Great, now that stupid nightmare was giving me wrinkles. Pretty soon I would look just like those old ladies in my class. I had to get some sleep.
Allegra, the instructor for the next class and an old friend from ballet school, came into the room. “Hey, Maren. How’s it going?”
“Other than the fact that I just dozed off while I was teaching?”
Her jaw dropped, then she smiled. “You did not.”
“I did. They thought I might be dead.”
She laughed and rubbed my upper arm. “You poor thing. Still not sleeping at night?” Allegra knew about the nightmare.
“No,” I said. “And I have no idea what to do.”
“You need to take some time off, Maren. A few days for mental health.”
She was probably right, but it was hard for me to take days off. I owned the studio, taught several classes a day, and often worked the desk, too. “I’ll think about it.”
“I can help cover for you. Just say the word.”
I gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. The room’s all yours.”
Grabbing my water bottle and mat, I headed for the lobby and went behind the desk. I tucked my mat out of sight, checked email and phone messages, and put a load of towels in the laundry. Then I texted my sisters, Emme and Stella.
Me: You will not believe what I did this morning.
Emme: WHAT?
Me: I fell asleep while teaching Yoga for Seniors.
Emme: HAHAHAHAHAHA
Me: They thought I was DEAD.
Emme: OMG that’s even funnier!
A moment later, my phone rang, Emme Devine flashing on the screen.
“Hello?”
“I’m driving now so I had to call you,” she said, laughing. “But that’s hilarious.”
“It wasn’t hilarious, it was mortifying,” I whispered, smiling at a few women who passed by the front desk on their way to the dressing room. “I’m the teacher. I’m supposed to set a good example.”
“I bet those blue-hairs didn’t even notice. Half of them were probably asleep too. For Christ’s sake, I struggle to stay awake during yoga.”
I sighed, tipping my forehead onto my fingertips. “It’s that stupid nightmare, Em. I’m not getting any sleep.”
“You’re still having it?”
“Yes.”
“The same one? About the giant snake and the door with no handle?”
“Yes.”
“You need to google that shit, Maren. Figure out what it means.”
“No. I told you, I don’t believe in seeking wisdom on the Internet. Google doesn’t have any insight into my consciousness. I have to find the answers within.” I looked up and saw new faces heading for the desk. “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I’m in a room full of people, but they can’t see me.
I keep trying to talk to them, but I can’t speak. I can’t even open my mouth.
I look down and notice I’m naked.
That’s when I see the snake.
Slithering through the crowd along the dark wood floor, it’s heading straight for me.
Panicked, I start running for the door at the end of the room, but my progress is hampered because I’m carrying a clock in my arms, the old-fashioned kind that used to sit on top of my grandparents’ piano. It’s ticking loudly.
Eventually, I reach the door but discover there is no handle. And it won’t budge.
The clock ticks faster and faster. I look down and notice the second hand is moving backward. It’s counting down, like a stopwatch.
I bang on the door, too scared to turn around and see how close the snake is.
It hisses behind me, and then—
I sat up in bed, gasping for air and damp with sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs. My heart was thundering in my chest. Sliding out of bed, I went over to the window. It was open, and a soft summer breeze blew through the screen, cooling my arms and chest. Taking a few deep breaths, I listened to the chirp of the crickets and inhaled deeply—fresh cut grass, the Forget-Me-Nots blooming in the window box, the lingering whiff of charcoal from someone’s backyard grill. I centered myself in the moment and focused on the way the air felt moving in and out of my lungs. Within a few minutes, my pulse had slowed and the trembling in my limbs ceased, but I couldn’t shake the anxious residue the dream had left behind.
It had to mean something, so what the hell was it?
Giving up on sleep for the time being, I left my bedroom, which was at the back of my ground-floor flat, and walked through the dark to the front. After making sure the curtains were closed, since I wore only a tank top and undies, I switched on a lamp. My laptop was sitting on the coffee table where I’d left it, and I scooped it up. I’d meant what I said to Emme earlier—normally, I didn’t believe the Internet could enlighten people about their own minds—but at this point, I was desperate for a clue.
Settling cross-legged on the couch, I set it in my lap, opened it up, and typed “dreams about snakes” into the search box.
The results, as I had expected, were all over the place.
Freud (of course) viewed the snake as a phallic symbol. Since there was a distinct lack of phalli in my life, I didn’t really see how that would make sense, unless my subconscious was bemoaning that lack. If that was the case, my subconscious could line up right behind the rest of me. I hadn’t had sex in two years.
The Dream Maven posited that a snake could represent something that tempted you, possibly something you felt guilty about. Well, damn, that could be any number of things.
Vodka, leather shoes, frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts, gay porn. The list seemed endless. But ninety-nine percent of the time, I didn’t indulge in those things, so I didn’t really think it was one of them. (Except for maybe the gay porn thing. That had real possibilities.)
According to another site, running away from a snake that’s chasing you might symbolize someone or something you’re afraid to face. Again, I couldn’t really think of anything I feared. Of course, I had questions about life—was I on the right path? Would I ever find love again? Did I have a higher purpose? But those weren’t exactly fears.
Occasionally, I struggled with feeling like I had given up my ballet career too soon and missed the feeling that performing in front of an audience gave me. But I’d taught myself to find validation from within, and the truth was, I hadn’t liked living in New York City at all. I had left my apprenticeship with the American Ballet Theater after just one year.
But I didn’t think that was it, either. When I searched my soul, I felt no regret about leaving the ballet world, with its constant pressures, strict hierarchy and intense competition. It wasn’t for me. I much preferred the inner peace and harmony I got from yoga, and running a successful studio afforded me a good enough income to live on my own, travel a little, and treat myself to the occasional luxury. I was happy. Healthy. Balanced. Fulfilled.
At least, I had been before the nightmares. Now I was exhausted, irritable, off-kilter, and full of doubt. Was the universe trying to warn me about something?
I googled a few more things—being naked in a dream (did I feel vulnerable? Had I been caught off guard?), the clock in my hands (was I concerned about time running out?), the locked door (did I feel confined by something?)—but felt no closer to decoding my psyche than I had before. With a frustrated sigh, I closed my laptop and set it aside. It wasn’t helping. What I needed was some deeper self-reflection.
Yawning, I rose to my feet, switched off the lamp, and promised myself some extra meditation time tomorrow. It was late, after 3 a.m., and I had to teach class in the morning, which would be followed by an afternoon shopping excursion with my sisters to look for bridesmaid dresses for Emme’s wedding. She’d gotten engaged a few weeks earlier to a great guy, a single dad who adored her. I was thrilled for her—this was her dream come true. As girls, when I was filling my scrapbook with pictures of ballerinas and pointe shoes, she was filling hers with brides and bouquets. It was no s
urprise to anyone that she grew up to be a successful wedding planner.
I got back in bed and eventually managed to fall asleep, but it felt like I had barely closed my eyes when my alarm went off three hours later.
Groaning, I dragged my ass out from beneath the sheets and went to work. I was uncharacteristically grouchy at class—at least three people asked me if I was feeling okay—but at least I stayed awake through it. When I got home afterward, the only thing I felt like doing was stuffing my face with bad-for-me food and taking a nap. But I didn’t ever buy any bad-for-me food, which made me even angrier with myself, and I stood in front of the open snack cupboard muttering curse words and willing a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts or at least a bag of Fritos to appear. When the universe failed to deliver, I had to settle for Craisins.
Fucking Craisins.
After polishing off the entire bag standing at the kitchen counter, I stuffed it into the trash and stomped down the hall to my bedroom. I pulled down the shades, kicked off my flip-flops, and crawled beneath the covers, pulling them over my head.
“You okay?” Emme frowned at me in the mirror of our huge dressing room at the bridal store. “Or do you really hate the aubergine?”
I looked down at the deep purple dress I wore, which had to be the ninetieth one I’d tried on in the two and a half hours we’d been here. On my best day, shopping wasn’t my thing. Today, it was akin to torture. “No, the color’s fine. I don’t hate it. I think I’m just done trying on dresses. They’re all looking the same to me.”
“Hey, what about this one?” Stella breezed into the room holding up a long, one-shouldered dress in navy blue.
“I think Maren might have reached capacity.” Emme shook her head. “I don’t know how we have a little sister who doesn’t like to shop.”
“Sorry. Can I take this off now?” I was already slipping the heavy dress over my head.
“Go ahead.” Sighing, Emme handed me a hanger. “I guess I’ve seen enough for today. Let’s go get a drink.”
We left the dressing room, and Emme thanked the saleswoman who’d been helping us, telling her we’d probably come back another day to try on some more. I hid my grimace as well as I could.
It was a beautiful summer night, warm and clear, and I tried to let the fresh air and pretty sunset cheer me up as we walked, but my spirits dragged. Less than half a mile up Old Woodward, Emme led us into a wine bar called Vinotecca, and we found three seats at the bar. I sat in the middle.
“Ooh, I want bubbly,” Emme said, clapping her hands. “I’m going to have a glass of Prosecco.”
“I’m not supposed to have any alcohol,” I said glumly, eyeing the bottles of wine behind the bar.
“Why can’t you have alcohol?” Stella asked.
“I’m detoxing my pineal gland.”
“You have a penile gland?” Emme blinked at me.
“Pineal gland, not penile.”
“Why on earth would you need to detox your pineal gland?” Stella wondered.
“Because it’s the third eye chakra,” I explained, sorry I’d mentioned it. “Some people believe the pineal gland is the source of human intuition. Poor diet and exposure to toxins can calcify it, causing us to lose perception. I’m trying to get some insight into why I might be having that stupid snake nightmare.” I sighed and stared longingly at a bottle of zinfandel, my favorite. “But I think I’d rather have a glass of wine.”
The bartender came over and we each ordered a glass of wine—Prosecco for Emme, pinot noir for Stella, and zinfandel for me. I figured it couldn’t do any more damage than an entire bag of Craisins, which probably had a shelf life of about a thousand years.
“Tell me again what the nightmare is about,” urged Stella, a therapist whose favorite activity was probing people’s minds, even when she wasn’t in the office. She’d put on what I called her Therapist Face, which said you can trust me, and touched my arm. “Maybe I can help.”
Taking a deep breath, I described the crowded room, my inability to be seen or heard, my nakedness, the snake, the clock, and the locked door. They listened, rapt with attention. “And then I wake up,” I finished, “right as the snake is about to bite me.”
The bartender brought our wine, and I took an eager sip.
“And you can’t fall back asleep afterward?” Stella asked.
I shrugged. “Sometimes, not always. Not last night.” From the corner of my eye, I glanced at Emme. “Last night I got out of bed and googled the dream.”
Emme beamed and puffed out her chest. “And?”
“Let me guess.” Stella held out a hand. “The Internet thinks the snake is a penis.”
I pointed at her. “Exactly.”
Stella rolled her eyes. “Good old Freud.”
“Is there a penis in your life we don’t know about?” Emme gave me a pointed look over the rim of her narrow glass.
I shook my head. “Nope. Not one that isn’t battery-operated, anyway.”
She snorted. “Maybe you need a real one.”
“Maybe.” I swallowed some more wine. “But I don’t really think the dream is about sex.”
“Let’s think about one of the other things from your dream,” Stella suggested. “Like the clock.”
“Maybe it’s a biological clock,” Emme said. “Maybe you’re subconsciously thinking about getting married and having kids, and worried about waiting too long.”
“But I’m not even thirty,” I protested. “I don’t feel any pressure whatsoever to get married. And I could always adopt if I wanted kids.”
“How about the door?” persisted Stella. “What do you think that means?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “The Internet thought maybe I was feeling confined by something. But I can’t think what.”
“The door was closed, so maybe you need closure on something.” Emme sipped her Prosecco. “Or someone.”
“That’s a good point,” said Stella. “Can you think of anything in the past you might have unresolved feelings about? Your ballet career maybe?”
I shook my head. “It’s not that.”
“Mom and Dad’s divorce?” Emme suggested.
“No, that never bothered me either. They were obviously unhappy together.”
“A relationship?” asked Stella.
Something twisted in my gut.
“No,” I lied.
I couldn’t go there. I never went there.
Emme went there. “What about Dallas Shepherd?”
My stomach hollowed.
Dallas Shepherd.
My first crush, my first kiss, my first everything.
He’d had the body of an athlete, the hands of an artist, the face of a god, the charm of a fairy tale prince, and the sense of a cinder block.
Not that he wasn’t smart—he was. He used to amaze me with all the things he could memorize. Random things I said offhand he could repeat back to me almost verbatim. And he was so damn talented—he could draw anything. I never understood why his grades were so terrible, or why he made such bad decisions. He was always getting in trouble at school. Fights. Pranks. Smoking in the bathroom. He didn’t even like cigarettes! It drove me crazy, all the dumb stuff he used to do—but he couldn’t stay out of trouble, and I couldn’t stay away from him. It was like trying to fight gravity.
“Come on, that was twelve years ago,” I said, attempting to laugh. I’d been seventeen the last time I saw him, not that I had known it was going to be the last time. He’d made sure of that. “I think I’m over him by now.”
“I don’t know about that,” Emme said. “You haven’t really dated anyone seriously since then, and you were pretty wrecked after he left.”
I shifted in my chair. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. Stella, remember that pillowcase she had with his face on it?”
Stella laughed while I huddled in humiliation, remembering all the tears I’d cried on that pillowcase. “I never saw it, but you told me about it.”
Emme was delighted. “She would put it on every night and take it off every morning to hide it. I only know because I caught her doing it once. She made me swear not to tell Mom.”
“Okay, enough,” I snapped.
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed about your feelings, Maren.” Emme patted my shoulder.
“I don’t have feelings about Dallas anymore,” I insisted.
“You never think about him?” Stella pressed.
I shrugged and took a few swallows of wine. “Not really.” Another lie.
I thought about him every time a man disappointed me in bed and left me wondering if I’d ever feel that thing I’d had with him again—that insatiable desire between us. I can’t get enough, he used to tell me, his ravenous mouth seeking every inch of my skin.
I thought about him every time I drove past the house on the lake where he used to live, or the high school we’d both attended, or the dark church parking lot he’d driven to that final night, where he’d gone down on me in the backseat of his Jeep before pulling me onto his lap and whispering that he loved me, that he wanted me, that he needed me, as he slid inside me, slow and deep. He’d been uncharacteristically broody and intense that night, and I’d been so lost in my own feelings I hadn’t thought to ask him why.
I thought about him every time I saw someone sketching, remembering how he was constantly drawing things—with a pencil on the back of a test he’d failed, with a pen on a paper napkin at a restaurant, with a Sharpie on people’s arms at parties. One time he’d spent all night “tattooing” my left arm in gorgeous, scrolling mandala designs that stretched from my hand almost to my shoulder. My mother had been furious and my ballet teachers appalled, but I’d loved the idea that he’d created something so beautiful on my skin, as if I were his canvas. I’d wished it was a real tattoo, and he’d promised someday it would be. He’d promised a lot of things.
One and Only Boxed Set Page 27
