Dreams for Stones (31 page)

Mom is reading me a new story. It’s called
The Little
Prince
, and it’s about a boy who talks to a rose, a fox, and a
snake. A flower has never spoken to me, and I’ve never met a fox or
a snake, but I have Ethel, Bethel, and Brad. So maybe this little
prince and I are alike.

At the end of the story the snake helps the
little prince go home to his rose. “Where do you find a magic snake
like that?” I asked Brad.

“It wasn’t a magic snake, Bobby. It helped
the little prince die,” said Brad.

“Did a snake help Uncle Bill die?”

“No. When people get old or sick, it just
happens.”

“Are Mom and Dad old enough to do it?”

“No. They’re still young. You’re not
supposed to do it until you get old. When someone young does it,
the older people get very upset.”

Kathy had that right. Meg’s death had upset
the order of things. And it wasn’t only the older people—Meg’s
parents and his—who had been devastated. Alan rubbed his temples,
which had begun to ache. He had done the right thing, hadn’t he?
Not telling them Meg was pregnant. Better they not know they’d lost
a grandchild as well, although they might have suspected. More than
enough grief to go around without knowing for sure, though.

He forced his eyes back to Kathy’s
manuscript.

Ethel and Bethel enjoyed
The Little Prince
too. I asked them
what they thought of it.

“I do not believe it can be vilified,” was
Bethel’s opinion.

“You mean verified,” Ethel said. “I think it
must be true. The person telling the story sounds very
reliable.”

Only one thing worried me. The man who told
the story was sad after the little prince left his body with the
help of the snake.

“It does seem those left behind are often
sad,” Brad said. “But they don’t need to be. You see, I don’t
believe dying can be forever. After all, the trees and flowers do
it every fall but, in the spring, they come back to life.”

I looked at the flowers and remembered how
the yard looked in the winter, all brown and empty and the trees
like bare sticks. But in spring, the flowers come back, the earth
turns green and the trees get leaves again. It is always a surprise
to me when it happens. I am glad to know it’s supposed to be that
way.

“They do that to show us there’s no need to
be afraid of anything that happens to us.” And with that, Brad
settled down for his nap.

Be not afraid
. Yeah. Right.
Enough.

Alan set the pages down and got out of bed.
He walked into his living room and gazed at the floor to ceiling
shelves stuffed with books.

Even though they were shelved near the
bottom in a corner, the bright colors of the Dr. Seuss books caught
his eye. They were all gifts from Meg, given over a stretch of
birthdays and Christmases during grade school. Next to them were
the other books she’d given him as they grew up. It was their
tradition—Meg always giving him a book.

He bent down and pulled out one of the Seuss
books,
One Fish Two Fish
. It was loved almost to pieces, the
spine broken and the cover smudged. He opened it to the inscription
printed with laborious neatness on the inside cover:
To my
friend, Alan Francini. Happy Birthday. Your friend, Meg
Adams
.

He slipped the book back into place. Then
his finger traced the bindings of the other books—books about
horses and wildflowers, the poetry anthology with the Gerard Manley
Hopkins poem about “couple-colored clouds” and “stippled
trout.”

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.”