Queen of Dreams

by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

  And in my anger I stride toward him, forgetting my high heels. I stumble, and his hand comes out to steady my elbow. I see the smile in his eyes, his fingers burn my bare skin, his voice says, lazily, “Riks, you look gorgeous,” and the composure I’ve worked so hard on learning since I left him vanishes.

  My voice is shaking as I snatch my arm away and say, “Why did you come? To ruin everything for me as you’ve always done?”

  It isn’t what I meant to say. Amazing how quickly he can reduce me to this.

  Around us, people pause their conversations to hear better. An unexpected look of hurt flashes in Sonny’s eye, but it’s gone so fast that maybe it was never there.

  “Good evening to you, too,” he says.

  “Please leave,” I whisper.

  I think he’s going to say something sarcastic, something I don’t have the reserves to counter. But he only gives a slight bow and turns away, making me feel guilty and uncharitable and profoundly thankful.

  He’s at the door when Jona tackles him from behind with one of her hugs. “Sonny-y-y! I didn’t see you come in. Where are you going?”

  He kneels and whispers something in her ear.

  “You can’t leave! You haven’t even looked at Mom’s paintings. And you haven’t talked to Gramma and Grandpa yet!”

  I walk over and lay a firm maternal hand on her shoulder. “He has to go. He’ll look at the paintings some other time.”

  “But I want him to look at them with me!”

  “Jona, didn’t you hear me? He has to leave. And I want you to go to Gramma or Auntie Belle and stay with them.”

  Jona looks from Sonny’s face to mine.

  “You fought with him, didn’t you?” she says. “You told him to go away. How could you be so mean, Mom?”

  I feel heat flood my face. “Jona,” I say in my best don’t-mess-with-me voice, “go to your grandmother.”

  “I bet Gramma won’t let you send him away. I’m going to tell her right now. Gramma! Gram-ma!” Her clear child tones cut through the buzz of conversation. “Mom’s telling Sonny he has to go away!”

  All heads turn toward us. I want to sink through the floor. My mother comes hurrying. She whispers to Jona while Sonny tries to pry her loose from his arm. Jona’s sobbing loudly. Over the heads of the crowd, which obviously finds this little drama far more riveting than my paintings, I see Kathryn’s face, a death mask of disapproval.

  No more shows for me at the Atelier.

  Is the man in white watching, too? Somehow, that thought humiliates me most of all.

  “Just leave,” I hiss to Sonny. With my eyes I say, None of this mess would be happening if you hadn’t decided to show up.

  “I’m trying,” he growls back. With his eyes he says, None of this mess would be happening if you hadn’t left me.

  “If Sonny goes, I’m going with him,” Jona announces. “I hate you! I don’t want to look at your horrid paintings.”

  “Good!” I say. I’m about to add, I don’t want to look at your horrid face, but my mother puts a warning hand on my arm. She nods to Sonny, who picks Jona up and shoots me an unreadable look. (No, I take that back—I read it loud and clear. It’s a look of triumph.) My mother walks me across the hall, past the curious faces and into the restroom. I expect her to tell me how shamefully I overreacted, but she merely suggests that I wash my face, repair my makeup, and breathe deeply. She leaves me alone with a row of faucets, all winking accusingly at me.

  When I finally force myself to emerge from the restroom, bracing myself for stares and whispers and knowing smirks, I am amazed to find that no one pays me much attention. People are busy talking to each other, pointing at paintings, nodding. I walk over to Kathryn to apologize.

  “No problem,” she says, looking unexpectedly cheerful. “It seemed to pique people’s interest. You know—Passionate Young Artist Confronts Her Dark, Handsome Past at Show Opening. You sold quite a few paintings after that little scene—more than I’d expected. Maybe I should insist from now on that artists invite their exes.” She gestures and I see the bright red SOLD tags on the pieces.

  The eucalyptus grove is tagged, too.

  “Who bought that one?” I ask.

  “Let’s see—it was a man. Not one of our regulars. Looked Mediterranean—or maybe Middle Eastern. Isn’t that great? That’s your most expensive piece—and your most accomplished. Something about it I can’t put my finger on—. Well, he must have a good eye for art.”

  My heart speeds up. “Was he wearing white?”

  “I don’t remember. There was a big rush right around then.”

  “Do you have his name? A credit card receipt?”

  She looks at me curiously. “No. He paid in cash and said he’d be back to pick up the painting when the show was over. I asked for a phone number, but he said he was between numbers right now. I did write down his name, though.” She opens a folder. “Emmett Mayerd. Unusual, isn’t it? I hope I spelled it right. He was in a hurry to leave, so I just scribbled down what I thought he said.”

  Emmett Mayerd. I repeat the name to myself through the rest of the evening, through Belle’s hugs and Kathryn’s congratulations, through my mother’s fingers cupping my face, her eyes proud but with a shadow in them. My father gives an exaggerated bow and raises a glass of cabernet in a silent toast. (When did he start drinking?) Emmett Mayerd rustles inside me as I ask my parents if they would like to stay overnight in my apartment. (They refuse, but maybe that’s because, distracted by the possibility of Emmett, I don’t insist as much as I should.) Would they like me to drive them down to Fremont? (Another refusal.) I’ll be fine driving, my mother assures me. Don’t be such a worrywart. Emmett stands by me as I wave my parents good-bye, turn down an offer to go clubbing with Belle, and drive to my place. He watches as I open the door to the too silent apartment. He is used to silence, Emmett. It is his element.

  Emmett, I’m not as strong as you. I need someone tonight. Someone to share the excitement of the evening, the achievement and the upset, the feeling of deflation that I’m left with. Jona would have wrapped her arms tight around me, pushed her sweaty, demanding curls against my face, and kept me from thinking. But she isn’t here. She’s with her Sonny (whom she loves more, my little voice is quick to remind me) and I must face the truth by myself.

  Seeing Sonny look at me in that infuriatingly kind way tonight broke open something inside me, some shell of denial I’d built around myself ever since I moved out on my own. All this time I told myself I’d be fine alone, I’m tough, I don’t need anyone. But I’m not fine—and I’m not as tough as I’d like to believe I am. I want to be loved by a man who understands me the way Sonny did in our best days. I need him to love me until my whole body shakes with it.

  Every time I exhale, I feel a little piece of my youth leaving me. Emmett, white shadow in a world of green, can you understand this? Can you be the man I want?

  The phone rings.

  I sit up, rigid with expectation. Could it be—? Why not? If he could be in the rain-filled grove, if he could come to the show and buy my painting of him (that shape made of emptiness that only he recognized), why couldn’t he be calling me now? My hand trembles a bit—my voice, too—as I say hello.

  “Riks,” says a not-Emmett voice that I know too well, “we need to talk.”

  I’m disappointed, and angry at my foolishness.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Sonny,” I snap. “Not anymore. Please don’t call me again.”

  But of course he does. The phone rings and rings, the answering machine comes on, I hear him say, “Riks, listen to me, it’s important,” I disconnect the phone. Then I go to bed, where I draw my knees up to my chest and shiver in spite of having turned the heat to high. Emmett has vanished (perhaps I’m too needy for his liking), and until I fall into uneasy sleep, I listen to my little voice. Now that you’ve turned off the phone, what if Jona has an emergency?

  14

  FROM THE

  DRE
AM JOURNALS

  Recently, they’ve been arriving when I don’t expect them.

  This morning, for example.

  She drives up in a car like a silver whisper and sits there for a long moment, comparing the address on her notepad with that on my door. Or maybe she’s gathering the scattered petals of her courage.

  When she does ring the bell and I open the door, she is beautiful and sad, like a princess from one of our old Bengali tales.

  Maybe that’s why, when she tells me her dream, I recognize it at once, though I haven’t dreamed it myself.

  In the dream—she’s had it several times now—she is in a walled garden. There are golden plants all around her, flowers made of diamonds. A brook flows through the garden, with honey for water, and invisible birds sing so sweetly she thinks her heart will burst.

  She pulls at the strap of her Gucci purse, looking down at her lap. She smooths out the silky fabric of her dress as she speaks. She has chosen pearls for her ears, her throat. This does not surprise me, for they are the gems of weeping.

  As long as she is in the garden, she knows she will be safe. No one can get to her. Get at her. She hears them calling her name, outside. The voices are angry, angrier. But she doesn’t care. She lifts her hand. A dragonfly swoops down to kiss it.

  I read her story in her listless eyes. A husband who is so busy dreaming his king-of-the-mountain dreams that he doesn’t know his home has turned into a desert. That the only solace his wife has comes from sitting in an unreal garden, listening to birds that aren’t there.

  You need to talk to him, I tell her. Make him talk to you.

  She shakes her head. I tried. I don’t care to anymore.

  When did he stop sleeping with you?

  She turns hunted deer eyes to me. How did you know?

  I don’t tell her that I know it through my own life, which is like hers turned inside out. We dream tellers do not speak of ourselves.

  I forget, she says finally. It doesn’t matter.

  You need to find something—or someone—else to love. Or you’ll go mad.

  She looks at me.

  Maybe I’m mad already, her eyes say. Maybe that’s the best way to carry this emptiness.

  Why did you come to me? Do you want me to explain what you saw?

  No! Don’t! I don’t want it explained away. I just want to dream it again and again. Every night. I could bear the rest of my life then. If I knew for certain that when I lay down, I could go there. But it doesn’t happen, not often enough. And recently, less and less. That’s why I’ve come to you.

  I sigh. It’s a dangerous path she follows. But she will not accept any other help from me. And I can’t turn down the entreaty in those eyes, the shimmer in them that could be mascara or desperation.

  I bring her a bottle from my closet of shadows. One drop each night, I say, just before bed, in each eye.

  She twists open the stopper. Smells the clear liquid dubiously.

  You’re sure? It looks just like water.

  I nod. I don’t tell her that I’ll be sending my dreaming thoughts to her, too, to guide her across the threshold.

  But it’s such a small bottle—it’ll be empty in no time. Can’t you give me more?

  I shake my head. It’ll last longer than you think, as long as you use it right. When it’s over, come and talk to me. Maybe you’ll want something different by then.

  She smiles her disbelief. Rises on unsteady stiletto heels. Without looking at them, she puts handfuls of dollar bills on the table between us.

  I tuck most of them back into her purse.

  Everything in moderation, I say sternly. But inside I’m telling her, Don’t give up. The dream is not a drug but a way. Listen to where it can take you.

  So many kinds of sorrow in the world. Sometimes I think I might break from it.

  You’ll be here for sure when I come back? There’s fear in her voice, in the clutch of her perfect nails on the strap of her purse.

  I say to her what I say to all my people, though this time I speak with a tinge of guilt.

  My dear one. (She looks up at that, startled again. She’ll never know how deeply I mean those three words, how deeply I am tied to her, now that she has come to me.) My dear one, as long as I’m alive, I’ll be here for you.

  15

  Someone is pounding on the door of the apartment, calling her name. Someone rings the doorbell over and over until the maddeningly cheery chimes dig into her skull and hiding her head under the pillow can’t save her. She drags herself out of bed, swearing, her head dull and throbbing as with a hangover. Unfair, this world where you can suffer a hangover without having touched a drink. (Half a glass of champagne, she figures, doesn’t count.) She blinks hazily, wondering if it’s Sonny, would he dare this final assault, but the voice doesn’t fit. She considers not answering, pretending she doesn’t exist. Maybe it wouldn’t even be pretense. She feels a strange weightlessness as she makes her way to the bathroom, a sense of not belonging to the hands that splash water on the face that is bent over the sink. It is dark all around, or maybe her eyes have floated away. When she comes out of the bathroom, the voice shouting her name hasn’t left, so she opens the door.

  “God, Rikki, what’s wrong with you?” Belle is sobbing as she pushes her way into the apartment. “Why didn’t you open the door earlier? I thought something had happened to you, too.”

  She registers that too, a cold corkscrew of a sound that bores into her, leaving a narrow black tunnel in its wake. She mumbles something about being asleep. It isn’t an unreasonable excuse. When she looks past Belle at the landing outside her apartment, with its small window, she sees the sun hasn’t risen yet. Belle is wearing a short red dress. Surely that wasn’t what she was wearing when she saw her last at the—where? With an effort she recollects the gallery, and then everything comes tumbling down on her: her parents, Jona, the paintings gallant and forlorn on the wall before the crowds came, the man in white, Sonny’s disastrous entry and more disastrous exit. Belle’s makeup is smeared, her eyes are swollen. Rakhi wants to tell her that she shouldn’t have been driving when she was upset like that, she could have had an accident. Perhaps she does say it, but Belle doesn’t hear, she’s too busy talking and crying at the same time.

  “I came home and there were these messages on the answering machine, like six of them, I almost didn’t turn it on, I was so tired, but thank God I did, it was Sonny, he was calling from the hospital, he’d been trying you but you didn’t pick up—”

  Hospital. The word sinks into her with finality, a stone of a word.

  “Jona?” Her body starts to shake. Belle is holding her.

  “No, not Jona, thank God. But just as bad. Your parents. They got in an accident, going back. Your father’s hurt bad. But your mother’s—” Belle sobs so hard she can’t complete the sentence.

  But Rakhi doesn’t need to hear the word, that sound like a fist striking flesh, to know what has happened.

  At the hospital, where Belle has driven her, everything appears blurred, as though she’s looking through glasses that are meant for someone else. Faces in uniforms and surgical scrubs float up to her, float away. They say things she can’t quite comprehend. (What’s there to say? Everything’s been encompassed already in that one unsaid word. Its single syllable swings at her from time to time, making her flinch.) She follows a uniform down a passage to a room, a bed, someone lying in it, covered with a white sheet. Under the sheet, she can see the outlines of disconnected tubes, like the freeways of an abandoned city. Sonny is there, his eyes red-rimmed. She wants to pound her fists against his chest, shout that he has no right, that she has no tears left because he’s cried them away. She knows he would grab her hands, hold her, murmuring like one does to a child or an animal. But finally she doesn’t. It wouldn’t change the thing she needs to change.

  She doesn’t look at the bed.

  After a long time someone takes her to another room, another figure lying in another bed.
There are bandages, a broken arm in a cast. This time the tubes are hooked up to a machine. He isn’t conscious, so she doesn’t have to talk to him. She’s thankful for that. This surprises her. She hadn’t thought she could feel thankful about anything again.

  At some point, she finds that she is back home—she’s not sure how—and in her own bed. There are two quilts covering her, but they can’t stop her from shivering. She wants to ask about Jona, where she is, but all her words have wandered away and she’s too tired to go searching. Belle gives her a couple of bright pink pills and thankfully she swallows them.

  And then. The dreams that her mother had protected her from all these years, positioning herself between her and them like a fortress wall, crash over her.

  16

  Rakhi

  I am in the kitchen that is no longer my mother’s, boiling banana squash.

  I’ve never cooked banana squash before, although it was a dish my mother was fond of making. She made it well and with deceptive ease. In her hands, it never turned into the disconcerting orange glob that stares at me from the pan. I add several spoons of mustard oil in an attempt to redeem it, and mix in salt and pepper. It looks just as unappetizing as before, only greasier. I sigh and place it, along with overcooked rice, on a tray.

  I’m making the banana squash at the request of my father. He has also requested that I boil the rice until it turns mushy. He says his insides are too bruised to handle anything more demanding.

  I’m quite sure there’s nothing wrong with my father’s insides. All his test results have turned out fine, and the doctors have told me there’s nothing to worry about. But I don’t point this out to him. Since the accident, I speak to my father as little as possible. I touch him as little as possible, too, but this is more difficult, since he needs my help with so many daily necessities until the cast comes off.