When I Dream Of You

by Rosa Sophia

  I see her in my memory, just before we leave the beach, walking down to the water to say goodbye to mother ocean, to feel the salty froth against her feet. She bows, her dress blowing around her, looking like a Pagan priestess reciting an ancient rite, her hands clasped together in prayer, thank you, mother ocean, thank you for your blessings, and she stumbles as a wave reaches up. I dart forward as if to save her from herself, my fingers wrapping around her thin, bony arm, and with her other hand she waves me away, annoyance flashing in her dark eyes. Leave me alone, they demand. I could do as she asks, but it would mean leaving her here, on the beach, in the light of the setting sun, to sleep amongst the sea grapes and the spotted skunks.

  “Nina?”

  I feel warmth against my hand and realize he’s touching me, rousing me from my reverie. My gaze fixes on the water as it washes against the rocks; I’d lost myself in thought, drifted away from him. Not quite dissociation, but something close.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dump all this on you. We only just met and—”

  “I don’t mind. I’m a writer. I like listening to other people’s stories,” he reminds me, and his words sound so much like words I’ve told other people, over and over, for many years, that it’s almost like I’m listening to myself. I tell him as much, and he laughs. “We have a lot in common, Nina.”

  “I know.” I purse my lips together, but I’m unable to stop the small smile from lifting my cheeks up. “What are you going to do, put me into a story?” I narrow my eyes at him.

  “Maybe, you’d better watch out,” he jokes. We laugh together and climb up from our seats to continue our walk.

  “I just don’t know how much longer I can live with her. I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with it.”

  “I know,” he says, slipping his hand in mine.

  Chapter 5

  I haven’t worn the cross in years, but tonight is special. It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m going to see my friend Jenny perform with her choir. We remained close friends over the years, and I’ve even told her about my home life. I was afraid she’d think less of me, but she didn’t.

  My cell phone vibrates as a text message comes through:

  You’re coming, right?

  Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  I haven’t been in a church since I was a teenager. I’d gone once with my grandparents, and my mother had complained about it, insisting they were attempting to brainwash me, when all I wanted was to spend time with them.

  On my way out the door, I say goodbye to my mother. “I’ll be home late,” I warn.

  “What’s with the cross?” Mom flicks the pendant, and I feel it slip softly against my skin.

  “Don’t you remember? Jenny got it for me when we were in high school.”

  “Hmm. Where are you going?”

  “To church.”

  “What for?”

  “To see Jenny sing. Anyway, what’s wrong with that?”

  Mom says nothing. She just goes back to the Fern Michaels novel she was reading, and I walk out the door.

  ***

  I never met my grandfather, but I’ve heard a lot about him.

  He touched Mom in places no father should touch his daughter, creeping into her room at night and playing games with her mind and body. She’s never gotten past it.

  On Sundays he took his family to church, and they all sat together in the pew. Everyone liked him. He was an upstanding member of the congregation, always involved in his community. No one would have guessed what he did in the dark when no one was looking.

  Mom thought it was normal, so she didn’t say a word until after he died, finally speaking up after years of torment. By then she’d taken to the bottle, the only source of comfort that didn’t abandon her as her father had. And every time she saw a church, the child inside her wept. If she heard the music of an organ on the television or radio, she would cover her ears and shriek, “I hate it, I hate it! Turn it off!”

  So, I understood. I knew why she did what she did. And my heart broke for her.

  My heart still breaks for her.

  Although the rape haunts me, I try to work through it. Every day, I’m trying, working to transform into a new version of myself—a woman who is no longer afraid of being touched, of intimacy.

  I could easily slip into the bottle as well. But I refuse to.

  In the church, I sit by myself and look up at the stage, where they’ve set up a beautiful arrangement of poinsettias and lights. The piano is decked out in greenery, and the tree in the corner is bright and cheerful. As people begin to file in, my chest tightens, and I knit my fingers together in my lap. Someone asks if the seat beside me is taken, and I say no. The chunky woman plops into the chair next to me, and I shift a little to give her room. She drops a heavy purse before her and leans back. Being so close to strangers makes me want to leave. I put one leg over the other and cross my arms loosely over my chest, already checking my watch to see when the show will end.

  The music begins, and I see Jenny in the first row, her long black hair hanging straight behind her, her graceful figure clad in red to match the rest of the choir. I smile at her and wave, and she winks in reply. They sing Jingle Bells and Little Drummer Boy and some other songs I’m not familiar with.

  I feel awkward, as if everyone in the room is turning and looking at me, mouthing the words, “She doesn’t go to church. She doesn’t belong here.” But when I glance around, no one’s looking at me. They’re all looking up front, listening to the lilting melodies that fill the room with holiday cheer. I know I’m uncomfortable because I’ve been trained to be, and I think of my mother and how she clenches the steering wheel tighter when we drive by a church, how her thin lips tighten as she looks away.

  The pastor talks about Jesus, the son of God, and mentions stories from the Bible I’ve never heard of. I feel as if they know I’m ignorant somehow. I look around at the sea of faces, and so many people are nodding their understanding. As my stomach ties itself in knots, I wonder why these words bother me.

  Then I think back.

  Mom drunk on Christmas. Sobbing, talking about her father. The abuse. The beatings. Rage spewing forth as she slams her fist on the drab maroon carpeting.

  Never forgive anyone. It’s a Christian concept. The Bible is full of lies. Church is just where people are manipulated into sheep.

  A little boy hands out candles, and a person at the end of each aisle helps us light them. Soon every person in the room is holding a bright little flame, and I’m watching mine leap, slowly melting the top of the candle until there’s a glimmering drop of wax threatening to fall.

  The pastor leads us in a meditation.

  Bring the light of Jesus into you, radiate that light…carry the light wherever you go, and share it with the world.

  I breathe in, and something changes. I let the light in.

  Mom. You did this. You gave me all these negative thoughts. I don’t want them anymore.

  I’m not sure I believe in Jesus, and I’m not sure I’m religious, but I let the light flare up inside me. If there is a Jesus, I let Him into my heart.

  After the service, I hug Jenny, congratulate her, and wait in line to leave the building. Beside me is the woman I sat next to, beaming with joy.

  “Do you come to this church regularly?” she asks me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Oh, you go to another church?”

  I shake my head again.

  “Oh,” the woman says, moving her hand away, turning her head.

  I walk out of the bright, colorful building and into the darkness, where I climb into my car and drive home, relieved to be heading back to something I’m familiar with—something comfortable.

  At least I won’t be there much longer.

  ***

  We recline on the Mexican blanket I brought from my car, and I stretch my legs out to dig my feet into the sand. I think of when I was
little, sprawled out on the beach, and my mother sat in a chair watching me, her travel mug filled with wine instead of coffee. At the time, I’d wondered if it was possible to dig my way to China, so I tried, but I didn’t get very far. Now I remember hearing someone say even if it were possible to dig clear through the world, no matter where you dug from, you’d never end up in China.

  “Looks like there’s a storm out there,” I say, nodding toward the horizon. Dark clouds gather over the ocean, turning the water a surreal pale blue, and I can see the rain far off in the distance, manifesting itself in streaks of color that slant toward the sea.

  Wes turns his head to glance behind us. “It’s sunny back there. I doubt the storm will reach us.”

  “Don’t be so sure. You never know.”

  “That’s true.”

  We both lay back, enjoying each other’s company, not saying much. The heat rests over us like a comforting blanket. I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a movement. There’s a young girl fishing by the surf, her ocean pole held expertly in her small hands.

  “I have to tell you something.” I turn my head to Wes. He looks at me, then we shift on our sides to face each other. My head presses against the blanket, my right arm under my body, my legs bent and resting comfortably. I could fall asleep like this.

  Our gazes meet. Something about his dark brown eyes is too much for me, as if he’s looking into me, into my mind, reading my thoughts.

  “What’s up?” he asks, his expression playful. He’s rolling a little orange-and-white shell around in his hands.

  “I’m moving to North Carolina next month.”

  His lips part slightly, and for a moment he looks shocked, then disappointed. “But I just met you. Another writer here in Florida. Why are you leaving?”

  “I found a cheap apartment in a good part of town, and a friend of mine manages a bookstore there. She promised me a job.”

  “You don’t have to go. You can find a place here. I have a cousin who’s a real estate agent.”

  “I already sent in my deposit.”

  Can I go back on that? I wonder. Can I contact the building manager, get my money back? Or will they have to keep some of it for the trouble I caused them? No—I already committed. I can’t pull out. Can I?

  I wonder why I would. What would be my reason for staying here? Certainly not for a man I just met, a guy I’ve known a little over a week. There’s an ache somewhere in my heart, and I ponder why. Am I falling for him? And how can I possibly trust such a childish yearning?

  I realize he’s watching me intently. When I look at him for longer than a second, I begin to panic. Something inside me wants to get up and leave, yet I can’t put my finger on why.

  “This sucks.” He drops the shell on the blanket, then rolls onto his back.

  I lay on my back, too, staring up at the sky.

  There’s something else we both want to say, but neither of us has the words. Many moments pass in silence, until we hear a yell, then a splashing. I sit up.

  “Look,” I say, pointing. He rises, crossing his legs, and we watch.

  The girl’s fishing pole is bending nearly in half, and she calls out to someone as she leans back, pulling, digging her bare feet into the sand. A man rushes up and grabs hold of her, helping steady the pole. Together they pull.

  “Reel it in!” he shouts.

  People gather, watching.

  A shape is dragged through the water, splashing and fighting.

  “Oh my God,” I mutter, and beside me Wes is gaping.

  The shark is as big as she is, maybe bigger, gray and white; it lays on the sand, unmoving. People gather and snap photos while we sit and stare, amazed. The man approaches the shark and releases the line, though I can’t tell if he’s brave enough to get the hook out of the creature’s mouth. Maybe it’s in shock, frozen in fear.

  I know what that’s like.

  Soon they’re rolling it back out to sea, pushing it away, and it returns to life, flipping its tail, heading home.

  I wonder what it’s like to be released from pain, allowed to swim free.

  One day, that will be me.

  The beach is quiet again; there aren’t many people around. Maybe because they think it’s going to start pouring. I don’t mind. I’d rather get caught in the rain than walk away.

  “I have something else to tell you,” I say.

  “Oh no. You’re joining the circus?”

  “No, don’t be silly.” I reach forward and draw shapes in the sand, digging my feet deeper into the warm, soft granules.

  “Then what?”

  I glance over at him, smiling wryly. “Promise you won’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Okay, here goes.” I look away when I tell him, because I’m afraid of what he’ll say. “A year ago I had a dream, and you were in it. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I know it was you.” I look at him, shyly, and catch his gaze. “It’s your eyes. They’re the same. But you looked different in the dream. You were a different person. At first I thought it was someone in this life, but now I see it was a past life. Do you believe in past lives?”

  Wes shrugs. “I’m not sure what I believe in. I never really thought about past lives. I just believe in the universe providing what we need, and I think everyone’s energy is connected somehow.”

  “Carl Jung. The collective unconscious.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Suddenly I like him even more, because he knows who Carl Jung is. Smirking, I continue, “Well, in this dream, you and I were together in a room. It was like a hotel. You said my name, but it was a different name, I know that now.”

  “A hotel room? What were we doing?”

  I punch him playfully on the shoulder. “Stop it.”

  “You’re blushing. We must have been doing something.”

  “How do you know I’m not just getting sunburn?” I stick out my tongue at him, and he laughs.

  “Tell me the rest.”

  “There wasn’t much more. You had to go to war, and you left. It was the last time I saw you. At the end of the dream, I saw you standing on a dirt road, forest on one side. Someone shot you in the chest, and you fell, calling out my name. Then your body disappeared, and all these flags appeared along the road. They were American flags, but they looked different, and each little flag represented a fallen soldier.”

  “Wow. You know, I almost joined the Army once.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “My girlfriend at the time talked me out of it.”

  “Oh.”

  “I sometimes wish I’d gone, but I’ve had such a good life just being here, and traveling, and living in Cocoa Beach, I’m glad now I didn’t.”

  “I have prophetic dreams sometimes. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “Not at all.” He turns to face me. “I have dreams like that too.”

  “Really?”

  “Remember after the race, when I brushed your hair out of your eyes?”

  “Yes.” I glance down at the ground, feeling my face flush. “What about it?”

  “I realized why you looked so familiar to me. I had a dream about you before I met you.” When I say nothing, he continues, “In the dream, a man’s voice said I was going to meet a writer. He asked if I would like to see her before I met her, and I said yes. All of a sudden I was standing on a beach like this one, with no one else around, and I saw you by the surf. Your hair was down and you were wearing a blue sundress. When I walked up to you…”

  “Yes?”

  “I kissed you.”

  Blushing, I dig my feet deeper in the sand, as if to distract myself from his words. “Oh,” I mumble.

  “Can I kiss you now, Nina?”

  “Wes…”

  “Don’t be nervous.” He slips his hand around mine, gently stroking my knuckles. “It’s obvious there’s an attraction between us. It’s n
atural.” He scoots closer to me on the blanket.

  “I…I don’t know.” I think of North Carolina. Why start something that will have to end?

  Soon he’s so close his bare arm is brushing against mine and I feel his muscles tense. When he leans in, his breath on my skin, he feathers a gentle kiss on my cheek. My body feels as if it’s on fire, and I clench my legs together, goose bumps rising on my skin, nipples hardening. My body is reacting while my mind screams stop.

  Go away, go away…don’t...stay...

  The sounds around me dissipate. Children yelling, playing down by the water. Joggers chatting as they run by. A horn honking out on the road behind us.

  I turn my head and my lips meet his, gentle at first, making it seem like an eternity in which we’re just sitting there, our lips pressed together, our bodies so close I can hardly stand it. Then I feel his tongue against mine, and I reach out, tasting him. His kisses are hard and tender at the same time, and I’ve never had anything sweeter than this. His hair gently brushes my forehead as I tilt to the side, allowing him in, deeper, as his arm slips around my waist.

  We kiss like this for a while, and then he draws himself away, and I’m left sitting there with my eyes half shut, my heart hammering, a chill making me shiver even though it’s eighty-five degrees in the sun. When I open my eyes, I’m looking at him, and he’s smiling with a glimmer of excitement, pleased with himself, as if he’s been thinking about trying this since the first moment we met.

  “Are you sure you want to go to North Carolina?”

  I shake my head. “No. No, I’m not sure.”

  I lie back on the blanket, and he holds my hand, linking his fingers with mine.

  Chapter 6

  Twelve years ago

  The light is dim, yellowish, as I sit on my mother’s bed telling her why she shouldn’t kill herself.

  “I love you, Mom. I need you. Please don’t die.”

  My mother sobs, punching her fists into the pillow. “I just want to die, I just want to kill myself.”