Please Read; I need you dear reader

My dreams and his

Please read; I need you

I apologize ahead of time. I am sorry, so sorry reader. I’ve been urged to open up, to share my experience, as I’ve no conscious connections left in the waking world. I know that at this point, I’m just a no face person, but I need to share this with someone. Anyone.
Besides the hospice worker that comes to the house, my only other companion lies unconscious in my living room. He means everything to me. If he passes, I’m not sure what will happen to me. There is no way for me to ready myself for such a loss. I feel so alone.
His body speaks to me in the hush and huff of his breathing machines; an occasional mechanical signal breaks the silence. We only have each other now, and I am thankful that I can still slip my hand in his, rest my head against his chest and listen to his heart thump out, “I’m still here, I’m still here.”
Here’s my story. Please take some time out of your day, to read it, to absorb it into you. I need a hug right now, I need so many things…
xx Brenna
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It wasn’t always like this. Before Brant came into my life, conscious and normal mind you, I was surrounded by general loneliness. At first, I considered myself as an outcast; like a magnet I repelled most people. It was an easy thing to do. My mother believed in geographical cures for her emotional ailments, and having the constant stigma as “new kid” made it hard for me to form strong friendships.
But the more we moved, I realized I was more like a domino architect. Instead of repelling potential friends, I had the misfortune of setting up events to push everyone away from me; they’d all fallen away by the time I met Brant.
My father was my first casualty; I couldn’t help it – born a Daddy’s girl. One of the rare times my mother sat up to talk with me, she told me how smitten he was with my newborn dark curls, the laughter in my eyes as I gurgled and reached for him. Fatherhood was a mantle that he proudly wore. Before me, he practiced law with my mother at a small and successful firm in the City. Always the more competitive one, the career driven one, it was a surprise to my mother, and the firm, when he put it all on hold to raise me.
So my mother worked, and my father put his career on hold after I came into the world. For my first few years, we had an idyllic family. Mother would work long into the night, and Father would look after me and lead me into childhood. He’d tuck polaroids of me into Mother’s lunches, and she had clusters of them all over her office. Our two, smiling faces.
He’d homeschooled me through elementary school, taking me on road trips across the country. Showing me history, teaching me geometry through pool, astronomy through a lens, geology digging through the mud; we’d adventured. He was my whole world, my closest friend.
When Father got sick, my Mother took it hard. To his credit, he’d hid it from her for a couple years. Maybe himself too. Sickness sneaks up at you like that sometimes. You feel more tired than usual, and then weaker, and we can easily attribute it to getting older, to the albatrosses that hang around our necks. Being a parent is hard. So he put me first, always, I guess until the end.
Then he passed away, and it was just the two of us, and the polaroids. Mother had given me the stacks and stacks of photographs from her office. She kept a picture of just the two of them in a small frame on her desk from when they first started dating. They’d gone to a photo booth on their second or third date, and he’d kissed her in the last photograph. The thin little frame protected their unlined faces smiling and carefree, those moments lost to long ago.
As a child, I knew Mother wasn’t handling his loss well. Instead of taking a step back from trying to make partner at the law firm, she worked harder than ever and was rarely home. In her place, she provided me with an endless swarm of nannies. As any mother would do, she made sure her little girl was well provided for.
I had a few memorable ones that had stayed. Gerta with her shock of red hair and her ability to always have hot honeyed rolls for breakfast, Sonya and her perfect eyebrows and patient hands teaching me to crochet, Maddie and her little girl that played dolls with me endlessly. Some nannies stayed longer than others, but just as I connected with them, a new one would take her place.
My nanny was a transient role that was filled until I was in high school, Mother moved us when a better opportunity arose for her, and it meant I rarely had enough time to put down roots or grow attachments in an area. I have pictures of all of them, pictures and memories and it still draws tears to my eyes to think of all of those good byes.
My nannies did what they could for me so I could grow up into a strong young woman. I felt like many of them tried to fulfill a little of that motherly role that I’ve lacked. To this day, I’m so grateful to have had so many women that I could look up to and grow from. Without them, I’m not sure if I’d be here today.
I was in high school when my Mother had deemed me too old for a nanny, and had given me the honor of autonomy. The bus route picked me up at home and dropped me off promptly at the same time every day. Once home, I knew how to prepare dinner, and then would set about my routine of cleaning and doing homework. I’d spent a lot of my free time reading, or crocheting and watching television. Characters created in print and screen staved off a bit of that longing for companionship.
This is around the time the dreams started, when I started feeling lonely. Being so isolated, you get this hunger for social interaction kind of like the feeling of when you miss breakfast. It’s there, drumming away behind your eyes and as long as you’re focused and doing something you won’t notice. Everybody dreams, every night. We mostly don’t remember our dreams, but for those that do – it can range from the ridiculous, comforting, to terrifying.
As a girl, who lived mostly alone, I started looking forward to my dreams. Sometimes, Father would be there and we’d do things like fly over the mountains in Colorado and the red oaks in Oregon as if the states were stitched side by side. We’d sit on presidential noses in Mount Rushmore. Sometimes I’d dream that while cleaning, that I’d find new and hidden rooms of my house, and that he lived there.
The kitchen pantry would have a false panel and I would be able to crush my body in such a way to find a new hallway that smelled like him. My bare feet could feel the dusty floor boards as I found his room and his study in our first house. I’d wake elated and ready to launch out of bed to tell Mother; only to find my cheeks wet to realize that I’d been dreaming. There was no fake panel in the pantry, I’d checked at least a dozen times. Father was gone; I was alone.
Then I’d dream of my nannies, taking me home. Of Sonya and her crochet hook, weaving me a perfect blanket in blues, greens, and purples as we sipped hot chocolate by the fire with a record on. Gerta would take me up in her arms and declare me her best friend, I’d never had one before, and we’d go over my rock collection - touching each one as I recounted its story. Maddie and the little girl would hold my hand and take me into the garden, and we’d make floral crowns with wildflowers and weeds. We’d thrown stones in a still lake, and stained our mouths with fresh blackberries to the baritone choir of frogs.
And every morning I’d wake up alone. I packed my lunch, brushed my hair, donned my jumper, and took the bus to school. At school, the buzz of teens around me made me feel even more alone. Forming friendships wasn’t as easy as it was when I dreamed.
I tried. I formed weak acquaintances that let me sit with them at lunch, as a good student I never suffered to find a group to work with for projects, and I bore my meager athleticism well when I grouped with other like sorts at gym. Occasionally, I’d be invited to birthday parties. I’d eat cake, and enjoy hanging out with other people my age, but I always felt like an outsider or an addition.
I wasn’t generally bullied, or picked on, mind you, but I wasn’t liked enough to form ready friendships where I could just call someone up from a memorized phone number. Girls would either not have room in their friend circles, or I didn’t live in any one place long enough to find my way into one. I could get people talk to me, but I could never get them to listen to me, to make a connection. The friendships were one sided. I couldn’t help but feel like a fisherman that religiously got his bait stolen, and went home with a sunburn and no supper. During summer months, we’d either move, or I’d explore my neighborhood alone. And I kept looking forward to my dreams.
By the time seventh grade hit, I’d started having my favorite dreams, a reoccurring dream. I’d wake up on a swell of a hill. A sycamore tree bent over the surface of a smooth lake, and an older woman with short hair cropped just below her chin – smiling.
“Welcome home, Brenna!”
In the dream, I’d run out to her, and hug her waist. The dreams had started before my growth spurt, and the woman was tall and warm. It felt safe to press my face into her apron, to have my little frame engulfed in her arms. She’d pet me, and say pretty things to me that I wished my mother would tell me. My face would contort and I’d hold back tears when she would tell me she’s proud of me.
She had a son that was a couple years older than me, and we’d play. He had a tree house, and we’d eat lunches, bring out card games, and decorate it with things we found in by the lake. A built in shelf housed a squirrel skull we found in the mud at the base of a tree, a limestone rock with a million fossilized shells, and piece of green glass worn smooth by water and time.
These two people in the dream would remember what I told them, as the seasons changed in my life, theirs did too. In every way it felt real, except for the slight detail that from their noses up – their faces were in shadow. In the dream, I didn’t notice, but upon waking it felt like those two people could be anyone. The boy had a small blunt chin, brown curls, and round cheeks. He was a little gangly, but I didn’t mind. Even in my dreams I ran awkwardly with the grace of a three legged grasshopper.
I also didn’t know his name, or his mother’s name – these were details that washed away on waking. As my mother and I hopped state from state, I stopped caring that she was rarely home when I was awake. I stopped caring that I didn’t have friends that cared if I moved, or would save me a seat at assemblies. I got to see my friends every night for eight hours.
At the time, I didn’t think it was too abnormal to have reoccurring dreams nearly every night. My friendship with the boy, as he turned into a man, changed as I got older. In a few years, we’d hold each other in the tree house, and I’d bury my face in his chest and he’d rest his cheek on the top of my head. We were closer, and it was different, and I had felt differently for him, more for him, each time I woke.
His mother would give me a knowing look and laugh when I’d wake up there, and I’d blush and find him. Friends didn’t hold hands the way we held hands, as we looked over the lake and listened to wave after wave of crickets chirping and the reflection of thousands of fireflies blinking in and out like far off star light.
It wasn’t until I was a senior in high school that I found out that my dreams were abnormal. In a creative writing class, we were prompted to write on our most memorable dream. Easily, I filled pages and pages on my sleeping life. I wrote of how last night, we’d been soaking our feet in the lake off a worn pier, my cuffed jeans skimmed the water and we tried to stay so still so the minnows would nibble at our toes. In the reflection in the water, I saw his face break out into a broad brace faced grin, as he loomed and tickled me.
Even though I saw him coming, I couldn’t help but curl and writhe in my fit of laughter, rolling into his lap and gripping onto him, ultimately thrashing us both into the water laughing. The dream ended when he kissed the top of my forehead and temple and then patted his cheek twice with two fingers. It was our ritual. I reached up on the tips of my toes and kissed him twice on the same cheek. A kiss for now, and another when you need it later.
I sat in class and listened as everyone read out loud their dreams. One girl, blushed a bit and read out, “I don’t usually remember my dreams. I mean, like, if I do it’s just a fragment of something. Last night I dreamt that someone had broken in, and I was trying to get my dad. Suddenly the burglar was right behind me, and I felt him there, you know? And no matter how fast I’d run, he was faster. It was like my legs wouldn’t work. I was so scared, I woke up right before I could feel his hands around my neck. I couldn’t get back to sleep. Nightmares suck.”
“I dreamt that I’d been playing football with my team, you know. Everything was normal, except the mascot was a real tiger and we could jump like Master Chief in Halo! Man I wish that were real life, tigers are cool,” the boy exclaimed, miming throwing a football and smirking.
A girl blushed and demurely tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “I, uh, dreamt that the Doctor came to take me away. Ten, as in David Tennant. I got to go into the Tardis, and I got to see the pool! Yeah, I wish I’d have that one every night!”
Then it was my turn. I briefly explained that I generally dreamed every night, and I generally dreamt about the same thing. The same two people, at the same place, and I remembered most of the details. Except that their faces were shadowed, and I couldn’t remember their names, it was like a living memory.
Tardis girl giggled, “Maybe that’s like your soulmate!”
“I’ve never had the same dream twice, that’s weird,” football boy laughed.
“It must be nice to dream every night, they sound nice,” the girl with the nightmare said. She smiled at me.
The class suggested to me all sorts of things: see a medium, look up dream meanings, post a classified ad to find my soulmate, and to keep a dream journal before the end bell broke us up. It left me a little befuddled, and curious for the first time as to if those dreams held any significance.
I’d wanted them to mean something. I’d wanted to not be alone. For all my life, I’d just felt an overwhelming urge to connect with people. Dreams are not enough to sustain a person, and I felt so tired. Mother was working overseas now, and while she supported me diligently to make sure I had all I could want or need for, the aloneness was a vacuum.
The rational side of my being decided that I should talk with someone. That it wasn’t normal for a girl almost at 18 to have no friends, an absent mother, a dead father, and a dream boyfriend. It couldn’t be healthy. Sure, many other teens had it worse. My family wasn’t abusive, and my mother had made sure I felt provided for. We didn’t have to worry about money, and I was spoiled insofar that if I wanted something, I could just buy it. By the time I was in high school, I had my own small library at home. Still, with no one to talk to, I started talking to my school’s counselor, Mr. Goldstein as a last resort.
He’d seen my type before. Kids that had trouble fitting in, kids that moved and had their roots pulled out so many times that it stunted their growth. He tried his best to be helpful. Whenever I felt morose, he’d listen. When I told him of my troubles of being a girl super magnet for friendships, he’d suggested clubs, after school activities, hobbies. I really poured myself out to him, and it had been ages since I’d had someone really listen to me. My nannies were the last people I’d been given such ties, and all I had of them were my memories, I didn’t dream of them anymore. Even though my tie was just a counselor and student, it was something for me to hold on to in the waking world, and for a time I felt better.
Then, as everyone had, Mr. Goldstein left too. The school told me he’d had to take a leave of absence for personal reasons. It happened from time to time. Adults have tons of obligations, and I was passed onto his replacement – Ms. Kwan. I liked her well enough, but I felt as though she weren’t as invested. It felt almost like going to the doctor rather than opening up to a possible friend. Even with Mr. Goldstein gone, he gave me the push to ready myself for graduation and to apply for colleges.
Mother decided to stay overseas, and to sell our home. She bought me a condo in the northeast next to a large university I was accepted into. Driven to succeed and provide, Mother gave me a generous stipend every month. Even though she couldn’t be there for me physically, she made sure I had the means to survive. As always.
Once again in a different part of the country, and new school, I set out to find a piece of normalcy. Still I dreamed of my boy and his lake. His braces were gone now, and he was substantially taller than me. His shoulders were broad, and his chin and cheeks had started sporting thatches of dark bristles. His lips still carried the flush fullness that he had as a boy, and I enjoyed kissing them all night. It was my favorite hobby. It was a good thing he wasn’t real, or else I might have not taken my studies seriously.
I had decided on library sciences, but I had to make it through my first two years at university before I started in on my major. College felt more isolating than high school, new classes brought in tides of new faces and I had still not found the skill to make fast friends, or slow friends – let’s be honest. I was in my junior year of college when I started feeling tired. It started with oversleeping and I attributed it to wanting to spend more time with my nocturnal other world, but as sleeping into late morning ate into early afternoon, I started to worry.
I was getting more hungry too, but even though I started eating more, I started to lose weight. My nightly walks started to get tiresome more quickly, and I found it hard to walk up the stairs I was so exhausted some nights. In my dreams, my boyfriend urged me to go see a doctor. He told me I looked more pale than usual, that my hands shook. My mother told me that a true summer vacation may be what I needed, and she encouraged me to take a trip. To fly out to more familiar grounds.
I took his advice first and scheduled an appointment with my doctor. He poked and prodded me, checked my thyroid and ran several tests on my blood work and heart. Besides having slightly below normal iron levels, he could find nothing wrong with me. He suspected that it may be stress related and encouraged my mother’s suggestion for a vacation.
I found a short lease to a furnished house in the City where I was born, and flew out there to have a new perspective over the summer. Even though I’d moved a half a dozen or so times since my father passed, it never got easier. Each move was draining, and at the end of each year I started feeling an aching anxiety when I had to fill up my boxes. I’d lived up by my college for three full years, and it was strangely sweet to be able to stay in one place. Despite being able to get used to the same walls, and form a fondness for the routes where I would walk, I didn’t feel sad leaving my condo for the summer. In my hometown, I had found a favorite coffee spot, next to the library, and I’d often spend a quiet chunk of my day stopping at each favorite place on my personal pilgrimage.
Every day for that first month, I’d leave my house, walk the couple miles to the library, pick out a new book to read, and then take breakfast, lunch, and liberal amounts of coffee at the café. I didn’t recognize him. Not even a twinge of familiarity as I’d eye up an orange scone and an iced coffee. I’d grown so used to not being seen, that I had stopped seeing people. So I took my copy of Jane Eyre, my breakfast, and I sat out in the sun and let the literature and sun warm my body and soul.
That night, in my sleeping world, I enjoyed my time with my boyfriend. His mother had made us cold turkey sandwiches and packed us a liter of cold Coke and we munched on the offerings with our feet splashing in the cold lake water. He took a bite of his sandwich and looked over at me, slipping a dark curl between his fingers,
“Are you real?” I could feel his eyes looking at me, touching on the sharp and soft features on my face.
I laughed, we avoided this conversation. We’d just never had it. In all the years I visited him, I was happy to have a place where I was normal. I didn’t want my afflictions to invade this part, this comfort, “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m real. I think I’m more real, here with you, than I am when I wake up.”
He blinked. In this world I could both see and not see his face. It was like that experience of deva ju when I woke up, the memory of his face was somewhere , but when I recalled our dreams, from the nose up his and his mother’s face were in shadows.
“You wake up? Brenna, you dream all of this too?” he became still, and I felt disorientated with the realization that I’d hoped for this. I’d hoped that I were special; I’d hoped that dreams could be real, and that connections made with people were not only through flesh and bone.
“Yes. I go to sleep, I dream of you and your mom, and I wake up in my own bed. I remember most things, and pretty much I have the same dream with you, here,” my heart skittered like a rabbit that wanted to run. The textures of my dream were almost a form of hyper realism, and I could hear the trees and their leaves kissing the wind, the lake water smelled like wet moss and silt, and held my sandwich lamely. It was soggy.
“Am I crazy? We’re dreaming. This isn’t real. You’re not real. I should probably start seeing someone, obviously you’re some figment of my imagination that I’ve drum up to fulfill some sort of loneliness that I felt. It can’t be healthy, I look forward to these dreams, I look forward to seeing you and mom again, to this damn cabin. Brenna, I think I even see you. I think I see you when I’m awake, I - ,” he put his face in his hands and shuddered. I put my hand on his back and tried to calm him and silently wondered if he could feel my heart beating out of my chest.
“You know, I think those things too. I haven’t seen you in …. the real world, at least I don’t think, I don’t remember what you look like, it’s vague,” I frowned and let my cool forehead rest on his bare shoulder.
“ You think you saw me?”
“Yeah. Where I work. You come in and order an orange scone and an iced coffee every day and read. It was your smile,” I froze and stopped rubbing his back and we straightened and met eachother’s eyes. “Brenna, what book were you reading?”
“Jane Eyre. I had just picked up a copy of Jane Eyre.”
The next day, I met Brant. He wasn’t working, he’d called off and he was sitting at a table looking at the door nervously. I had my copy of Jane Eyre tucked under my arm and I nearly dropped It when I saw him. And that’s when my life really started.
Brant told me about his life, and I told him about mine. His mother had died when he was in middle school. It was a freak accident, they’d been up in their cabin in the UP and he and his dad were out fishing when it happened. His mom was eating breakfast by herself and choked and died. They found her on the floor in the middle of the afternoon, and it was far too late.
For Brant, his childhood ended there. They buried his mom, sold the vacation home, and Brant kind of lost his father too. He was there, but he’d never gotten over his wife’s death. He’d taken up drinking, and they were barely getting by. Brant worked as a manager at the local café to help ends meet. He started dreaming of his mom when he had a bad day, and then one day I showed up.
He had a more normal life than I had lived. He had a good group of friends, and had even tried dating a girl in high school. Although, he said, that things never felt right. They didn’t click as easily as we did, and for the longest time he thought he was being unfair, comparing her to a dream – a ghost. But between going to college and working, he found himself in a better place to be single.
That’s how things began, and reader, it was beautiful. I started feeling better. Before bed, each night, we’d chat over web cam and we’d share our days. At night, we still shared dreams; except now, the settings would change from time to time. Brant sometimes appeared in my childhood home, or at a beloved travel destination I visited in my youth. While we were still long distance, we spent hours together.
I finished up and got my degree, and moved back to my home town. We bought a little condo, and helped out his dad, got him into some programs to try and settle his demons. We felt so lucky, and I felt so normal. He proposed, and we started talking about having a family together. I bought a couple onesies, one for a girl and one for a boy, and laid them side by side imagining the little body that could fill it.
Then he got sick. It started with him being tired all the time, he started losing weight, his hands started shaking and he got so weak. Just like what happened to me. The doctors tried to find out what was wrong with him, and all the tests they performed came back normal. He was normal, but he was wasting away. His body started shutting down, and he was put into hospice care. My care.
He was no longer in my dreams. But I had the man, his body, this shell, and I could hold its hand. I’ve never, felt so alone. They say it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all; without him I live a half life. I knew what it meant to be happy, and now I know that without him that happiness will be lost. Doctors could not help him, medicine did nothing, love only gave him comfort, so I resorted to the last thing I could think of.
I hired a medium.
Did you know you can find them in the yellow pages? She came to our condo, in a beat up old gremlin. She had no bag, no talismans, no show. Madame Celeste was a fair woman, with skin that looked like she was in her twenties and hair that was aging into her fifties. She’d seen sun, and freckles had dotted her nose where her brown rimmed glasses rested. She fit the flare of medium with a sort of boho chic style, and I thoroughly believed I would have been better burning my money rather than calling her.
“Can I see the man?” she stood in our hallway. At least she was direct. I nodded and led her into our bedroom where he was set up. She pulled a chair to his bed and touched the air around him. She touched his face lightly, laid her hands slightly above his chest, and then settled with just holding his hand – closing her eyes, she frowned.
“He’s still there. Vaguely. He’s almost gone.”
“Gone? Is he dying?” I blinked rapidly. I didn’t need a medium to tell me Brant was fading. He was nearly a skeleton with skin. The physical evidence made that apparent.
“Dying? Yes. If he leaves, he will die. His, essence, spirit, soul, what have you – is almost gone. He’s nearly empty. So empty, this one,” she looked perplexed.
“What does that mean? He’s empty? His … soul is missing?” I didn’t have words. This was insane. This woman, insane.
“There are multiple kinds of death. Naturally, our bodies house our spirits until it breaks down. Like any building, time takes its toll. Then the spirit moves on, as is the natural order of things. But the body needs a soul, just like a soul needs a body. This body’s soul is very… damaged. Just scraps of it left. I don’t know what’s causing it, but he could repair if no more damage is done. You … can have hope,” she looked at me. Looked through me. “Can I take your hand?”
I nodded, and gave the woman my hand. Hers were cool and smooth, and mine were sweaty and shaking. She took a moment and closed her eyes, a line forming between her brows, her eyes snapped open and she dropped her hand.
“Leave here. Leave here now if you love him. Call your mother. She has what you must know, I must go,” she stood up, and shook herself, casting a bewildered look between Brant and me.
I blinked, confused, afraid, “What does that mean? Leave? Why? Why do I have to go, why should I call my mother?”
She swallowed, “She knows things you have not seen, have not accepted. It is not my place to tell you, but she knows why, she’s known everything – all this time. She knows what went wrong. Good bye, Ms. Brenna.” And she left. I tried to go after her, but she ignored me mutely, got in her beat up car, and with a sputter – drove off. I tried to call her. I tried to find her business, but she would not give me anything else.
I called my Mother. She sent me letters from time to time, emails – to make sure I was all right, to check in on Brant. We weren’t close, we’d never been close. She always had her work, and overseas – she found a life she couldn’t have in this country. I’d forgiven her a long time ago.
The phone rang, and within a few seconds she picked up, “Brenna? Are you all right? Why are you calling? It’s late.” Ah, yes. The time difference, I forgot. The sudden phone call mixed with the abruptness of the call must have startled her. I told her what had happened that day, awkwardly. I felt so foolish. I never told her about my day, or my life, or the petty little things that bothered me. She was always too busy, her time to valuable for me to waste on my little problems.
She remained silent as I finished, and sucked in a breath, “Brenna. Dear. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.” She started crying. I’ve never heard my mother cry.
“Your father and I were so in love and we desperately wanted children. We tried for years. We tried IVF. We tried fertility treatments. There was something wrong with me, I couldn’t have children. Sweetheart, I desperately wanted to be a mother. I wanted to have my own child, I wanted to have a child that was a product of our love and I was so selfish and stupid,” she shuddered as she cried and talked.
“I prayed every night for a miracle. One night, I had a dream at a crossroad. There was just me, and a well dressed man. He told me he had heard of my difficulty, and that he wanted to help. That I could help him too, and that there would be no price that I would have to pay. I agreed, Brenna, he was so nice and comforting – it was such a nice dream to be freely given the life I so desperately wanted. So I accepted. And then you were born, my miracle baby.
You were perfect, with a crown of dark curls and you couldn’t stop smiling. Your father was even more enamored with you than I was, and begged me to stay home to raise you. So he stayed home and took care of you, for your every need and want, and we were so happy. You remember?”
I nodded, holding back tears. My father was my whole world back then, he tried so hard to be a good father, “Yes, Mother.”
“Then he got sick. At first he was just tired, then he started to lose weight, his hands started to shake, and he got so weak. One day he just collapsed, and then couldn’t get out of bed. The doctors couldn’t figure out what happened. They couldn’t figure out why he was so sick, his blood tests, his mri, everything – normal,” my heart stopped. I never heard this before. Why hadn’t I thought to ask?
“When he passed, I was heartbroken and terrified that you might get sick too. That it was some fungus, amoeba, or genetic disease that hadn’t been found yet – but you were the perfect spirit of health. I didn’t take his death well, and I threw myself into work instead of being there for you, with you. I hired nannies to raise you in my stead, and for a while I was getting better. I was healing, I was going to cut back my hours when your first nanny got sick. I noticed her hands shaking, and she had been so tired lately. I was shocked, terrified, so I gave her some money to take some time off and moved us across the country for a job,” I couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be right. How did I not notice?
“Then the next nanny fell ill, and I did the same thing, again and again I gave them money and moved you until your last nanny – Maddie’s little girl got sick. She died, Brenna. Just like your father, and I didn’t want to see. Then you went to school, and everything was normal for a few years. You got depressed, and started seeing your school counselor, and I thought we were finally past our line of bad luck. Then I got a letter in the mail from your school, letting us know that Mr. Goldstein was taking a leave of absence for personal reasons. Again, I didn’t think anything of it. Then the next letter came, telling me he’d passed.
After that, I looked up your old nannies. Every last one had passed. Every person that you touched, really touched in your life had died, and I had finally remembered that dream at the cross roads. The dream with the demon. I did not have to pay the price, but there was a price. He visited me once more, the suit – disheveled - the dream, a nightmare. He smirked at me, leered at me, and asked how my darling baby girl was doing.
He thanked me for bringing one of his creatures into this world. A creature that wasn’t fully whole, a creature that wasn’t fully human. He told me that the price for your survival depended on you… taking it away from others. People are wary of you, Brenna, because you’re a predator. They know you’re dangerous, so they have walls up. If people let you in, even a little, you just… syphon off whatever makes them, them until they wither away to husks.
Your father, your nannies, your fiancé, those poor people let you into their lives and you’ve – used them up. I live in another country so I don’t have to be around you, my letters come from a fake address. You’ve been my demon, my curse, my albatross to bear, and I’m so, so sorry I brought you into this world.
Please, don’t call me again,” she hung up.
I stared at the phone, as my mind caught added her perspective to my limited one. This entire time I choose to view my story as the underdog, the weak protagonist, struggling against misfortune. I had not considered that I had control of my tale, that this entire time I had power.
I am a monster.
Setting the phone down, I stripped off my clothes and showered. I let myself mourn. I let it all out, and I prepared.
Hair still dripping, I packed my laptop, some clothes, made arrangements for Brant and flew several states away to try and sever the distance between us. The distance wasn’t the issue, it was my hunger and my connection with him. That night, last night, I dreamed, and found my answer.
Many answers, all from a man in a pinstripe suit. I am so happy I packed my laptop. I am quite pleased this hotel has free wifi.
I’ve discovered that my dreams do touch people. I am not oil in water, a repellant force. Instead, I knock people down like dominos, one after the other, after the other. I am the architect, I can save Brant. I just needed you.
Words are a clever invention, really. They’re a voice in your head. A waking dream, almost. My voice is inside your head, my story tucked behind your eyes; I’m inside you now.
As we get older, we think that getting tired is the normal course of aging. We all take on too much sometimes, and being tired may be a sign to take a vacation. When you get tired, I highly recommend you take that vacation, enjoy that peace and those memories. You won’t have much time. I will not save you. I need it, I need so many things, Reader. Most of all I need Brant, and you’re just a faceless being on the other side of the screen.