t make deals with God, darling, it doesn’t work like that.”
As soon as he said it, I knew it was true. Our trading sides were so uneven—my offer so paltry to Him, never enough to alter the exertion of nature on my life, but at least I had Daddy’s arms around me.
The tea kettle is screaming that its job is done, so I pour the water into a mug, letting the chamomile-infused steam waft in my face. The scream dream reminds me of those cockroaches, appearing out of nowhere and flying suddenly into view. But the worst part is that my mind, or subconscious, made the damn dream up. Created it, called it forth, brought it into being—for what? To terrorize myself through and through?
I get the pillow and blanket from my bed and head for the couch. The tree outside my living room window is lit up by security lights so its large branches and full leaves, soft brown and silvery green, are solid and shimmering in the dark. It is indifferent to the night—has no need to sleep, no pressure to lose consciousness so it will be alert for the next day’s activities. I find that as freeing as not setting an alarm clock. Suzanne’s veil is in the living room where I moved it this afternoon, like a marital ghost in the room’s gloom. Before I settle on the couch to go to sleep, I get up and move the veil back to my studio, out of sight.
The dressing room’s three-part mirror reflects an ungodly amount of pink. There should be a design ordinance against this, but I guess bridal boutiques would have to be exempt from that rule. I understand the color is supposed to be warm, soft, and flattering to one’s skin, but the result on me is a heightening of green undertones I never knew I had. Or maybe that’s a physical reaction to the maid-of-honor dress hanging on me. And I mean hanging. The distance between the fabric and my body reminds me of that blank space you see on children’s pictures: earth and trees way down below—huge gap—then way up at the top, a line for the sky with the sun stuck in the corner; the space in between is unaccounted for, but caused by the other two.
Suzanne is so ecstatic about this tent I am wearing that it has almost made her forget that she was mad as a wet hen when she saw that I hadn’t brought her veil with me for her to try on. She was also annoyed about my tardiness, but now her face is enrapt as she moves around me, plucking at the floral material billowing out from my frame.
“I’m sorry, but other than me getting one three sizes smaller, what is there to fit on this dress?”
“Hush, it’s perfect,” she says, still dancing around me, thrilled with the effect.
“Is everyone’s like this, or am I just particularly lucky?”
“Of course yours is different—you’re my maid of honor. It’s beautiful, exactly how I pictured it. Go show Matt.”
My blond and handsome soon-to-be brother-in-law has intelligently brought something to read on this shopping extravaganza he joined us for. Suzanne started to protest when he sat down in the store and immediately pulled out the Wall Street Journal, but he patiently reminded her of the murder mysteries she devours at Dodger games, so she turned her focus on me.