All I Ever Dreamed

by Michael Blumlein

She stood, steadied herself, and started to climb. After half a dozen steps fatigue and dizziness forced her to stop. Her angel hovered just out of reach. He was staring at her useless, broken wing. There was doubt in his eyes. He was worried.

  She appreciated this. She was touched by his concern, though wouldn’t it have been nice to get some real, hands-on assistance?

  She considered her next move. It required a big step onto a small ledge. It was moderately difficult, partly because she’d be rounding a corner and therefore exposed. Nothing but air below her. The good news: she wasn’t that far off the ground. A fall would hurt, but unless she happened to hit a rock—and there was only one of any consequence below her—it wouldn’t be fatal.

  She took the step, one foot then the next, balancing on the narrow shelf. With her good arm she steadied herself against the wall, waiting for the light-headedness to pass. When it didn’t, she looked to her angel for help. He was still there, and finally he responded to her. With a troubled expression, as if to apologize for some future offense, he offered his hand.

  Without thinking, she reached for it.

  Her fall did not last long. Nothing like the fall that had dislocated her shoulder. She did, however, hit the rock that rose from the sand like the dorsal fin of a shark. Not with her head, which was a blessing. She clipped its hard edge with her gimpy excuse of an arm, and she screamed in agony.

  Then a strange thing happened. The agony subsided, and the pain that remained was not only bearable, but a relief. She felt a shift in her body, a settling, as if she’d been sleeping on the point of a sword and had finally found a way to dislodge it. With her good arm she pushed herself to her knees, which was when she noticed her other arm. It was back in place. The fall had somehow restored it to its proper position.

  She tried it out. Forward, backward, to the side, cautiously, carefully, holding her breath. It hurt, but not excruciatingly. Little by little she increased the range of movement, which increased the pain, but not so much that it held a candle to the joy of having the use of it back.

  There was nothing to stop her now. In a way her angel was to thank, but her angel was gone. She thanked him anyway.

  Moments later, she was on the wall, arms and legs splayed like a spider. She visualized the obstacles ahead. She mustered her strength. She took the first step up. Success was no sure thing, but it was no longer impossible.

  VIOLET

  She opened her eyes. Shep was at the window, his back turned. She sat up, dangling her legs over the side of the bed, waiting for the dizziness to pass, then stood. The floor felt good, the way it pressed against her soles, and the way her soles and calves and thighs reflexively pressed back. Terra firma, the push-pull of life, the proof of life, as opposed to the weightless disembodiment of death. She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, then came out.

  “See something?” she asked.

  “It’s so thick.”

  She peeked past him, at a wall of mist. The world beyond it was hidden.

  “We could be anywhere,” he said.

  He was wearing an all white suit. And a plain blue shirt, which she saw when he turned. His hat was in his hand.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I am.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “It’s time.”

  “What if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  She felt a stinging in her eyes, wiped them with the back of her hand.

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  “What if I want to call you?”

  “I won’t be reachable. Not for a few days.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Halfway around the world. The cradle of civilization. I have the ticket right here.” He checked his inner coat pocket, then patted himself down, with rising consternation. “I seem to have lost it.”

  “The man who can do no wrong.”

  “Who said that? Here it is.” He flourished the paper.

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “You honor me.”

  “May I hug you?”

  He held out his arms.

  He was twice her size. She felt awkward at first, as though everything about her was the wrong proportion. But this didn’t last, and soon she was sinking into his embrace, and then, miraculously, he seemed to disappear, and she was sinking into herself. She was large too, in heart and in spirit. Large in courage, and in resilience. She could handle what came her way.

  The question in her mind: how long would the feeling of largeness last, and would it last? The answer: there was no guarantee, but longer than it would if she kept being hateful.

  She felt good the rest of the day. Shep’s presence seemed to linger. The next day, not so good. She was a fuckup. One mistake after another. No end to the ways she could fail.

  She rallied that evening. She had no idea why. She’d been told she had a chemical imbalance that caused excessive mood swings and depression. It was an easy answer to a complex problem, insultingly simplistic in her humble view. She didn’t remember being moody or depressed as a child. Angry sometimes. Wary. But mostly happy.

  She was very happy, though naturally nervous and a little afraid, the day she was chosen. She was only twelve years old. Her body was changing. All the girls her age were self-conscious.

  But he made her feel like a princess. He flattered her. He admired her spirit and intelligence. And the women in the house, who lived together in a separate wing, made such a fuss. She was proud to become one of them.

  She didn’t get depressed until later. In the early years after making her escape, she was wild and reckless, and had no idea that these were signs. She took risks. She stood on the lips of tall buildings. She developed a hard, brittle edge. She wasn’t often happy, but she knew how to have fun.

  The depression began in her twenties. She didn’t know to call it that until somebody told her. She thought it was normal for a certain kind of person, for anyone really, to want to die.

  She still thought it was normal, just not to the exclusion of wanting to live. She doubted a drug would get rid of the feeling, and wouldn’t have taken it if it did. Being morbid was home to her. It tickled her funny bone. It was like dancing with Death without dying, partying with Death without going home with Him.

  Save for nursing checks, she slept that night without interruption for the first time since being admitted. She woke to the smell of flowers. Violets and daisies spilled from a vase on the table at the foot of her bed. Half-hidden in the forest of blooms, like an insider’s joke, sat the tight bud of a rose. No card, no bow. Just the flowers, and their widening—for all she knew, ever-widening—chorus.

  THE STORIES

  Notes

  California Burning

  California: My home.

  Burning: I recently drove through the remains of yet another large and devastating fire. The trees were black and brittle. The forest looked desolate and stark, but it’s going to come back. The houses will also come back. There weren’t but a few standing. The firestorm had hit suddenly and unexpectedly, like a bomb. Nature not yet completely tamable.

  The bulldozers were already at work. Some on the trees, most on the houses. Cleaning things up like scavenger ants. The first wave of reconstruction.

  Life death life.

  From the rubble. From the ashes.

  Hope is what we do. It’s who we are.

  I drove around, past hills and meadows covered in ash. Near the top, beside an idyllically situated golf course, I stopped and got out. It was a beautiful, hilly spot. On one side the land sloped gently down to one of the long, par five, holes, four hundred yards of scorched earth. On the other side, the land rose to a saddle with a charred but living oak. The saddle was covered with what looked from a distance like ashes, but which was, in fact, fire retardant. A huge, matted, blanket of it, covering branches, ground, boulders, rocks. The gray of the material had a greenish hue, like grass. I felt like I’d stumbled into a worl
d of artificial turf. All was quiet, as though the world were holding its breath.

  I found three golf balls embedded in the fire retardant. One was singed, one was fused to it, and one had its entire hard plastic calla lily white coat blasted off. Completely demolished. All that was left: its black, damaged, rubbery, heart.

  Twenty-two and You

  Twenty-three was taken.

  You was obvious. In meaning, virtually identical to “me.”

  The title is an early experiment with the 2nd person imperative POV. More fully explored in “Your Quantified Self.”

  Paul and Me

  Bunyan, of course.

  Another Paul: an old medical colleague and pal. We interned together at the U. S. Public Health Service Hospital, taking care of Merchant Marines, who worked the high seas and internal waterways. We also took care of Native Americans. Also, leprosy patients. We used thalidomide, which had been banned, except for leprosy. A frightening drug, but useful. An early lesson that context is critical: in medical judgment, in treatment, and also in storytelling, including stories that play fast and loose with our legends and heroes, along with their reputations.

  Me: Who else?

  Revenge

  Where nobody gets hurt.

  All praise to the mothers.

  Birth, rebirth, birth.

  Snow in Dirt

  I love this title, in much the same way that I love a good card trick. It all hinges on “in”: of the prepositions, one of the most limber, crafty, and decisive.

  The Big One

  My contribution to the Western canon. In memory of James Butler Knox.

  Hymenoptera

  See Success, below. Another pairing of interests.

  Greedy for Kisses

  Greed: The root of all evil.

  for: Hold on . . . what comes next? . . . could be anything. . . .

  Kisses: The very best thing.

  Fidelity: A Primer

  Fidelity: Sooner or later will be tested.

  A Primer: For navigation.

  Isostasy

  I’ve been a student of geology my whole adult life. Not a good student by any stretch of the imagination, but an avid one. An enthusiast. When I first heard the word isostasy, I thought “Aha! The Earth is not merely dynamic, but alive.” Of all the geological theories I know, isostasy comes closest to having a human dimension and counterpart.

  Strategy for Conflict Avoidance: Memo to GW, Our Commander-in-Chief

  Two days of pure entertainment and pleasure on a windswept, oceanside bluff. Happy, but pissed off. The result, a homily, in my humble opinion the very essence of civility and common sense.

  I was giving more public readings at the time, and was aiming for something short, that could be read in its entirety.

  Bird Walks in New England

  Birds: a lifelong passion.

  Walks: a lifelong joy.

  In New England: or anywhere else.

  The Roberts

  Like most names, it had to come to me before I could really dive into the character and the story. Strangely, I don’t remember precisely what the trigger was. The name doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. Maybe that’s part of its appeal. You can’t rush through it. The “B” in the middle forms a little dam, and behind it the pressure to finish the word, to end what you began, builds, then is suddenly released: “e-e-e-r-r-r-t-t-t-s-s-s”, like a belch. Intrigue, suspense, relief: a story in itself.

  Know How, Can Do

  Hold a hammer, milk a cow, pave a pasture, write a simple sentence.

  Anything.

  If we can, we will.

  Bloom

  It was after a day’s wandering in the desert. Almost a cliché.

  Your Quantified Self

  Break it down:

  Your—Take a selfie.

  Quantified—Analyze it.

  Self—Measure up.

  Success

  An amalgam of two ideas, a fairly common practice of mine. In this case: 1) Science as a force of nature. 2) Anti-domesticity. The animal within.

  Choose Poison, Choose Life

  Choose Poison: So many, so little time. See “thalidomide”.

  Choose Life: Suicide is not for everyone. Thank goodness. Based on a true story.

  March 2018

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Michael Blumlein is the author of The Movement of Mountains, X,Y, The Healer, and The Roberts (a novella), as well as the award-winning story collection The Brains of Rats.

  He has been nominated twice for the World Fantasy Award and twice for the Bram Stoker Award, received the ReaderCon Award, and has been short-listed for the Tiptree Award.

  He has written for the stage and for film. His novel X,Y was made into a feature-length movie. His stories have been widely anthologized and taught in a variety of settings, from high school to college, law school and medical school.

  In addition to writing, Dr. Blumlein is a physician. He holds a faculty appointment at the University of California at San Francisco. Much of his career has been spent caring for the underserved.