Life Is But a Dream

by Brian James

  —That’s how the sun must feel— I tell him. —It’s like you’re watching from the other side of the sun.—

  —Yeah, I guess that’s exactly what it’s like— he says.

  —It sounds perfect— I say.

  —Let’s try it together— Alec says.

  We both close our eyes and take deep breaths. I lay completely still, against Alec. The sky takes over and colors the inside of my eyelids and I feel the wind tickle my face. Soon the two of us are flying in a clearer and brighter sky than I’ve ever known.

  The air around me is the soft breath of a billion fairies. The breeze is the flutter of their wings. The feeling is such a happy one that I can’t help but smile and laugh a little.

  —Better than talking to any doctor, am I right?— Alec says.

  —Much.—

  * * *

  —What is it? Come on. Show me— Alec says, turning my wrist to get a look at my hand.

  I pull my arm away violently.

  My action is so swift and sudden that I don’t even have time to think about it. I’ve become so good at hiding things that it’s just instinct—an involuntary reaction like kicking a leg out when a doctor taps your knee with a tiny hammer. But when I stop to think about it, I realize that I do want to show him.

  For the first time in months, I’m not afraid to be myself with someone else. So I roll up the cuff of my sweatshirt. —Okay— I say, and hold my hand out for him to take in his.

  There is a birthmark on my left hand on the part between my thumb and my pointer finger. It’s always been there, obviously. They’re called birthmarks for a reason. It’s not real big or anything—about the size of two quarters, but no bigger than that. It’s barely a shade darker than the rest of my skin and probably nobody notices it. But it’s different when it’s on your own skin. You stare at it every day and it stares back.

  Alec caught a glimpse of it when I brushed a strand of hair away from my mouth. He wanted to look at it. I finally let him and now he’s fascinated by it.

  We are sitting in the brightest part of the lawn with the hospital behind us. I’m sitting in the sun. Alec is sitting in the shade of a tree. His hair is transparent even in the shadows. Mine is a lighter shade of dark in the sun.

  Alec turns my hand around in his fingers.

  His touch is warm but it gives me shivers.

  —I like it— he says. —It’s a cool shape.—

  —I used to draw around it so that it looked like a cat— I tell him, studying the familiar outline. He smiles at me whenever I tell him the littlest things. —I called him Fred.—

  —Yeah, I think I see it— he says. —Are these the ears? And this the face?—

  —Almost— I say.

  He takes a pen from his pocket and hands it to me.

  —Show me?—

  —Alright— I say.

  I scoot forward into the shade where the lines are easier to see. Lately the glare from the sun is so harsh. It used to have a soft glow with dull edges like watercolor paint. Dr. Richards tells me it’s because of the pills. They make my pupils dilate a little wider and make me light-sensitive. It’s better in the shade next to Alec, but I miss the warmth of the sun on my skin.

  I pull my legs up under me and lean against him. Once I start to draw the features in, the cat comes out easily. He’s always there, even when he’s not drawn in. A cat named Fred who lives under the surface, just waiting to come out.

  The ears and tail emerge first. Then comes his face. I can make him smile or frown—give him open or closed eyes so he looks to be sleeping. Most of the time, he feels the way I do. That’s why I draw a smile before the last step where I add whiskers. —See? That’s Fred— I say, dropping my hand in Alec’s lap.

  I kind of expect him to smirk and shrug and then that’ll be the end of it because that’s what anyone at school would’ve done. Maybe they would say it was cute or something before changing the subject. Either way, it was just to let me know they thought drawing a cat on your hand was kind of strange without actually having to say it.

  Alec isn’t like them.

  His interest in me isn’t fake.

  —That’s seriously awesome— he says after tracing the lines with his fingernail.

  Dr. Richards pretends everything I say is important, but I’ve learned that’s only so she can point out all the places where I’m wrong. My parents do the same thing. They only listen for mistakes, so they never hear what I say. But not Alec—he listens because he wants to know everything about me. I can tell by his eyes. People with clear eyes are sincere. It’s something I’ve always known as easily as a baby knows how to breathe—all people can be judged by their eyes.

  —So? What’s Fred’s deal?— Alec asks me.

  —What do you mean?—

  He flings his hair away from his face so that I can see the way his eyes shine in the stray sunbeams invading our shade. And when he laughs, I can’t help but laugh with him because the sound of him is contagious. Then he grabs my side, just under the ribs where it tickles, and I squirm away, laughing even harder than before. —I know you well enough by now to know there’s a story behind Fred— he says. —I bet Fred has a whole secret life that you thought up. So what is it? Is he like a ninja or something?—

  —No, he’s not a ninja— I say, rolling my eyes. Then I fold my arms and hold my head up like I’m offended. But he knows I’m only kidding and it only makes us laugh again. —Fred’s peaceful— I say. —And educated.—

  —Educated, huh? How so?—

  —Well, Fred studied at Oxford before coming to live on my hand— I tell him, remembering all the details of Fred’s biography I’d invented while daydreaming in grade school.

  —I had no idea he was a world traveler— Alec says. His laughter is a faint breeze against my neck. His fingertips are tiny antennae exploring my arm. —I wouldn’t have guessed from his size. He seems like kind of a runt.—

  —Fred’s full of surprises— I say, teasing him.

  —Yeah? Like what else?—

  —Well, once he wrote a children’s book about himself— I say. —I had to draw the pictures though.—

  —No way. Really? You really did up a whole little book?— Alec asks excitedly. —Do you still have it?—

  —Sure. Somewhere— I tell him.

  —I totally want to see that some time— he says, and it’s the first time either of us has mentioned something that will take place later—after the hospital. Even if it is just an expression, it feels new. Having something to look forward to, no matter how insignificant, is still something.

  —I’ll have to see if I can find it then— I say. —I’m kind of a clutter bug.—

  In my mind, I start running through all the places it might be back home. I can picture the stacks of papers piled in my closet. Drawings I haven’t looked at in years—bits and scraps that I scribbled on during class. Mostly though, the piles are of postcards I collected from the places we drove to on family vacations. I know somewhere there’s one with the San Diego Chicken on it and one with the New York skyline, but not the real one—the one in Las Vegas. I have tons and tons of them stashed away. I always loved how the memory of a place could be captured in a picture like that.

  I used to spend hours going through those piles in my closet. I’d arrange them by subject and make scrapbooks or collages for my wall. But over the past year or so, it was as if they’d vanished even as they towered around me. Now suddenly, I want nothing more than to sit for hours sifting through them.

  Dr. Richards told me this would happen. She said I would slowly start to find old interests appealing again. All the things I stopped doing over the last year and a half. Things like swimming and reading and tearing pictures from magazines. I suppose Fred is one of those things too. Or something like them anyway.

  Alec can see that all of this is making me happy—making me come alive before him. —Tell me more— he says, not wanting the moment to fade away.

  —Okay. Um
… oh, I know … Fred had his own table setting for a while— I say, suddenly remembering a long-forgotten detail. —I used little dishes and forks from a toy dish set. One day, I just put them out on the table. My parents thought it was so funny. But then …— I shiver as a cloud rolls across my happy memory.

  I stop talking and stare off at the hills in the distance. My hand is still wrapped in Alec’s and he squeezes a little harder. —But then, what?— he asks.

  I reach up with my free hand and tuck my hair away, shrugging one shoulder. —Then … after a while I could sort of tell they wanted me to stop. They wouldn’t actually say it, but they stopped taking an interest. It’s weird though. I mean, they used to encourage me to use my imagination and then it was like all of a sudden that was a bad thing.—

  Alec shakes his head, letting his breath out with a little huff like the sound a dog would make after coming up empty when begging scraps. Nothing too angry, but enough to show displeasure. —Parents suck— he says without much emotion.

  —Are your parents like that?—

  —Mine? No … not quite— he says. —Mine wouldn’t notice a Fred if I drew it on my forehead.—

  —How come?—

  Alec rolls his eyes. —Because my parents like to think of themselves as important people. Dinner with the governor, lunch with a judge or whatever. You know the type. On top of that, they’ve got this expensive traveling hobby that takes them away from home a lot. They’re always going off to some country or other and I don’t exactly fit into their schedule— he tells me.

  —What about you? You don’t go with them?—

  —Never— he says. —Not that I want to go either, their trips are so boring. It’s not exactly family vacation time. It’s always about work. Their careers have always been more important. I don’t know why they ever had me in the first place. Probably thought it was just one of those things they were supposed to do. I think that’s why most people have kids actually. They’re just following this path that everybody is supposed to follow. College. Career. Marriage. Kids. Death. But if you point that out to them … well, you end up in a place like this. Know what I mean?—

  I think about all of the people sitting in their cars as traffic stands still on the freeway. I think about all of the fathers like mine back in Burbank, mowing their lawns every Saturday and hating every second of it. I think about the girls I was friends with in elementary school and junior high and how they now spend so much of their energy hating so many of the things we loved back then because they are afraid of liking something that makes them different. All of them are so hypnotized by the spinning of the world that they don’t realize they are simply dizzy.

  —It’s like they’re all sleepwalking— I say.

  Alec glances at the sky, letting his mind wander through the idea before he nods. —Yes. It is like they’re asleep and I’m always trying to wake them up. I guess that’s my problem. I can’t keep my mouth shut. So suddenly I’m the one with problems. I’m the one who needs help. It makes no sense.—

  As Alec is talking, I see the nurses exit the building. A troop of them sent to gather us up like children picking flowers in a garden. I wish there was more time. I wish Alec and I could stay out here forever and talk because now I want to tell him about my dreams. I want to tell him all the things I don’t want to tell Dr. Richards. I know he’ll understand.

  —Sabrina? Alec?— Nurse Abrams says, strolling across the lawn toward us. —It’s time to go inside now.—

  We both stand up and brush the grass from our clothes. Nurse Abrams watches us to make sure we head in the right direction because it’s getting harder and harder to separate us anymore. Once we head back inside, she turns around and moves away to fetch the next patient. That’s when Alec takes hold of my hand. His fingerprints press against mine for a brief moment before our fingers lock together. As we walk silently back to a schedule of meetings and activities and meals, I glance down at our arms swinging in rhythm and notice how careful he is not to cover Fred with his thumb.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Where the bus drops me off from school, the road is a straight line. A tightrope walker could practice her balance by walking the double yellow stripes that run from one horizon to the next—a neon audience of air-conditioned strip malls looking on. Everything is so busy and loud on the main road. On my street, most of it disappears. There are only houses huddled in the shade of trees planted so many years ago that they’ve grown taller than the roofs and drop stray leaves and acorns over the shingles.

  There are thirty-five houses between mine and the bus stop. There are more on the other side of the street because on that side there are cul-de-sacs and turnoffs onto more tree-lined roads identical to mine. I don’t count the houses there. I never walk on that side.

  It takes me fifteen minutes to walk home if I go slowly—five if I run from a rare rainstorm. The junior high bus stop was closer because the bus would actually turn into our development. The school board figures that by high school we should be able to walk a little farther. By the end of freshman year last spring, I had gotten used to it. I just felt bad for the kids who lived even farther, like Lillian Wagner—she lives seventy-two houses away from the bus stop.

  I used to walk home with Lillian sometimes. We weren’t really friends—just on the walk home. We had two classes together, so there was always something to chat about. She started softball in the spring though, and of course that meant she stayed after school and took the late bus home and probably got picked up by her dad. I didn’t walk with anybody then. Not really. I sort of trailed along with Thomas and his friends. But I never talked too much. Most of the time I just listened, rolling my eyes at their rude comments and dodging their dirty suggestions about what I might do in my bedroom once I got home and what they were definitely going to do in their bedrooms when they got home.

  Sometimes Thomas would get me alone—strolling several paces behind his friends. He’d always want to know about Kayliegh, because this was before they hooked up and became a couple. I only ever told him what she’d carefully instructed me to tell him, so our conversations were brief. Most of the walk I would just feel him staring at my knees or ankles, anywhere there was bare skin.

  Thomas’s house is twelve houses closer than mine, so I always walked the last part by myself. I loved to walk that last part with my head back watching for the changing sky and streaking rainbows.

  In those minutes alone, I would set in my mind what I’d pretend to be for the next two hours before my mom got home. I would lay on my bed with the window open to the breeze, getting lost in a daydream as the afternoon surrendered into evening. My homework would sit in piles on the desk in my room or still zipped up in my backpack. I couldn’t bring myself to even glance at it. All I wanted to do was lie perfectly still and drift away.

  I could be anything in those hours. I just had to concentrate—think through the details before I started. If I did, I’d travel off to wherever I wanted as soon as I closed my eyes. I could be the last person on an earth lost to desert sand. I could be a fairy flying into lonely rooms at night where candles burned. I could warm my butterfly wings near the flame. Sometimes I imagined myself being pregnant—my body still thin and small except my belly, which became more swollen each time I filled my lungs. I never pictured a baby inside of me. Instead, my womb was filled with a tiny ocean teeming with all kinds of new life-forms waiting to find a way out. Whenever that was my dream, I never flushed the toilet after I peed—just in case.

  Outside my window, the sky would flash with a short burst of something like lightning exploding in the sky. Only it wasn’t lightning because the sun would still be yellow and shining. What I saw was bigger—everywhere at once and nowhere at all. It didn’t look like lightning does, cracking the sky like broken glass. It was more like a swarm of invisible insects devouring the scenery, like static disrupting the picture on a television. That’s how I gave a name to it.

  Nobody else eve
r saw it. I could tell by the way they never flinched or stared. Everyone else went about whatever they were doing like children playing in a field, not knowing the danger of an approaching thunderstorm.

  That doesn’t make me crazy though. I just have a gift. I can see how the world is falling apart around us. Just because they don’t see it, they say I’m wrong. But nobody can know that for sure. I think I’m lucky to see what I see.

  I slowly become aware of Dr. Gysion’s attention resting solely on me from across the circle of kids. Dr. Gysion is pretty easygoing about that. He lets you space out every now and then during group session. But occasionally he’ll single somebody out just to make sure you stay somewhat involved.

  —I’m sorry— I say. —I wasn’t exactly paying attention.— Even though that’s allowed, I still feel my cheeks flush and my hands get sweaty the same way I would in school if a teacher asked me something I couldn’t answer. It’s a conditioned reaction learned early in elementary school. Like raising your hand or potty training. But this isn’t at all like school and Dr. Gysion isn’t a teacher.

  —No worries— he says with a laugh. It’s easy to feel relaxed with him. His voice is really warm. It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome either and closer to our age than the other doctors. —It happens to all of us from time to time.—

  A chorus of muffled laughter squeaks from around the room. Our circle is symbolic. It means everything that is said inside can’t be repeated. It makes everyone a little more comfortable about sharing.

  I look over at Dr. Gysion, uncertain of what I’m supposed to do next. —So … what did you ask me?—

  —Just if there was anything you feel now that you didn’t feel when you first arrived at the hospital— he says. It’s a question he’s asked before. Pretty much at the end of every week, he asks someone that question. There’s a list of standard answers ranging from bored to better. Dr. Gysion accepts these one-word answers. It’s another reason why I like him more than Dr. Richards. He doesn’t make you explain anything if you don’t want to. He’s happy if we just express ourselves in front of kids our own age. One word lets everyone know the sound of your voice.