Dreams for Stones

by Ann Warner

  His hand came to rest on The Little Prince. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. He pulled it out and turned to the inscription. In this book it was written in an adult hand.

  To my dearest Alan,

  You are unique in all the world. You have tamed me, my love, and like the fox and the rose, I no longer wish to live without you.

  All my love,

  Meg

  He hadn’t wanted to live without her either. But he’d had no choice. Looking up, he was startled by his reflection in the balcony door. Was that how he looked? A man no longer young. A man stooped with sorrow.

  Looking at his reflection, he no longer had the energy to stand. He sank to the floor and leaned back, feeling the welcome discomfort of the books poking into his back. The Little Prince lay open on his lap.

  He turned the pages of the story, looking at the pictures, reading a few lines here and there. But he knew what he was really doing—putting off reading the rest of Kathy’s story.

  He hurt, and the story wasn’t helping. It was chipping away at the last of the protective covering that made it possible, with Meg no longer in his life, to get up every day, go to work, deal with students. Without that protection, he was skin and bones enclosing a dark, empty hollow.

  After a time, he stood, slipped The Little Prince into its slot, and went back to the bedroom. He turned out the light and settled himself in bed, then lay in the dark, eyes open and aching and heart pumping, knowing after a few seconds it wasn’t going to work.

  He snapped the light back on and sat up, rubbing his head. Kathy’s story lay on the nightstand, glowing in reproach.

  He picked it up, determined to read the remaining pages quickly, without thinking, holding himself in tight so the words couldn’t touch him.

  Today, Brad asked me if I wanted to learn to float with music. When I said yes, he told me to relax, breathe slowly and deeply and pretend the notes were pulling me into the air.

  “How did it feel?” he asked.

  “I felt like I was a. . . a soap bubble. All light and bouncy. I liked it very much.”

  “You can do the same thing with pictures,” Brad said. “Just look at the picture, breathe in slowly and deeply and imagine yourself inside it.”

  “Sometimes, I pretend I’m running across the field in one of Mom’s paintings. Is that what you mean?”

  “Exactly. You’re making good progress, Bobby. You won’t need me much longer.”

  “No! You can’t leave me!”

  “Shush, Bobby, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll stay with you as long as I can.” Brad rubbed his head against my hand.

  “You must promise me, Brad. You mustn’t go anywhere without me.”

  “I’ll do my best, Bobby.”

  Mom is painting a new picture, of a man standing by a tree looking at a sunset. It is a beautiful sunset, all deep oranges and reds, and there are clouds that look like lace. I focused on the tree, and Brad and I breathed slowly together.

  Suddenly, I was standing in the field, inside the picture, my hand resting on Brad’s head. “Come on, Brad. I’ll race you to the tree,” I sang.

  I was very excited. I’ve waited such a long time to have an adventure. And it was finally happening.

  We ran across the field toward the man. My legs felt strong, and my feet thumped against the ground. I jumped and twirled. I felt like my fairy godmother had come at last and made me completely well.

  The man by the fence turned to watch us, and I stopped running to look at him. He had the same sky-color eyes as Mom, only he was taller, and he wasn’t a girl, of course.

  He held out his hand to me, and I reached for it, but before I could touch him, he disappeared.

  I opened my eyes, and Mom was there, leaning over me, rubbing my hand. “Bobby, are you okay? Oh, please. You’ve got to be okay.”

  She looked worried, but I was excited. I wanted to tell her all about my adventure. How wonderful it was to run and sing and fling my arms into the air. I didn’t want her to worry.

  I tapped against her hand, once.

  “Are you really okay?” she asked.

  I tapped again, once.

  “Thank God. I was so frightened. I thought you went away.”

  I wished I could tell her I’d gone only into the picture. Not that far at all.

  “Why is Mom so upset?” I asked Brad.

  He sighed and laid his head in my lap. I felt the softness of his ears pressed against my fingers, and it made me feel better. “The man in the picture looked a lot like Mom,” I said.

  “Do you remember your uncle Bill, who visited at Christmas?”

  “Do you mean that was Uncle Bill? But he died. And went to live with God. So how can he be in Mom’s picture?”

  “I don’t know how that happened. But I’m certain that was your uncle Bill.” Brad moved to lie in his usual place beside me, and when I asked him how he knew that was my uncle Bill, he didn’t answer.

  Lately, it seems like Brad sleeps a lot, and he doesn’t answer my most important questions.

  Mom told Dad I’d had a spell. I was very excited when I heard it. I could hardly eat my dinner or go to sleep. I’m sure, now that they know about it, they’ll be able to figure out how to break it.

  But all they did was take me to the doctor, who did the usual poking and prodding. I don’t know what the doctor discovered, but I don’t think it was good. He had a very serious look.

  If I could speak, I would have asked him why I sometimes feel like something heavy is sitting on my chest.

  After that, Mom put the painting with Uncle Bill in it away, and The Little Prince disappeared from the stack of books. Brad slept more than ever and moved more and more slowly, and sometimes Mom seemed to be holding her breath, like she was waiting for something to happen. And every once in a while, my breath would go out, and I couldn’t pull it back in right away.

  Summer was ending, and the leaves were once again dropping from the trees into colorful piles. Ethel and Bethel chased each other around the pond, snorting and stomping and making the leaves crackle and fly about, but it didn’t make me laugh inside the way it used to.

  Then one day, Brad perked up. All afternoon, he lay beside me, talking instead of sleeping. “See, Bobby. The trees are dying again. But they’ll be back in the spring.”

  For a while we watched the leaves drifting down, then he spoke again. “Do you remember I told you I would stay with you?”

  “You promised,” I said.

  “I don’t believe it’s my promise to make. You remember, I also told you when we get old enough or sick enough, like your uncle Bill did, dying just happens.”

  “But I’ve been sick a long time, and I haven’t died.”

  “Perhaps love postpones it.” He sighed. “You need to know. If one day my body doesn’t move, and I look like I’m asleep, I’ll still be nearby.”

  “Brad, please. You can’t go. I need you. The doctor found something. I’m afraid.”

  Brad got up and stood beside me with his head in my lap, and that’s when I knew.

  “When it happens, Bobby, run right up to your uncle Bill and take his hand. Then everything will be all right.”

  “Will Mom and Dad come too, Brad?”

  “I think you and I will go first. But your mom and dad will join us. You don’t need to worry.”

  Last night, the first snow of the winter came. When I awoke this morning, big fluffy flakes swirled in the air, and the trees looked like one of Mom’s pencil drawings. In the afternoon, the snow stopped, the sun came out, and the whole world sparkled.

  Brad went outside, and I heard him bark. Mom heard him too. She looked out, then she pushed me over to the window so I could see what was happening.

  Brad and the goats were jumping about, knocking sprays of snow off the bushes. Watching them made my heart lift and laughter bubble inside me.

  Later, Mom took out her paints and placed the picture of Uncle Bill on her easel. Then she put on music and lit the fire.
Brad, back in from his romp, dozed beside me. I watched Mom painting and listened to the music, feeling warm and sleepy.

  Mom added a woman to the painting. Then I must have fallen asleep for a while, because the next time I looked, the man and woman had been joined by a dog.

  I told Brad to look, but he didn’t answer. Then I felt the heaviness in my chest that was happening more and more lately. I stared at the painting, absorbing the colors, trying to ease the pain.

  Suddenly, the crushing weight pushing on my chest lightened, and I was floating. I slipped free and landed inside the picture. The grass tickled my toes.

  Remembering what Brad told me to do, I walked, then ran toward Uncle Bill. As I got close, I saw the dog was Brad. Uncle Bill held out his hands to me, and when I caught them, he swung me in a circle, laughing with me. “Look, Kiara, it’s Bobby. Bobby, this is your aunt Kiara.”

  The woman smiled at me. She was short with dark, curly hair and laughing eyes.

  I turned to Brad. “Will I have to go back to being sick?” I asked.

  “We may be dreaming, but I don’t believe so,” Brad said.

  Uncle Bill and Aunt Kiara stood quietly while Brad and I talked, then Uncle Bill said, “You’re finished with sickness forever, Bobby.”

  “But what about Mom and Dad? I don’t want to leave them.”

  “Time has no meaning where we are now,” Aunt Kiara said. “It will seem no time at all before they join us.”

  “But they’ll miss me.”

  “Of course they will,” Uncle Bill said.

  “I don’t want them to be sad.”

  “They will be sad for a time,” Aunt Kiara said. “But there are gifts to help their hearts heal.”

  Then she took my hands in hers and spoke words that sounded like music.

  Sky color shimmering like visible laughter

  Snowflakes, sunsets, leaves falling down

  Rainbows and bells

  Waterfalls and light

  Books, pictures, memories, tears, stars, and time

  An enchantment of comfort for those left behind

  She placed her hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s okay for you to be happy, Bobby.”

  I closed my eyes and repeated to myself, “It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to be happy.”

  I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and smiled at Aunt Kiara, Uncle Bill, and Brad, and the light caught a tear on Aunt Kiara’s cheek and turned it into a rainbow.

  There. Done. Alan set the pages aside, only then noticing the tears running down his face. He stared at the place where Meg’s picture had hung, the tears drenching his cheeks, dripping off his chin. Something tight and hard was loosening inside him, as if Meg’s death had corroded him, rusting him shut, and now he was being pried open.

  It’s okay to be happy.

  Could it possibly be that simple?

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan awakened the morning after reading Bobby and Brad feeling empty and peaceful, as if the tears had been a heavy burden he’d carried far too long and had at last laid down.

  Soon he would have to act, and that action would decide the course of his future, but for the moment he felt suspended. Content simply to be.

  But that didn't last long. Soon he began to feel a niggle of restlessness that he quieted by once again pulling the box containing his writing out of the closet. He gathered the pages of his novel together and stacked them on the table.

  It took him three nights to get through it all. When he finished, he read the note Meg had written at the end.

  Alan,

  The story is wonderful, and I’m not just saying that because I’m crazy about you. Although, don’t doubt it for a moment, my love, I am. You’ve made the 1890’s come alive again in all their raucous, maudlin, violent, tender glory. And to think, this is only the beginning. Oh, the places you will go!

  Meg

  If he had read the note shortly after she wrote it, the wording of that last sentence would never have struck him as unusual—a quote from the Dr. Seuss book.

  But now...he’d never expected to go any of those places without Meg.

  With that thought, the peaceful interlude shattered.

  Delia, Angela, Charles, Kathy, and now Meg. All whittling away at him. Cutting, slicing, occasionally producing a sharp stab of awareness.

  Delia: It’s okay, Alan.

  Angela: Kathy is unfinished business.

  Charles: For God’s sake, how could you let her go?

  Meg: Oh, the places you will go.

  But what pushed at him most was Kathy. I’m sorry we lost touch.

  Kathy. All these months, not seeing her but knowing Charles was. A bone-deep ache. A pain so unrelenting, he’d finally done what he had been most afraid to do. Confronted his guilt over Meg’s death. Let Meg go.

  Sending him her story had taken courage on Kathy’s part. If he wanted to complete his healing he needed to respond with equal courage. He needed to see her.

  He concentrated, trying to remember what she’d said about living near the Botanical Gardens. In one of the big houses, with an elderly couple named. . . something to do with comedy, wasn’t it? Abbott? No. Costello, that was it.

  He found a listing in the phone book for a Louis Costello on the eight hundred block of Race Street.

  It had to be the right one.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Excerpt from the diaries of Emily Kowalski

  1990

  This year I turn ninety. Although I certainly don’t feel that old, I don’t have the energy I used to have. When Rose Cameron called to ask if I would meet with one of her students this semester, I almost turned her down. These last six months I’ve been tired, and just lately I’ve had to work harder to breathe. Of course, that’s to be expected at my age.

  But after thinking about it, I told her yes. I do so enjoy being around young people, even when they make no secret of the fact they suspect I’m old enough to be personally acquainted with King Tut.

  The student came yesterday. Her name is Kathleen Jamison. She stood on my doorstep, her hair like a bright copper penny, with the maple tree all gold and red behind her, and I thought, oh my, how lovely she is.

  She reminds me of someone, but I can’t think who. I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone with hair that color.

  I’m supposed to share with Kathleen my view of an important historical event that occurred in my lifetime so she can write about it for Rose’s class.

  If Jess were asked to pick the most amazing thing that happened in his lifetime, he would probably say it was men landing on the moon. But for me, it was the discovery of antibiotics, although it came too late to help our Bobby.

  Kathleen was surprised at my choice.

  Talking to Kathleen about the past, I realize who she reminds me of. Bill’s Kiara. Anyone seeing pictures of them both would not think so, yet I feel it strongly. Perhaps it is some deeper quality of the spirit they share.

  Kathleen and I have been talking about life and love. She is so young. All she knows of love is the excitement that comes in the beginning when she meets someone new who may be special.

  But I hope she will someday discover the love that grows from the wholehearted acceptance of another and the sharing of sorrow and pain along with joy.

  I want to tell her that when you love that way, you never feel old. I look in my mirror and am amazed at the face looking back. When did that happen? But I look at Jess, and I see only my Jess, the man I’ve loved since the moment we met.

  I think that is why we say love is blind. It isn’t really. It simply sees the eternal part of us that does indeed never grow old.

  I’m afraid the time for sharing with Kathleen is ending, and there is still so much I want to tell her. I especially want her to know that her capacity for joy will always exceed her capacity for sorrow.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sitting on the Costellos’ porch waiting for Kathy, Alan shivered, and not just because the evening was co
ol. He saw the curtains twitch and knew Mrs. Costello was keeping an eye on him.

  She hadn’t been happy about his decision to wait on the porch, but even if it had been twenty below, this was one time he’d choose a cold porch over having to make small talk with someone he didn’t know.

  Kathy finally arrived, walking quickly, her head down, watching her step on the uneven slates of the sidewalk. He took a deep breath, bracing himself. She didn’t realize he was there until she was halfway up the porch steps.

  When she saw him, she came to a stop, her eyes going wide with shock, those clear mountain-stream eyes.

  “Alan? Oh my goodness. It’s. . . good to see you.” Her voice was hoarse, surprised.

  Before he could respond, Mrs. Costello opened the front door and stuck her head out. “Oh, Kathy, I’m glad you’re home. This young man refused to come inside to wait for you. He must be half frozen. Make him come in. I’ve got fresh coffee and some old dead cherry pie.”

  With that, Mrs. Costello transferred the responsibility for the next step from him to Kathy. Feeling both relief and trepidation, he held Kathy’s gaze, waiting for her response.

  She nodded slightly. “You’d better come in. I never argue with Mrs. C about food. Her old dead pies are more delicious than everybody else’s fresh out of the oven.” Kathy had a solemn look, but a trace of humor softened her tone, and a hint of a smile hovered on her lips.

  Mrs. C took charge of him, hanging up his coat and briskly herding him back to the kitchen while Kathy went upstairs to put away her things.