Dream of Me

November 8

"That's good, sissy." I sat down at the table still thinking about the poem and the altogether confusing state of my mind.

"Something on your mind?" my dad quietly inquired.

"Yeah. Irene gave me a poem today. I think it's about me but when she gave it I thought it was about another guy and I got jealous and I think now she might hate me. I'm not sure what to do."

"Ah," he sighed, "you just need to talk to her about it, then. Communication can always clear up confusion."

"Yeah, you're right. I guess I'll do that tomorrow." That evening I devoted time to work on homework and play around, but my mind was magnetized to the poem and what I would say to Irene and how I would fix this. I fell asleep under my books, still stressing out about the whole situation and, in my teenage state of mind, thinking that I had forever lost my best friend and missed out on a chance at love at the same time.

Chapter 4w

My family and I were driving down a mountain road, covered in a dense blanket of fog, adding to the mysterious atmosphere that already existed since my mother was reincarnated and sitting in front of me in the passenger seat. The four of us drove in silence and I was unable to tell the ages and the time period of this new adventure. Like many cases and many characters, the faces were slightly unrecognizable although I knew who they were intended to be. Addison was sitting to my left, slowly metamorphing into and out of adult and infant bodies. My father behind the wheel was the only one that I could clearly make out even though his glasses appeared to create craters where his dark eyes usually would be. My mother appeared to be the same figure that I had known so well in my dreams just following her death years ago. She always wore the same black coat and the same floral scarf that my adolescent imagination had stuck her with. Only here, in this car, on this mountain road submerged in fog, she was not smiling and her face, instead of the usually warm complexion was hijacked by a haunting grey.

The mountains ahead loomed over our tiny car in hues of washed out navy and forest. The road continued infinitely, and as we drove the scenery remained the same. I recognized the area in a flood of deja-vu as once before we had taken this same trip from Vancouver to Calgary. It was for a funeral of a distant family member, but my mother insisted that the whole family go to show support and love to our extended kin. However, this trip was not the same nor was the view. As our family drove in limbo I looked out the windows, observing, the liquid, translucent towers of rock. Slowly as we drove on, a misty water began to fill the ditches on both sides of the highway. Smoke, fog, mist rose from the pale grey waters. The depths slowly increased and the water, though clouded, offered a window to the bottom, or so it seemed. My father was also peering to the right side of the road, observing the now lake that began only feet from our vehicle. He quickly without warning jammed the brakes, pulling the car to the side of the road with a new sense of urgency and concern revealed in the movements of the small surface area of his face that I could actually see. All four of us upon stopping immediately synchronized, somehow knowing the reason for the sudden halt jumped out of the card and ran to the shore of the festering waters. We observed instantly what my father had seen whilst driving and began debating as to how we would pull the cage of metal from its resting place in the deep. A car was submerged, and though we were not sure of any inhabitants inside, our only occupation in that moment was to rescue whatever it was, even if just a conglomeration of metal parts from the waters.

With superhuman strength, my father, and possibly the rest of us, managed to grab hold of the eroded bumper and hauled the car out of its watery grave onto the shoulder of the mountain road. The car was intact and although there was no way of knowing how long it had been submerged, we nevertheless ran to the passenger seats to see if anyone was inside—and there was. Two or three passenger in the car sat wide eyed, pale skin bloated to the point of bursting. They were alive but unable to speak with looks of absolute horror plaguing their deluded faces. Their skin was white, with blue veins visible as if the skin had become completely transparent. They sat upright heaving in and out, eyes darting back and forth but unable to move. We stood there observing for an undeterminable amount of time. The waters right next to us continued to simmer and steam with not event a hint of movement in the windless and sunless air.

Chapter 5

It took me years to discover what was truly happening. One night in the year following my mother's death, I had dreamed about finding a stray kitten. It was in the same dream world that brought my mother back to life, jumping after the blowing leaves near to our rendezvous point. We had been siting there talking for quite some time, when the little grey tabby walked up to us already purring singing affection. I scooped it into my arms and leaned back to reinhabit my spot in my mother's arms. I plucked a leaf of the living grass and played with the kitten as it sat on my chest. It felt like paradise but ended abruptly when my alarm clock rang. I slowly hobbled out of bed, prepared myself for school and walked this time alone to the bus stop. When I arrived at the school and took my place beside Irene in our homeroom, she glanced at my hands and asked me where the scratches had come from. I couldn't recall getting any scratches that morning and didn't realize the possibility of how they could have materialized.

"I'm not sure," I admitted, "maybe I maybe I scratched myself on one of the plants outside?" This explanation did not make sense to me, or her, but we decided to accept it as truth and move on with the day.

Another night a few months after that, I had dreamed a typical dream of tripping and awoke suddenly with a start as my face hit the concrete. I fell back asleep and didn't think about it in the morning when I awoke again for school until my father saw me in the kitchen and asked me how on Earth I had gotten that scrape on my cheek. Again, I had no idea, and came up with a reasonable explanation that I had rolled off my bed in the night and not remembered it. He hesitantly said "okay then" and washed it up before I left for the day. Again Irene asked me what had happened and again I gave her the only explanation that made sense, although it didn't make sense, although it made more sense than any other reasoning. Still I couldn't make sense of it and the pieces that may be becoming clear to you as you read did not fit together for me until months and months of these strange occurrences continued.