“I’ll fix it,” a voice thundered. “The same thing happened to my uncle. He thought he was Jesus Christ.”
The voice resounded all around me, booming so loudly it shook the clouds and the buildings surrounding me. I felt another strike on the opposite cheek. My face was in the grass again.
I was afraid. Something invisible was in my dreams, attacking me. That’s what must have happened when I hurt my leg; I hadn’t seen anything that time, either. And now this thing was speaking in a low, terrifying voice. My head returned to its original position—independent of my will—gripped by something invisible that was smashing in my cheeks.
The voice roared again, making the Big Ben tower tremble.
“This time you’re gonna find out.”
The next blow was considerably harder than the previous ones.
I felt a searing pain in my eyes as a ray of brilliant, blinding light crept between my eyelids.
“Should I give him another?”
“Stop right now! You already gave him three!”
“He’s waking up! Hey, man, how’re you doing?”
There were quite a few faces around me, and they all came in closer when I opened my eyes—fine by me since they were blocking the sun. Several hands reached down to help me into a sitting position, and I saw that I was on the soccer field in the same spot where I’d been thumped in the head by the ball Eloy had kicked at me.
“You really gave us a scare!” Ivan was holding my face in his hands and was frantically looking me over. “How many fingers do you see?”
“Two,” I said. My voice sounded weak.
“I knew nothing could happen to that fat head of yours. C’mon, guys; get back a little. Give him some air!”
I heard a buzzing in my head mixed with a bunch of voices as I watched the legs of the players crowded around me moving away. I focused on Ivan as he finished clearing the space around me.
“How long was I out?”
“Just a few minutes.” Ivan tried to sound reassuring. “You took quite a hit! Then our goalie jumped Eloy almost before your head hit the ground. You know there’s always been bad blood between those two. The teachers came onto the field to stop the fight but he’d already had just enough time to kick the shit out of Eloy. The teachers pulled them apart and dragged them both away—no doubt to dish out some punishment. The witch called off the game and then went off to get the school nurse. She told us not to touch you but—”
“But someone brought me to by slapping me, I know. I felt it.” I remembered my head snapping from one side to the other during my dream.
“Sorry, man. One of our forwards—you know, the one who couldn’t make a goal even if the goal box was wide open—was the one who smacked you. I gotta tell ya, I was a little worried. You were delirious . . . saying all kinds of strange stuff—like you were talking to someone.”
“Did you understand what I was saying?”
“No. Just a word here or there; that was about it. So then the forward showed up swearing he could help you because the same thing had happened to his uncle, except a ceramic jar had fallen on his head instead of a soccer ball. Apparently he was delirious too, saying he was Jesus Christ—so he woke him up by slapping him. I didn’t know how he planned to wake you up until it was too late. When I got to him to get him off you, I swear I thought he was about to split your face in two—but it worked. You woke up.”
That explained the sensation of having been slapped while I was lying at the bottom of Big Ben. The thundering voice had been the forward’s, and it had somehow found its way into my subconscious and had become part of my dream. Something like that had also happened to me once when I was taking a nap on the sofa in front of the television. The dialogue between the actors had worked itself into my dream.
I was beginning to think clearly again, slowly putting my thoughts in order despite the nagging feeling telling me I was missing something really important. Ivan kept everyone else back, which I really appreciated—especially since Claudia was in the crowd. I thought I saw her looking at me worriedly, but I didn’t feel like talking to her. I tried to stand up but I couldn’t; I still felt dizzy so I decided I should rest just a bit longer. When I leaned back on my hand, I felt something pressing on it. I assumed it was a small stone, but it was something quite different. Beneath my palm was the seed that the blond girl had given me. I had brought it out of the dream, just like the glasses. I had no idea what I could possibly use it for but decided on the spot I’d follow the blond twin’s recommendation. I quickly and discreetly tucked it in my pocket.
“Where is my father?” I asked. It was strange that he hadn’t come over to be near me.
“Uh, working?” Ivan answered, clearly confused by the question. “Where did that come from? Looks like maybe the bump to the head affected you after all.”
“It has not, stupid. My father was over there behind the stands, watching the game. Did he leave?”
“You sure he was there?”
The look on Ivan’s face told me he didn’t believe me, so I didn’t press the issue. The only explanation for his absence was that he’d had to leave to take care of something in that damn business of his before the part where his son was laid out flat in the middle of the field. If he’d have seen it, he would have had a helicopter brought in to transport me to the nearest hospital. Still, it bothered me more than I cared to admit that my father wasn’t at my side right then. It somehow wasn’t in keeping with my image of him as the perfect father—an image that I normally hated. But to be honest, I wasn’t happy feeling like his business—not me—was his top priority. I felt weak and vulnerable, and I hated myself for needing my father’s protection like some little kid.
“Help me get up, Ivan.”
“Maybe we should wait until the witch comes back. She warned us not to move you.”
“I’m fine. Forget about what that hag said.”
Everything was still kind of spinning, but I didn’t let on. I held tight to Ivan’s arm. My teammates cheered for me, praising the plays I’d made during the game and slapping me on the back. I nodded at them, turning my head to look at all of them as I searched for one person in particular. Then I found him.
“Let go of me for a second,” I told Ivan.
I went over to the forward and put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself.
“Hey, man, you’re gonna fall. You’re still out of it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I responded. Then I slugged him in the stomach. He doubled over and fell to his knees. “Next time you feel like slapping me in the face, wait until I’m awake. I dare you.”
The forward tried to speak but I’d knocked the wind out him. He held his hand over his stomach as he struggled to get up. The rest of the players looked at me in shock. Ivan came over and lightly slapped the forward on the face—but it was hard enough for it to sound like it hurt.
“That’s so you don’t forget.”
“Ivan! I’ve had about enough of this fighting!” shouted the math teacher as she hurried over to us, a look of serious displeasure on her face. “And you! What are you doing up?” she blurted out at me as her look changed to one of surprise. Then she immediately let loose on Ivan again. “I told you not to move him!”
“I’m fine, really.”
“I’m glad,” said the teacher angrily. “The school nurse is coming out to check you over.”
“There’s no need to, really—thanks, though,” I said. “I prefer just to go home.”
“You had an accident on school grounds and it is our responsibility to ensure that you have the proper medical attention. You could have a concussion.”
I would rather have had the devil helping me than that woman.
“It was just a bump from a ball; no need to exaggerate. And it happened outside of class time, so I’m going home.”
“It happened inside school grounds,” the teacher insisted firmly. “And besides, you passed out for several minutes. You have to see a doctor.”
“So I’ll do it,” I said, giving in. “But I can go by myself!” I jerked my arm away when she tried to get hold of me. “I know the way to the nurse’s office.”
A quick examination revealed that my only problem was a bump on the back of my head from when I hit the ground. I took an aspirin, unenthusiastically thanked the nurse, and promptly left her office.
I came to an abrupt halt a few steps from the back side of the main school building. There was a potted plant that had stopped me in my tracks—not because it was blocking my path but because it had a picture of Big Ben on its side . . . Could this be just a coincidence, after the dream I’d just had?
Without even realizing it, my hand fiddled with the seed in my pocket that I had brought out of the dream. It didn’t take me long to do the obvious.
I took a step back after planting the seed . . . and waited. Nothing happened. No plant grew before my eyes. I felt a little disappointed. Maybe I’d done something wrong, but I had no idea what it could be. I stayed there a few more minutes until I started to feel ridiculous—at which point I left.
The buzzing in my head slowly disappeared as I walked home, and that allowed me to think more clearly. The failure with getting the seed to sprout proved I still didn’t know exactly how the dreams worked. So I reviewed what I did know, trying to look at it from all angles, and it became evident that my idea that something invisible was attacking me and talking to me during my dreams was wrong. It had to be interferences from the real world that didn’t materialize in the dream, so I therefore couldn’t see them even if I could perceive them—like the painful bump to my leg and the slaps in the face from the forward. The most probable explanation was that I got the gash in my leg from thrashing around in my bed and smacking it on the bed frame or something.
The things I was bringing out of my dreams were things the twins were giving me, and they seemed to serve some purpose; these were not just random objects. And that fact cast a shadow of doubt inside my head. I still didn’t know why the two sisters were helping me with these “gifts,” as they liked to call them. There had to be some motive behind them. And if that motive came from the dark-haired girl, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if I didn’t like the answer to that mystery one bit once I finally figured it out. I breathed a little easier when I remembered it was the blond twin who’d given everything to me.
Except for one thing. There was one object that didn’t come from her or the brunette. I actually didn’t know where I’d gotten it from, or what it was. After the dream where I’d shown up in London, I’d woken up with a little black plastic wheel in my hand that looked like it could be the tire to a toy car. In the dream I hadn’t been given anything like it, so I didn’t know where it could have come from. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to look it over a bit more carefully—if I hadn’t lost it, of course. Because, if I remembered correctly, I’d dropped it on the floor of my room without giving a second thought to where it would land.
I made up my mind to look for that little wheel as soon as I got home, but I was sidetracked when I walked in on an argument between my parents.
“Well it’s important to me!” my mother exclaimed.
They were in the living room, where my mom had her tropical jungle of plants and birds. I stood perfectly still behind the door, listening in on their conversation. They never argued; they got along so well they could have been the characters in a novel with a storybook, happy ending—the kind that is nothing like reality. The truth is, the only arguments I’d ever witnessed between my parents were caused by me—usually over problems related to my attitude at the private school my father liked so much. And they weren’t particularly big fights, either, since my mother always ended up giving in. My father’s logic and facility with words of persuasion inevitably won out, and that drove me up the wall. He shouldn’t always be right; it was so irritating. It gave me an uncontrollable urge to defy him just to see if I could—just once—get my own way. If they were arguing about me now, it’d be great if I could find out the reason and prepare my defense before my father had a chance to confront me. If the argument was about something else, I would be very surprised indeed. My curiosity got the best of me; I couldn’t resist secretly listening in. It must have been a pretty heated fight if they hadn’t heard me come in the house.
“I completely understand,” said my father. I noticed how calm his voice sounded. It was, of course, hard to get angry when someone used a tone like that. It was intended to smooth the way for his ideas to be heard—the ideas he really wanted someone to accept. I was sure that was how he ran his business dealings—by convincing everyone to do exactly what he wanted.
“It was an unfortunate accident, but it’s not a tragedy.”
“Oh, of course it’s not a tragedy. The stocks didn’t crash and we didn’t lose millions, but I still lost something.”
I prayed they weren’t referring to the pregnancy and my future sisters. I still felt like there was some connection between them and the twins with the stick, and I didn’t want to lose that. It was selfish, I knew, but I couldn’t help how I felt.
“We can have more,” said my father. “I’ll take care of it. But I want you to understand that it’s just a small setback, that’s all.”
Surprisingly cold reasoning, in my opinion.
“It’s not that simple!” My mother sounded like she was losing control. “What about the time I’ve invested? The love, the dedication, the dream? That’s not coming back. I’ve lost it all!”
“You haven’t lost anything. We’re together. And we have a wonderful son that will continue to give us more joy in the future.”
Awfully nice words coming from someone who hadn’t bothered to stay by this promising son when he was laid out flat on a soccer field from a blow to the head. “Come on now, it’s all right . . .” said my father. My mother was sobbing now. “Everything will work out. Come here . . . that’s right . . . are you feeling a little better now?”
My mother sniffled a little then said, “I’m going to take a bath.”
“Good idea. That will relax you. I’ll bring you some tea in the bathtub and then later I’ll give you a massage.”
I went back to the front door, opened it as carefully and quietly as possible, then closed it loudly.
“Hello there! Anybody home?”
I’d timed it exactly right. I met up with my mother in the hallway. She quickly greeted me and, though she did her best to hide her eyes, I could see they were red and swollen. I headed for the kitchen.
“Hi, Dad. Is everything all right? Mom was acting strangely.”
“Hi, Son.” He put a cup of water in the microwave and turned it on. “Your mother is fine. She went to take a bath.”
“She’s been crying, Dad; I saw her eyes.”
“It’s nothing serious.” He let out a tired sigh. “Your mother takes things too much to heart, when really—”
“Does it have something to do with the pregnancy?”
“What? No, no; don’t you worry about that. Your mother is doing fine. If I tell you what it’s about, you’ll never believe it. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Intrigued, I followed my father to the living room.
“The plant?” I asked in disbelief.
My father was pointing to one of the flower pots. In it was a dead plant. Its stem was hanging over the edge, and a couple of scorched black leaves were on the floor beneath it. A bird was wildly flapping its wings in its cage nearby.
“Did I do that?” I asked, feeling guilty. “Maybe I watered it more than I should have . . . or less. There are so many . . . Maybe I screwed it up somehow yesterday.”
“It was an accident, that’s all. It’s not that important. I wanted to buy her another one, but your mother really loved that one.”
“I don’t understand, Dad. She was crying because a plant died? But there must be thousands of them in this room.”
“You see, Son, your mother is very sensitive becaus
e of the pregnancy. It’s important for us to pamper her and avoid upsetting her—even about little things.”
I nodded in agreement. I’d heard that women were more emotional than normal when they were pregnant. And the same thing happened every month with their period, or at least that’s what Ivan said. “They’re unbearable, man,” he’d explained a long time ago. “My sister screeches at everyone and gets mad over the dumbest things. I just want to get out of the house during her time.”
I’d never been able to tell when a girl had her period based on her mood, but since Ivan said it was easy to tell, I nodded and went along with it like I knew all about that stuff—not wanting to look naive.
Now I was pretending in exactly the same way that I knew what my father was trying to explain to me.
“Poor Mom.”
“Come on, let’s head back to the kitchen so I can finish making her a cup of tea. By the way, how did the game turn out? Did you win?”
I was glad my dad was busy taking the cup out of the microwave and had his back to me at that moment so he couldn’t see my face. “We tied,” I lied. “Why didn’t you stay to the end?”
“I would have liked to, but I had to get back to the office to close an important deal.”
As usual. His business was his excuse for everything. My father could dedicate however much time it took to his business, and there was no discussing it with him because work was the most important thing to him; it was the foundation of the family. I hadn’t counted on him for anything that required his physical presence in a very long time. He didn’t even take a break from work on the weekends. If there was a meeting for parents at school or any other kind of commitment, it was always my mom who took care of it. Even the lawyers from his business had gone with me on any occasion when my Mom wasn’t able to go for health reasons, usually related to her burns.
My mother would always make excuses for my father, explaining to me that he was working and taking care of business and that I should always keep that in mind. And I learned that all too well. I knew the only thing I could ask of my father, apart from money, was to take me somewhere—with his chauffeur, naturally, since he didn’t drive.
Get Out of My Dreams Page 10