Dreaming of You and Me

by Kristy Tate

  Turner pushed his hair off his forehead. “You’re wrong. I think you are the better fit for these girls. I hope Irena and Cole appreciate that. I hope you understand that as well. The girls do, or at least, my granddaughter does. She loves you and seems to think the other girls feel the same.”

  Nora flushed with the pleasure of the praise. “Thank you. I love the girls, too. I didn’t know I would enjoy teaching so much. That’s why I want to do a good job and if you could help me...”

  “I’m happy to help.”

  “So, give me your best advice,” Nora said, desperately wondering how she could steer the conversation back to Irena.

  “Well, the most important thing you seem to have already going for you, and that is a concern for the girls. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re not just teaching literature, you’re teaching the girls a new way of thinking, helping them to live vicariously through another who has different life experiences, traditions, and sometimes values than their own.” He paused, took a deep breath, and gave her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to lecture. It’s a habit.”

  “A good one,” Nora said. “Speaking of values, how important is it—do you think—that the teacher’s morals align with the girls’, or their parents’?”

  He cocked his head. “Why are you asking?”

  Nora toyed with a loose string on her sweater. “No reason...”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Twenty or thirty years ago, your ex-husband’s sexual orientation would have been a cause of concern for many on the faculty and their parents...if that’s why you’re asking.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” Nora said.

  “I thought that was why you were asking.”

  “You know about Blake?”

  “I beg your pardon, but you, your ex-husband, and Apex are very high profile.””

  “Of course.”

  “Are you and your ex-husband still on good terms?”

  “He was my best friend for years. I knew him—or at least, thought I did—before he could shave. It’s hard to just turn off those feelings.”

  “So, you still love him.”

  “Of course. But I love him enough to not ask him to change—or try to change—for me."

  “Thirty years ago, Irena’s situation as a single, an unwed mother would have caused a scandal that could have jeopardized her career if anyone had known. Now, it’s pretty much common knowledge and no one cares.”

  “Did you know her then?” Now, they were getting somewhere.

  Turner nodded. “Like you and your ex, Irena and I are childhood friends.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he didn’t get the teaching job then, but Nora didn’t want to talk about modern history, she wanted to know about Irena’s pregnancy thirty years ago.

  “Of course, it didn’t help that Irena’s lover was married.” Turner sounded bitter. “That certainly would have raised more than a few eyebrows.”

  Nora found her own eyebrows raising, and after realizing what she was doing, she tried to school her face into a more compassionate expression.

  “You didn’t know that?” he asked.

  Of course, she had hoped none of this was true, but Turner Lawson was pretty much confirming Crystal Menlow’s story. Nora desperately wanted to ask the man’s name of the baby’s father, but she couldn’t do it. Instead, she said, “That must have been a really difficult time for her.”

  Turner nodded. “Of course now, she’s incredibly embarrassed about the whole thing. Having an affair with a married man—I’m not sure that she’s ever really forgiven herself.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. She was very closed-lipped about the whole thing.”

  “Cole said that she was married...”

  Turner nodded. “Spencer. He died about ten years ago.”

  “Oh, so sad.”

  “Bee sting. It really was tragic.”

  “That was Cole’s father?”

  Turner sighed, looked out the window, and slowly shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. It’s just...sometimes in a strange way, you remind me of her—the way she used to be when she was your age.”

  Nora listened to him reminisce, her heart breaking.

  Irena poked her head in the door. “Turner, what a surprise.” Her gaze flashed between Nora and Turner. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just giving Nora some tips....” He flashed Nora a smile. “Not that I think she needs them. She seems to be doing very well on her own.”

  Irena’s gaze softened as she looked at Nora. “Yes, she is. Nora, I just wanted to remind you about our field trip tomorrow.”

  “Right,” Nora said.

  “I know a trip to the cemetery sounds a bit bizarre, but the girls love it and the cemetery really appreciates it.”

  Turner raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “We’re cleaning the tombstones,” Nora told him.

  “In honor of All Saints’ Day,” Irena said.

  “Sounds fun?” Turner added an inflection to make the statement a question.

  “Life isn’t just about having fun, Turner,” Irena said in a hard voice right before she closed the door with a sharp click, making Nora wonder what exactly had happened between the two of them.

  The night before the first day of school, I set out my workout clothes so I can have a morning run before I go to class. It’s near dawn and I’m jogging up the hill that passes the Oriental church. The star on the chapel is lit, the gate is open, and hundreds of tiny dark-haired, tiny people watch me pass. Why are they worshipping so early in the morning? Why are they staring at me?

  I realize I’m naked.

  I duck into the bushes, disturbing birds who call out, drawing more unwanted attention. There’s dirt between my toes. Branches and bushes scratch me. I decide that rather than taking take the sidewalk, I’ll take a short-cut through my neighbor’s house. I hoist over their fence and crawl in their window.

  At this point, my intellect weighs in on the unlikely situation. I must be asleep. Running naked? Crawling through windows? I touch my chest and feel my silky pajamas, but when I look down I see skin. Lots of skin.

  My neighbor’s house is messy but quiet. I trip over things on my way to the front door. Soon, I’m on the sidewalk. I can see my parents’ house. I’m running fast, but time slows. I’ll never make it. I realize I will be running in slow motion when the neighbors get in their cars for work, when the children, carrying backpacks, will head for kindergarten, and when the teenagers, carrying cell phones with cameras, will leave for high school. They will take photos and videos.

  I imagine my naked self on YouTube and Facebook, running, but never arriving.

  I wake, sweating. It’s close to seven. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for school.

  From Nora's Dream Journal

  CHAPTER 9

  Nora drove separately to the cemetery so she could stay in town and try to reach her parents after the school’s field trip. She arrived a few minutes before the girls, parked near the front gate, and climbed from the car. Her experiences with death had been few. Other than her grandma Eleonore, no one close to her had ever died. Her thoughts wandered back to her grammy’s funeral. Her mother, like her grandmother, was had been an only child, so only a few people had gathered in the stone chapel for the memorial.

  Her mom had been stoic, while her father had bordered on impatience. Only Nora had cried. Remembering her parents’ cold indifference, Nora shivered, and tucked her hands into her parka’s pockets and watched the ancient orange school bus that carried the girls rumble through the cemetery’s stone gate.

  Clouds, thick and dark with unshed rain, hovered over the cemetery, turning the world to gray. Tombstones in all shapes and sizes pointed heavenward. The girls, armed with garden gloves and trowels, tumbled from the bus, their laughter and chatter breaking the graveyard’s reverence.

  Cole was the last to emerge from the bus. He wor
e a heavy corduroy jacket with a wool- lined collar and leather buttons, a pair of jeans and sturdy boots. He had told everyone to dress for outside work, but a few of the girls must not have listened because—for the brief respite from their uniforms—they wore designer jeans and blouses that would have been better suited for the dance floor than yard work.

  Cole corralled the girls into a pavilion filled with stone benches. A slatted wooden roof provided some shelter from the water-laden breeze. The girls huddled in groups and tucked their chins into the collars of their jackets. Nora hung in the back. It hurt to even look at Cole. She didn’t know what to do with her crazy, unreasonable attraction to her brother. If anything, Turner had convinced her that Crystal had been telling the truth—which meant that of nearly all the men on the Earth, Cole was the one she could not have. So, was that why she was so attracted to him? Was he forbidden fruit?

  She had never felt this way about anyone before, not even Blake. She’d loved Blake, but not like this.

  “Many religions believe that the pain and suffering of loved -ones kept captive in purgatory can be eased by faithful living,” Cole said. “These teachings date back to the Old Testament and we know that early Christians regularly practiced praying for the dead.”

  Jolie, a freshman sitting near the front, Jolie’s, shot up her hand. “What exactly is purgatory?”

  Several of the girls, clearly impatient to get to work, groaned at the question.

  Cole sucked in his breath and hesitated. Before he could answer, another girl, Mackenzie, a senior, held up her phone.

  “It says here, it’s a place or state of punishment wherein according to Roman Catholic doctrine the souls of those who die in God's grace may make satisfaction for past sins and so become fit for heaven.”

  “So, it’s a place? Is it on the earth?” Jolie asked.

  “Who cares?” Lizzy, a freckly freckled sophomore, muttered.

  “We should all care!” Jolie looked around. The tone in her voice made Nora’s heart ache and she wondered how Jolie’s mom was doing. “We’re all going to die! And everyone we love is going to die, too!”

  “But not today, hopefully,” Lizzy said. “At least, you better hope not.”

  Cole frowned at Lizzy and she looked away from him.

  “It says here that purgatory is outside time and space,” Mackenzie said, “so there really isn’t a specific location or duration in purgatory.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Jolie said.

  “Neither does Noah and his ark,” Lizzy said. “Deal with it.”

  “God’s ways are not our ways,” Darrel Poole said.

  Jolie spun to look at her.

  Cole cleared his throat to restart his message. “In the sixth century, it was customary in Benedictine monasteries to hold a day of commemoration with the offering of alms, prayers, and sacrifices, for the relief of the suffering souls in purgatory. Known as the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, the celebration is also known in some countries as the Day of the Dead.

  “Protestants call this All Saints' Day or AllHollowtide. The French often decorate the graves of their dead on the jour des morts, and German, Polish and Hungarian people stream to the graveyards once a year with offerings of flowers and special grave lights. Among Czech people, the custom of visiting and tidying graves of relatives on this day is also quite common.

  “Some believe that the origins of All Souls ' Day in European folklore and folk belief are related to customs of ancestor veneration practiced worldwide, through events such as in India Pitru Paksha, the Chinese Ghost Festival, and the Japanese Bon Festival. The Roman custom was that of the Lemuria.”

  Cole turned to Darrel, who stood and waved her arms. The girls in the choir rose and paraded to the front of the pavilion. Darrel pulled a pitch pipe from her pocket and blew out a note. She hummed and the girls joined in. When she raised her hands, the girls began to sing.

  “All creatures of our God and King

  Lift up your voice and with us sing,

  Alleluia! Alleluia!

  Thou burning sun with golden beam,

  Thou silver moon with softer gleam!

  O praise Him! O praise Him!

  Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

  Thou rushing wind that art so strong

  Ye clouds that sail in Heaven along,

  O praise Him! Alleluia!

  Thou rising moon, in praise rejoice,

  Ye lights of evening, find a voice!

  Dear mother earth, who day by day

  Unfoldest blessings on our way,

  O praise Him! Alleluia!

  The flowers and fruits that in thee grow,

  Let them His glory also show.

  O praise Him! O praise Him!

  Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!”

  Darrel held her finger to her lips, motioning for the girls to lower their voices, and they did.

  “And thou most kind and gentle Death,

  Waiting to hush our latest breath,

  O praise Him! Alleluia!

  Thou leadest home the child of God,

  And Christ our Lord the way hath trod.”

  Nora glanced around to see if the music had touched any of the girls the same way it had moved her. She watched Darrel. Nora had never liked the music teacher, had having always found her brusque attitude bordering on rude, so this ability to lead the girls and create stirring music took Nora by surprise. There had to be something more to Darrel than she had originally thought. Death makes angels of us all... Where had she heard that before? One day, would they all be angels? Including Darrel?

  Chills that had nothing to do with the weather ran through Nora. She felt Cole’s gaze on her. She shivered and turned away.

  After the music, a weathered-looking gardener named Billy came to give the girls directions on cleaning the tombstones while Irena passed out buckets and scrub brushes.

  “All you girls have been divided into patrols,” Billy told them. “Your buckets have a number on them. That’s your patrol. Now, who are the patrol leaders?”

  Nora and all the other faculty members raised their hands.

  Billy picked up a stack of maps. “The cemetery is divided into twenty quadrants,” he said as he passed out the maps. “Find yours and make yourselves busy. I’ll be around to check in and see if you have any questions.”

  Nora took her map and checked for her own quadrant before looking for Cole’s. If she was lucky, he would be on at the other end of the cemetery.

  But of course, he wasn’t. His patrol was stationed right next to hers. It was as if all the stars had aligned to put them continually in each other’s orbits. But was it stars? Or was it him? Because if it was him, she needed to tell him she wasn’t interested...unless Crystal was wrong, in which case she was very interested.

  THE SUN FOUGHT THROUGH the gray clouds, creating a rising, steamy heat. Nora handed Megan Miller, the cemetery map. “Would you like to navigate?”

  “Huh, sure,” Megan said, taking the map and studying it. After a moment, she raised her hand. “Come on, you giraffes, we’re this way!”

  Nora and the girls trooped after Megan, but almost everyone else was traveling the same gravel road through the tombstones. Clusters of girls broke off at the intersections, and eventually, just as Nora had feared, her patrol and Cole’s were soon the only ones left on the road.

  “Let’s sing,” Megan suggested.

  A couple of the girls groaned, but Leslie broke out into song.

  “Lord said to Noah, there’s going to be a floody, floody...,”

  Most of the girls joined in. Nora, who didn’t know the song, just listened.

  “Lord said to Noah, there’s going to be a floody, floody,

  Get those animals out of the muddy, muddy,

  Children of the Lord!”

  They found their quadrant, and Nora was pleased to see it was an older section of the cemetery. The girls sang as they worked. After making sure that the girls knew what they were doi
ng, Nora knelt before a tombstone, dipped her scrub brush in, and began cleaning the tombstone of William Miller, a man who had lived between 1840 and 1932.

  “Let’s play a game,” Nora said. “Using the dates on the stones, let’s make up a life’s story for the people buried here.”

  “Oh! Okay, I’ll go first,” Megan said. “My person is Louisa Haricot Boyd. She died in 1918. Everyone thought she died of the Spanish Influenza, but really, she died in a fit of rage. You see, with a name like Haricot, hairdos were extremely important in her family, so one day when she had a bad hair day, she literally exploded in anger.”

  “Good one,” Nicole said.

  “Okay, it’s my turn,” Lizzy said. “No, wait, it’s not my turn. It’s Ronnie’s turn.” She pointed her scrub brush at the tombstone. “Reginald Ronald Hardy liked hearty soups. He couldn’t stand weak broths, tepid teas, or watery gumbos. When he had chili, the spoon had to be able to stand on its end or else he wanted nothing to do with it. He liked his clam chowder so thick that it quivered on his spoon like Jello.”

  “Eh, gross,” Megan said.

  Lizzy gave her a dark look. “No one quite understood why Ronnie withered away, but his wife knew. You see, every night, she prepared him soups so thin that they looked like gray rainwater. Every morning, she fed him porridge so watery you could see through it. And she didn’t even make him lunch!”

  Melanie gasped. “She killed him?”

  Lizzy nodded. “But no one could ever prove it, of course. I mean, he could have eaten anything he wanted. He could have prepared his own meals, but back then, it just wasn’t done. And since he would only eat hearty soups, he died.”

  “Tragic,” Melanie murmured.

  “How about you, Ms. Tommy?” Megan asked.

  Nora twisted her lips, thinking about William Miller, wondering what sort of person he was had been and what sort of life he’d had. “Well, William Miller owned a very successful mill. It did all the usual things mills do. It ground wheat into flour and, corn into meal, but it also had an amazing power. It could make love dust.”