The First Principles of Dreaming

by Beth Goobie

  Face radiant, Louisie turned to me and said, “I’m an angel, Mary-Eve. Just like the angels that are standing all around us. You can’t see them because you’re The Abomination, but it doesn’t matter because they didn’t come for you. It’s me they want, not you. I’ve been waiting and waiting for them, for days and days and days now, and finally they’re here to take Billy and me to Heaven.”

  Fear exploded through me then, and I stared around the room in horror. “You’re lying!” I accused. “There aren’t any angels, and they aren’t taking you anywhere. Anyway, you can’t go to Heaven without me. I’m your twin, and twins are stuck together for life.”

  “Uh-uh,” Louisie replied calmly. “Not when it’s time to go to Heaven. Besides, you like Hell better. You said Heaven was for sucks, remember?”

  Not knowing what to say, I merely gaped, and she turned from me, giggling and waving at something I could not see. Abruptly, she gave an odd cry and stumbled forward, clutching at her chest. As the paper doll Billy dropped from her hand, I darted forward and grabbed her arms, pulling her body in against mine. That close, I could feel her heart pounding, hard and irregular—different from the evenly racing thud in my own chest—and it terrified me.

  “Let me go, Mary-Eve,” she whispered, pushing against me. “Let me go.”

  The air’s soundless pulsing deepened; I felt a roaring in my ears; strange flickers of light flashed through the room. Then Louisie’s body jerked once, she gave a quiet grunt, and her soul shot out of her body like a star seeking the heavens. Before she got there, however, she had to escape my clutches—the arms, legs, and soul I had wrapped so desperately around her. The struggle that followed was vivid and blurred—I remember radiance too brilliant for flesh to endure, sensations of heat, panic, and trapped wings. Visions rolled through my head—confused images of glowing figures, reaching hands, and the sheer white light of Louisie’s soul caught somewhere inside my chest. A shudder passed through me; deep within, something shoved and heaved; then came a vast inner tearing as Louisie’s soul broke free a second time, escaping my body and leaving me standing alone, clutching her corpse.

  Slowly, my arms loosened and I sank to the floor, allowing Louisie’s lifeless body to collapse beside me. At a sound from the doorway, I turned to see my mother standing openmouthed. To this day, I do not know how much she witnessed of Louisie’s passing over, but without my telling her anything, Rachel Hamilton seemed to know there was nothing that could be done. Kneeling beside me, she sat statue-like, one hand resting on Louisie’s chest.

  On my knees beside her, I whimpered, “She said she was going to be with Billy Graham in Heaven. She said there were angels all around, and they came to take her home.” Frantic, I wormed against my mother’s shoulder, waiting for her to tell me that I was not The Abomination and that angels would return to take me too. “Why couldn’t I see the angels?” I asked pleadingly. “Why didn’t they take me to Heaven? I want to be in Heaven with Louisie too.”

  In lieu of replying, my mother fell into an abyss of silence that lasted for months. When she resurfaced, she had transformed into someone utterly unfamiliar. Gone was the unrestrained laughter, the references to God-giggles and Chosen-Shmosen. Instead, my mother had become consumed with the urgent need to know God’s will—to understand His exact directives for each and every moment of her life. Edgy and fretful, she sought constant change, continual rebirth. Also in search of rebirth, my father requested a transfer at work. Within a year of Louisie’s death, we moved to Eleusis and Quance Crescent, where we visited several nearby churches, but my mother remained restless, wanted to keep looking, said she had to find the true house of the Lord.

  Then came the Sunday we first attended the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle, the Tongue of Fire descended onto Rachel Hamilton’s head, and she heard a sweet, angelic voice announce, “I was taken from you as a blessing, Mommy—a blessing to make you look inside your soul and repent from your wickedness. Now someday maybe you can come live in Heaven with Billy and me.” There was no more earth for my mother after that—only Heaven, the Promised Land, and the small white stone that contained her secret name. As for me, I became the leftover child, the one of the lower understanding, trapped in the flesh and representing the lifetime of suffering she would have to endure until she could rise to live with Louisie—child of spirit, the innocent who had loved God with her whole heart and now lived in the land of light, waiting for her mother to join her.

  And so I spent the years between Louisie and Dee following my mother on her nightly prowls about the house and dreading the moment I would find her standing in the middle of the living room, her tranced eyes turned toward me as she whispered, “I’m an angel, Mary-Eve. God has finally come for me, and I’m going to Heaven to live with Louisie and Billy Graham.” This vision gave me no respite; I was haunted by it for a full decade, and only later did I regain memories of an earlier time, Eden before the fall. Of these, the earliest is this: Several months old, I am resting on the full comfort of my mother’s bosom. Her palm cradles the back of my head, startlingly warm, and Louisie is nowhere near—it is just my mother and me, her breath whispering across my bald head, caressing it the way the wind susurrates among the trees. Back then, her murmur was simply the texture of breath and soul, the sound of love, but as I return now to this memory, I can make out my mother’s actual words: You are so beautiful. You are so beautiful.

  And I was.

  •••

  Slow thighs, earth and sky shifted along the long ache of the horizon. In every direction, trees sent their October-golden nerves adrift across a vast afternoon blue. Spinning in that blue, breathing air veined with autumnal light, the high school smoking crowd moved like gods. Slouched, leaned, or sprawled, their communal nervous system wrapped itself around newcomers, measured their pulse, then pulled them into a collective brain wave that was always on the edge of a tease, a collective tease—a girl ran her fingertips up someone’s arm and everyone was suddenly skin on skin; a guy swiveled to ogle tight breasts in a tube top and the entire group turned slack-jawed and heavy-lidded, licking the same dream.

  The smoking crowd’s fantasies rarely varied and they were addictive as slow smoke. Dressed in Dee’s clothes, wearing Dee’s makeup, Jez learned to translate herself into the expected—a shade paler than the goddess, perhaps, definitely a tone quieter, but familiar enough to be immediately absorbed into the swirl of smoke, laughter, and wandering gypsy leaves.

  “Hey, Dee, who’s your lapdog?” was the first official acknowledgment of her presence, accompanied by a domino effect of turning heads.

  “Isn’t that the Jesus-girl?” came the second as she shadowed Dee’s movements, hesitant and cautious, along the periphery of the group.

  “Ex-Jesus-girl,” corrected Dee, edging Jez and herself deeper into the crowd. “Well, maybe a double agent, eh, Jez?”

  Without replying, Jez blew mysterious smoke and tapped her ember free of ash.

  “Hey, Jesus-girl,” sneered a pair of Jagger lips, leaning in. “You ever rode cock?”

  “Hey, wise guy,” Jez shot back, forgetting that discretion is the better part of survival. “You ever rode brain?”

  A snicker ran through the surrounding group and they shifted en masse, turning slightly to keep her in their sights, but covertly, sort of like espionage. Being seen with Dee was like putting out an OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign, except no one was certain what kind of business the ex-Jesus-girl was in. Neither was Jez; her Christian grope-and-grunt experiences were a far cry from the Rolling Stones T-shirts and woodies that currently encircled her. And so she made Dee her reference point, memorizing the other girl’s exact method of tapping out a cigarette, the way she cupped her hands around that signature moment of fire or jitterbugged her fingers up a guy’s back—all of it a kind of code, meaning carefully inscribed into pressure and stroke, which part of the body was touched, when, and how.


  Dee touched a lot of guys; only the chosen few touched her. That October, the person she touched most was Jez—leaning against her, hip to hip, as they talked, draping a casual arm around her neck, or pulling the double agent Jesus-girl onto her lap for a quick lunch-hour smoke. Sometimes, on especially golden-giddy days, she brushed a lipsticked smooch just inside Jez’s collarbone to add another layer of tease for their hungry watchers to absorb; the smoking-crowd wolf pack was constantly on the prowl, eyes narrowed and watching for anything that looked like prey. Knowing this, breathing it in, both girls reveled in the display as Dee played Jez like bait—fiddling with her belt loops, stroking her arm, even nibbling her hair as they kept up their ongoing banter regarding the sex lives of Old Testament prophets and every biblical act of violence Jez could remember. Jez wasn’t fooling herself; she could feel the game singing in Dee’s fingertips, but she also knew herself to be without resistance—a single live nerve caught on a hook, the blind arc of a worm awaiting that epiphanic moment when the smoking-crowd goddess leaned through the taut communal breathing system that surrounded them and their tongues touched. Jez’s body shuddered sweetly and invisibly open then; she knew full well she gave off signs—a dusky perfume sighing from her skin, a soundless moan that broadcast in stereo as she and Dee separated into tranced eyes and murmured laughter, their mutual refusal to explain.

  Mornings, Jez woke to a sultry cat purring in her groin. Pulling off her nightgown, she twisted deep into the bedsheets and wrapped herself in the memory of Dee’s throaty laughter until her mother had returned several times to knock on the door. Then, rising, she pulled a midi carelessly from its hanger—checked, striped, paisley, or plaid, it no longer mattered; she was now free to slide into those voracious darts without anguish. Safe within this disguise, she joined her parents for breakfast, and listened blank-faced as her father read sonorously from The Daily Bread. At her mother’s request, she fetched the small box of Trust and Obey verses sitting atop the fridge, and all three selected a well-fingered card—each with a TRUST verse printed on one side and an OBEY on the other. Reading both sides aloud in turn, they then bowed their heads and humbly asked God to keep them marching, that day as every other, along the ever-narrowing, never-meandering path of righteousness.

  Each of these rituals Jez performed as she had always done, her calm, even-paced voice reciting Bible verses and praying over oatmeal and cinnamon toast—familiar words that now held entirely changed meanings, like The Chosen Ones who had stepped over with her onto the other side of God. During these breakfast deceptions, she sometimes felt them about her, The Chosen Ones silent and watching—not in judgment, but simply bearing witness. She wondered then if her mother could sense the transparent gray-robed figures, but Rachel Hamilton showed no sign of it—her mind tuned to a different pulse, the bright, high faraway. Every morning, the war against God began at the breakfast table and Jez’s mother did not notice, did not question her daughter’s demure double-agent kiss good-bye, nor her breathless, nonstop nine-block dash to the 7-Eleven on Dundas, where a VW Bug idled in the parking lot and a sulky eighteen-year-old girl perched on its roof—an earthbound goddess riding her personal powder-blue catch of sky.

  Dee was always the one to touch first—a quick brush against Jez’s shoulder, a tug at her hip pocket; with this, Jez’s day truly began. When they had driven to a nearby alley, Dee punched in an eight-track and slid over to straddle Jez; and Jez, letting her head fall back, prepared herself to receive the smooth, stroked-on gleam of iniquity—aqua blue across the eyelids, cherry red on the lips, the lolling, languid scent of Chanel No. 5 fingerprinted into the hollow of the throat; all of it a kind of rebirth, a soul’s slow becoming, the rescue made over and over, each and every school morning, of a lost and drowning heart.

  Sometimes Dee went further, playing with Jez’s face, running a finger along the slant of her cheekbone or scooping back her hair and tracing the lines of her neck. She never talked then, and Jez kept her eyes closed so there was only their breathing to speak for them, dialoguing their bodies—the girls in sync, quick and deep, breaking out together into a warm sweat. One morning Dee whispered, “You’re so beautiful, I want to kiss you,” the words quiet, unbelievable. Jez wanted to breathe them in, lick them tongue-tip delicate from Dee’s mouth; instead, she shuddered the thought away, turning her flushed face to the window—for a moment she had seen herself naked and broken open under Dee like a wound.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Dee, leaning her forehead against Jez’s. “Don’t you like compliments?”

  “Not used to them, I guess,” mumbled Jez.

  “Not used to compliments?” murmured Dee, nuzzling her nose.

  “Not like that,” said Jez.

  “Or not used to kisses?” whispered Dee.

  A flutter-winged panic hit Jez; she shifted between the heated trap of the other girl’s thighs. “I’ve been kissed,” she muttered.

  “Oh yeah,” said Dee, snickering into her hair. “Summer camp.”

  “Christians have lips,” said Jez.

  “Yeah, I noticed,” grinned Dee. “Pucker. Let me see a Christian pucker.”

  “Christians don’t pucker,” said Jez. “They kiss like angels slowly descending onto the earth. Each kiss is like two wings touching.”

  They watched each other’s slightly parted mouths.

  “And then,” Jez added, swallowing, “there’s Heaven.”

  “Heaven on earth?” cooed Dee.

  “Heaven wherever you want it,” said Jez.

  “You’re a tease,” said Dee, “but you’re good.”

  “You’re good,” said Jez. “And I’m training to be your twin, aren’t I?”

  “Your hair’s blonde,” said Dee, “your eyes are brown, your mouth’s an angel kiss. Hardly my twin.”

  Hesitant, Jez touched a fingertip to Dee’s cherry-red upper lip. “Same lipstick,” she said. She paused to stroke the blue vein that pulsed at the other girl’s temple. “Same eyeliner, shadow, and mascara.” Tentatively, her finger followed the curve of Dee’s cheek. “Same blush. Add us together, we’re Chanel No. 10.”

  Dee’s eyes tranced. “I like that,” she said dreamily. “I like thinking of your face over on the smart side of school, looking like mine.” Carelessly she shrugged, then added, “I’m giving myself to you, okay? It’s like giving blood, only different.”

  Curving out the tip of her tongue, she waited as Jez touched it with her own, submerging them both into that original moment of blood-pain, darkness, and candle fire. Dee’s eyes shone, drugged with some kind of ecstasy. Unease shifted through Jez and she muttered, “I’ll say, different.”

  Absurdity hit them and they giggled through a shared cigarette, Dee still straddling Jez’s lap as they blew smoke through the open window. “You’re doing all right, y’know,” she said thoughtfully, staring off. “I think you’re ready to party.”

  “Party?” gulped Jez. Lunch-hour banter was one thing—wordplay and the odd questing hand could only go so far on the school front lawn. But a party…now that was a concept straight out of one of Dee’s album covers—black leather, colored lights, acid, and hash. Sticky fingers. Rooms full of woodies.

  “Well, yeah,” said Dee, eyeing her. “Joking about cock is one thing. You want more than a word, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” muttered Jez, avoiding her gaze. “There’s just one small problem, you know.”

  “I started the pill years ago,” said Dee. “Mom took me to the doctor and gave her permission.”

  Jez rolled her eyes dramatically. “My mother is not giving her permission for such heathen activity, I can tell you that!” she said.

  “Okay,” said Dee, looking thoughtful. “Mom’ll be home after school. Maybe—”

  “Maybe what?” demanded Jez, panicking. “Maybe if you tell your mother, she’ll tell mine. And then maybe my mother will lock me in my roo
m until Armageddon.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Dee, a small smile twitching her lips. “No maybes on this one, babe. Yeah, today after school, I think you are going to receive the privilege of meeting my mother.”

  It was an ominous promise, full of portent, and Jez’s initial glimpse of Mrs. Eccles as she entered the family home for the first time did little to dispel her sense of foreboding. Leaning against a kitchen counter, Dee’s mother was a slender, dark-haired woman dressed in a black pantsuit and loaded with cleavage and so much jewelry, entire galaxies flashed as she moved. The only completely non-Christian mother Jez had observed up close, Mrs. Eccles was definitely on the pagan side of things—her Playboy Bunny eyes professionally wide and startled, her lips slightly pursed so they took on a bruised, fleshy quality. Both Dee and Andy had inherited her large blue eyes and angular face, but even with this rock-solid evidence, it took faith for Jez to visualize the woman standing before her as somebody’s mother.

  Dropping into a chair at the kitchen table, Dee explained the situation in a bored, very compact nutshell. “Mom,” she said, her face expressionless, “Jez wants to start fooling around. She needs the pill, but her mom’s a Jesus-freak and so is their family doctor. Got any ideas?”

  “Shhht!” hissed Jez, slumping into the chair beside her and covering her burning face with both hands. In the Hamilton residence, the crotch lived in sacrosanct silence. Everything that linked biology to ecstasy was to be discovered on one’s wedding night; before this, even language was restricted to a form of waiting. When Jez was nine, her mother read her a book about the sex life of gerbils. Mr. and Mrs. Gerbil were married on the first page; soon afterward, Mr. Gerbil’s sperm met up with Mrs. Gerbil’s eggs and a batch of baby gerbils was born. Vague particulars were given regarding gerbil vaginas and penises…very vague; to Jez’s nine-year-old mind, the infant gerbils’ conception seemed to have taken place the way all divinely ordained miracles occurred—in splendor and mystery—and Jez had known better than to question that.