Book Covers

Chapter 18

Charlotte O'Brien

The dream with Tyler dissolved like sand, his voice fading away and the feeling of nothing being replaced by hard stones under my feet and the jostling movement of people walking all around me. There was the sound of soft words, footsteps, and honking cars in the distance. I knew I was back in one of my memories of Europe, the culture swirling around me like something tangible, like the spirit of all of the lives that had traipsed over the ground during their short times on Earth. Even though I was almost positive that I was in Paris, walking down the Champs Elysées, on my way to the Arc de Triomphe with the wafting scent of croissants caught on the wind, there was a sadness about the whole thing, like the voices of the people were dulled and angrier than I remembered. I found myself thinking wistfully about Tyler's southern accent and the way he seemed to be able to pull anything back to his roots, wondering what he would say about Paris, if he would find the people too much to handle. I would have much rather spent a dream talking inconsequential things with the fictional Georgian boy than relive one of my favorite memories from Europe, one that had played itself in my mind thousands of times since I stepped on the plane heading home. I knew every smell, the feeling of every person brushing past me on their ways to unknown places and unknown people, the textures of corduroy, pleather, and fur sliding against my skin. It wasn't interesting to live a scenario you've experienced hundreds of thousands of times before, the feeling of wonder and intrigue replaced by boredom.

I wanted to think about Tyler, dissect why I had told him things I had kept secret from Braylynn and even Ric, and run back over our conversation, focusing on the ease that I talked to him with, like I had known him years, rather than minutes, if that. I wanted to go back to the placeless place that was apparently better than a jail cell, but the Charlotte of this dream had her hand firmly tucked into her father's elbow and was listening to him go on and on about how aliens had visited France in the eighteenth century and shrunk Napoleon with a shrink ray. I felt a wave of sadness wash through me like the tide down at the docks as thoughts of Tyler and his twang slipped away just as easily as he had. The dream continued just as it always did, with a young, drunk man stumbling up to my mother and proclaiming his undying and eternal love for her. My father, not to be beat, did the same, dropping my hand and plucking a rose from a bouquet a woman was carrying as she walked past. My father fell on his knees and quoted Oscar Wilde, his voice ringing against the buildings. The drunk man was highly impressed and told my mom that she must marry someone so educated, that that was what she really needed, someone who could take care of her and afford her many shopping trips.

I woke up giggling, the air catching in my throat, trying to imagine my mother ever wanting to go shopping anywhere other than our local bookshop. She got very excited about books and every time she read anything, she had to put her hair in a bun to 'stimulate understanding and blood flow.' She would use anything in arm's reach to pin her hair up, from forks on the dinner table to binder clips to a miniature American flag on the Fourth of July. Every time she did, my dad would whisper in my ear, daring me to touch her hair and guess what it was. He used to bet me chores, like doing the dishes and folding laundry, but stopped when I got nine out of ten right one week and he did everything from making my mother breakfast in bed to vacuuming my bedroom while I only wiped down a couple of counters.

 The memory of Paris and thoughts of my parents brought a smile to my face and bubbled up in my chest like helium balloons. Every moment with them seemed to rise up from the depths of my memories, from my mom pushing my hair back to kiss my forehead to my dad scooping me up in his arms and carrying me up the stairs. I remembered all of the doctors' visits, where my dad would teach me hand games and sign language, insisting that there was a need to communicate with people who were like me, but were just blessed with a different sense, and my mom would argue with the doctors, using vocabulary even they couldn't understand. I recalled the dreadful memories too, like when my mother burst into the bathroom while I was showering, demanding answers when I got my first F, and the time my dad took my phone away for three months when I refused to go on a vacation to Niagara Falls. I remembered screaming at the top of my lungs that they couldn't keep doing this, keep pulling me around like a dog on a leash to things so beautiful you must see them with your own eyes. That memory hit me like gush of wind, stealing my breath and sending a tremor through my fingers. My dad had burst into the room, the crash from the door causing several of my books to drop to the ground, like flightless birds. He'd physically hoisted me over his shoulder and out of the room, my fists pounding on his back and legs kicking the entire way. It had reminded me of when we played pretend when I was little, playing like I was an imprisoned princess and he was my valiant knight ready to break me from my dungeon, but I knew that it was real, and that I wasn't going to some castle where they waited on me hand and foot, but to one of the most appealing sights on the face of the Earth. Even at that moment, as my father was promising me threat upon threat and my phone was wrenched from my clenched fingers, I knew that they would forgive me, that we would get through it eventually. After yesterday, I didn't see that in the future. I didn't foresee my dad daring me to guess which cooking utensil has in my mother's hair or my mother flouncing into my room, proclaiming she simply had to share this book with me, then sitting in my bed with me for hours on end, reading aloud and discussing the plot and characters. I couldn't foresee anything good coming from the situation, because I had become a screw up and was beyond their help.