The Focus Effect

Twenty-three

My parents visit me in a dream, faceless shadows in the distance holding hands. But I know it's them.

"Am I dead?" I wonder.

"No," my dad chuckles. "You're just getting started, sweetheart."

I try to move closer to them so I can see their faces. If I can see their faces, I'll remember everything. I know this with every ounce of my being.

"Not yet," my mother says in a voice that I can almost taste, sweet as honey on my lips. She radiates beauty and warmth from beneath her dark cocoon. If I could only touch her, she would become real.

I stop, though, knowing that if I try to reach them, I'll never get close enough to see them. This is a dream, and in dreams, things that cannot be revealed will always stay a mystery.

"I want to remember you, mama. I want to see your face, daddy. I miss you." The words hardly come out past the lump in my throat and I taste salty tears on my lips. A fleeting thought crosses my mind about being able to taste the saltiness of your own tears in a dream but then it's gone.

"You will," my dad says, "when you're ready."

"When you're safe," my mother adds.

"But I need to know who I am. Please, mama. Why can't I remember?" But this is a dream-and people in dreams can only tell you things you already know.

"Don't lose hope, baby," my dad says.

I'm struck by how real this feels.

"You have to fight," my mother continues, her words tough like iron. "I know you don't think what is happening to you is a gift," she says softly. "But if it isn't a gift, then it's a curse. What hope is there in curses, my love? People change all the time. You aren't the same person now that you were when you were five, nor will you be when you're thirty-five. It's easy to mourn the loss of innocence that goes with that change, to curse the knowledge that steals the magic from wishes and shooting stars and things that go bump in the night." I can almost see a smile behind her shadow face. "But there are beautiful things that cannot be seen through the eyes of a child," she says even more gently. "Becoming a mother is the single most beautiful gift that I have known. I'm sure some would call that a curse. It's all a matter of perspective. Choose to be cursed and you will be. Now wake up, Hannah, someone's coming."

I open my eyes. For a moment, I relish the dream and wrap myself in its memory. I only slightly notice the dull throb in the back of my head from where, I'm assuming, Simon whacked me with something hard. My hands and legs are bound and I'm lying on a dusty blanket next to a crackling fire. The structure in which I find myself has three wooden walls and a ceiling with a hole for ventilation. A blanket makes for the fourth wall of the shanty, stretched tight except for a corner of it that can be drawn back and used for a door. There are few amenities scattered about. There's a cot against one wall with a dark wool blanket balled on it and a small table and chair against another. It's hard to tell what might be on top of the table, but I can see an unlit candle and perhaps a book or two. This must be the presidential suite, I muse.

The blanket is drawn aside and a figure, cloaked and hunched over a walking stick, enters the room. "Shh," comes a harsh whisper, crooked finger to lips.

I don't suppose it would do to scream. I doubt I'd have many people running to help me.

The figure approaches and stops at the foot of my makeshift bed. He lifts the cane and twists the handle to separate it from the bottom, releasing a short blade. It glints in the firelight as the person leans over me and begins to cut away at the bindings around my ankles, then my wrists. In a few moments, I am free. I sit up as the figure pulls back the hood of his cloak to reveal that he is a she.