What Dreams May Come (5 page)

“Ann, I’m here!” I cried. I looked around in wretched anger. Was there nothing I could do to let her know? I tried in vain to pick up objects from the bureau. I stared at a small box, trying to concentrate my will on moving it. After a long while, it hitched once, but, by then, I felt exhausted by the effort.

“Dear God.” I left the room in sorrow, starting down the hall, then, on impulse, turned back toward Ian’s room. His door was closed. No big deal, as Richard likes to say. I went through it in an instant and the loathesome realization struck me: I’m a ghost.

Ian sat at his desk, doing homework, his expression glum. “Can you hear me, Ian?” I asked. “We’ve always been close, you and I.”

He continued with his homework. I tried to stroke his hair; in vain, of course. I groaned with frustration. What was I to do? Yet I couldn’t force myself away either. Ann’s grief held me. I was trapped.

I turned away from Ian and left his room. Several yards along the hall, I walked through the closed door of Marie’s room. Now I felt repulsive to myself. Passing through doors seemed like a distasteful party trick to me.

Marie was sitting at her desk, writing a letter. I moved there and stood looking at her. She’s such a lovely girl, Robert, tall and blonde and graceful. Talented too; a beautiful singing voice and definite presence on a stage. She’d been working very hard at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, intent on a theatrical career. I’d always had confidence in her future. It’s a difficult profession but she’s persistent. I’d always planned to make some contacts in the business for her after she was finished with her training. Now I’d never be able to do that. It was one more regret.

After a while, I looked at what she was writing.

We never saw a lot of one another. I mean just the two of us, especially in the last few years. My fault, not his. He tried to get us together—for a day, an evening. He and Ian spent days together, playing golf, going to ballgames, movies. He and Richard spent time together, eating out and talking for hours, getting to know each other. Richard wants to write too and Dad was always helpful and supportive to him.

I only went out with him a few times. Always to something I wanted—a play, a film, a concert. We’d have dinner beforehand and talk. It was always enjoyable but there was never enough of it, I see now.

Still, I always felt close to him, Wendy. He always took good care of me, was always tolerant and understanding. He took my teasing with good grace and had a wonderful sense of humor. I know he loved me. Sometimes, he’d put his arms around me and tell me directly, tell me that he had great faith in my future. I sent him notes and told him he was the “best Daddy” in the world and I loved him—but I wish I’d told him in person more.

If only I could see him now. Tell him: Daddy, thank you for all—

She stopped and rubbed her eyes as tears dripped on the letter. “I’m going to ruin it,” she mumbled.

“Oh, Marie.” I put my hand on her head. If only I could feel it, I thought. If only she could feel my touch and know my love for her.

She began to write again.

Sorry, had to stop to wipe my eyes. I may have to do that several times before I finish this letter.

I’m thinking about Mom now. Dad meant so much to her; she meant so much to him. They had a wonderful relationship, Wendy. I don’t think I ever really spoke of it to you before. They were completely devoted to each other. Except for us children, they seemed to have need for no one but each other. Not that they didn’t see people. People liked them and wanted to see them, you know that; they were great friends with your Mom and Dad. But togetherness meant more to them than anything.

It’s funny. I’ve talked to lots of kids and almost all of them have trouble visualizing—even conceiving of—their parents making love. I suppose that feeling is universal.

It was never any trouble visualizing Mom and Dad. Often, we’d see them standing together—in the kitchen, the family room, their bedroom, anywhere—holding each other closely, not speaking, like a pair of young lovers. Sometimes, they’d stand like that in the pool even. And, always when they sat together—whatever it was for, talking, watching television, anything—Mom would lean against Dad, he’d put his arm around her and her head would lie on his shoulder. They made such a sweet couple, Wendy. They—sorry, tears again. Later. Another delay to dry my eyes. Anyway, it was easy to think of them making love. It seemed completely right. I remember all the times—after I became old enough to be conscious of it, of course—I’d hear their bedroom door shut quietly and hear the discreet click of the lock. I don’t know about Louise or Richard or Ian but it always made me smile.

Not that they never fought. They were real people, vulnerable and both had tempers. Dad helped Mom to let hers out, especially after her breakdown—and, oh, Wendy, all the years he supported her through that! He helped her to release her anger instead of keeping it bottled up: told her, if nothing else, to scream at the top of her lungs when she was driving along in her car. She did and once Katie got so frightened she almost had a heart attack; she was on the back seat and Mom had forgotten she was there when she screamed.

Even though they fought, their fighting never turned them against each other. It always ended with them embracing and kissing, smiling, laughing. They were like children sometimes, Wendy. There were times when I felt like the mother.

You know something else? I’ve never mentioned this to anyone before. I know Dad loved us and Mom loves us. But there was always this “something” between them, this special rapport we could never touch. Something precious. Something beyond words.

Not that we suffered from it. We were never “left out” or anything. They never deprived us of anything, always gave us love and support in everything we tried or wanted.

Still, there was this strange element in their relationship which kept them a unit of two during all those years when the family was a unit of three to six. Maybe it doesn’t make sense but it’s true. I can’t explain it. I only hope I have the same thing in my marriage. Whatever it is, I hope you have it in yours.

Proof of what I say is that I started this letter talking about Dad but ended up talking about Mom and Dad. Because it’s impossible for me to talk about him without talking about her as well. They go together. That’s the trouble. I just can’t visualize her without him. It’s as though something complete has been separated and neither half is right now. As though—

I started as I realized something.

For about a quarter of a page of her letter, I’d been picking up her words before she wrote them.

The idea came abruptly.

Marie, I thought. Write what I tell you. Write these words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist.

I fixed my gaze on her and kept repeating the words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist. Again and again, directing them to Marie’s mind as she wrote. Write them down, I told her. I repeated the words I wanted her to write. Write them down. I repeated the words. Write them down. Repeated the words. . Write. Repeated. Write, repeated. A dozen times, then more and more. Write: Ann this is Chris. I still exist.

I became so absorbed in what I was doing that I jumped when Marie gasped suddenly and jerked her hand from the desk. As she stared at the paper in stunned silence, I looked down at it.

She’d written on the paper: Annthsiscris—istilexst.

“Show it to Mom,” I told her excitedly. I concentrated on the words. Show it to Mom, Marie. Right now. Quickly, repeatedly.

Marie got up and moved toward the hall, the paper in her hand. “That’s it, that’s it,” I said. That’s it, I thought.

She went into the hall and turned toward the doorway of our bedroom. There, she stopped. Following eagerly, I stopped too. What was she waiting for?

She looked in at Ann and Richard. Ann still had his hand against her cheek. Her eyes were closed, she looked asleep.

“Take it in,” I told Marie. I grimaced at the sound of my voice. Take it in, I told her mentally. Show it to Mom, to Richard.

Marie stood motionless, gazing at Richard and Ann, her expression uncertain. “Marie, come on,” I told her; tensed again. Marie, take it to them, I thought. Let them see.

She turned away. “Marie!” I cried. I caught myself. Take it in! I cried with my mind. She hesitated, then turned back toward our bedroom. That’s it, take it in to her, I thought. Take it in, Marie. Now.

She remained immobile.

Marie, I pleaded mentally, for God’s sake, take it to your mother.

Abruptly, she turned toward her room and strode there quickly, passing through me. I whirled and ran after her. “What are you doing?” I cried. “Don’t you hear—?”

My voice failed as she crumpled the sheet of paper and dropped it into her wastebasket. “Marie!” I said. I stared at her, appalled. Why had she done that?

I knew though, Robert; it was not a difficult thing to understand. She thought it was her own subconscious surfacing. She didn’t want Ann to suffer any more than she had. It was done out of love. But it dashed my last hope of conveying my survival to Ann.

A wave of paralyzing grief swept over me. Dear God, this has to be a dream! I thought, reverting suddenly. It can’t be real!

I blinked. Below my feet, I saw the plaque: Christopher Nielsen/1927—1974. How had I gotten there? Have you ever “come to” in your car and wondered how you’d driven so far without remembering a moment of it? I had the same sensation then. Except that I didn’t know what I was doing there.

Soon enough, it came to me. My mind had cried: It can’t be real! That same mind still knew that there was a way of finding out for certain. I’d started doing it once before, it came back to me; then had been restrained by something. I would not be restrained now. There was only one way to know if this were dream or reality. I began descending into the ground. It presented no more hindrance to me than the doors. I sank into blackness. One way to be sure, I kept thinking. I saw the casket lying just below. How could I see in the dark? I wondered. I let that go. Only one thing mattered; finding out. I moved inside the casket.

My scream of horror seemed to echo and re-echo in the confines of the grave. I stared in petrified revulsion at my body. It had started to decay. My face was tight and mask-like, frozen in a hideous grimace. The skin was rotting, Rob- ert. I saw mag—no, let that go. No point in sickening you as I was sickened.

I closed my eyes and, screaming still, drove myself away from there. Coldness swirled around me, clinging wetness. Opening my eyes, I looked around. The fog again, that gray, eddying mist I could not escape.

I started to run. It had to end somewhere. The more I ran the thicker it got. I turned and started running in the opposite direction but it didn’t help. The fog continued getting more dense no matter which way I ran. I could see no more than inches ahead. I started sobbing. I might wander in this mist forever! Suddenly, I cried out: “Help me! Please!”

A figure approached from the murk; that man again. I felt as though I knew him even though his face was unfamiliar. I ran to him and clutched at his arm. “Where am I?” I asked. “In a place of your own devising,” he replied. “I don’t understand you!”

“Your mind has brought you here,” he said. “Your mind is keeping you here.”

“Do I have to stay here?”

“Not at all,” he told me. “You can break the binding any time.” “How?”

“By concentrating on what’s beyond this place.” I began to ask another question when I felt Ann’s sorrow pulling at me once again. I couldn’t leave her alone. I couldn’t.

“You’re slipping back,” the man said, warningly. “I can’t just leave her,” I told him. “You have to, Chris,” he said. “You either move on or stay the way you are.”

“I can’t just leave her,” I repeated. I blinked and looked around. The man was gone. So quickly that I had to think he’d been a figment of my mind. I sank down on the cold, damp ground, inert and miserable. Poor Ann, I thought. She’d have to start a new life now. All our plans were ruined. The places we were going to visit, the exciting projects we had planned. To write a play together, combining her intense memories of the past and her insight with my abilities. To buy a piece of woods somewhere where she could photograph the wild life while I wrote about it. To buy a motor home and take a year to drive around the country, seeing every detail of it. To travel, finally, to the places we had always talked about but never seen. To be together, enjoying life and each other’s company.

All ended now. She was alone; I’d failed her. I should have lived. It was my own fault I’d been killed. I’d been stupid and careless. Now she was alone. I didn’t deserve her love. I’d wasted many moments in life we could have spent together. Now I’d thrown away the remainder of our time.

I’d betrayed her.

The more I thought about it, the more despondent I became. Why wasn’t she right in her belief? I thought bitterly. Better that death was an end, a cessation. Anything was preferable to this. I felt devoid of hope, hollowed by despair. There was no meaning to survival. Why go on like this? It was futile and pointless.

I don’t know how long I sat like that and thought like that. It seemed an eternity, Robert—just me, abandoned in chilling, mucilaginous fog, sunk in abject sorrow.

Only after a long, long time did I begin to alter what I thought. Only after a long, long time, recall what the man had told me: that I could leave this place by concentrating on what was beyond it. What was beyond it though?

Does it matter? I thought. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse than this.

All right, try then, I told myself.

I closed my eyes and tried to visualize a better place. A place with sunlight, warmth, with grass and trees. A place like the ones we used to take our camper to all those years.

I finally settled, in my mind, on a glade of redwood trees in northern California where the six of us—Ann, Louise, Richard, Marie, Ian and I—had stood one August afternoon at twilight, none of us speaking, listening to the vast, enveloping silence of nature.

I seemed to feel my body pulsing; forward, upward. I opened my eyes in startlement. Had I imagined it?