Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll)

by Kisner, Stevie

  I’m still astounded that she wanted to go to the market yesterday after unpacking; she even emptied the cedar chest in the hall and put the stuff from my suitcases in it. I don’t know where she finds the energy to keep moving… or maybe that’s her secret. Pure momentum.

  Kori had insisted on going shopping to fill the refrigerator and JT had insisted that relaxation and some takeout was the better idea. After a little bickering about how much she missed home-cooked meals, they split the difference and phoned in an order to her favorite Chinese restaurant, then she went out in pursuit of milk, eggs and butter.

  JT wanted to go along, since she was picking up the takeout on the way back home, but Kori said everything about him screamed ‘I’m not from around here!’ When you added his rather imposing build and height, his often strong British accent and, of course, his highly recognizable face, she’d said they’d never get back home. She went on to say that it was too late in the season to hide his hair under a baseball cap and too late in the day for wearing sunglasses indoors to dim his high-voltage eyes. In short, his usual means of hiding would only draw more attention and they wouldn’t get out of the supermarket ‘til the milk curdled.

  He shrugged and gave in, knowing she was probably right. It was better if he stayed there anyway; Mark was dozing, both from the medication and from the return to the high altitude, and Zach had immediately taken off through the neighborhood in search of his friends. There should be someone home and awake, just in case. For either of them.

  He settled his travel-weary frame into the couch and picked up the television remote, planning to kick back and watch some mind-numbing cable. He flipped through the channels several times and found nothing that captured his interest.

  I hadn’t intended to snoop about, but somehow it ended up happening anyway. I only meant to look around a bit…

  He’d started out browsing all the photos hanging in the hall, intrigued by all he didn’t know about her. There was so much of her history here. She knew his past; the press made sure that a lot of his life was put on public display, and she’d admitted to reading the biography that the band had put out years ago. And then there were all those times she’d visited inside his head and picked up the bits and pieces of his mundane daily life that weren’t fit to print. Not good magazine fodder, that; somehow I don’t think knowing that rainy days make me want to write mushy, wistful lyrics I’d be too embarrassed to ever record would sell a lot of copy.

  They looked so hopeful and happy in those wedding pictures. And so young! She really was a blushing bride. How her face just glowed, even in the candid shots. I wonder if she’ll look that radiant at our own wedding or if her smile will be tempered her loss?

  The assumption that she would become his wife slipped through his mind without notice and he sidestepped down the hall to look at the photos of Zach, growing from a newborn to what appeared to be last year’s school portrait. There were older pictures, too, of both Kori and Mark as little children. Such a clone of his mother at that age, Zach is. I wonder which one of us our kids will more resemble? I don’t know that I could deny anything to a daughter of ours if her eyes mirrored her mother’s. That turquoise simply does me in. Just like the idea of their eventual marriage, the bemused thought of the children he wanted to have with her slid through his consciousness unheeded.

  The short hallway gallery ended at the closed door to Mark and Kori’s bedroom; JT paused there and cocked an ear toward the door, listening to Mark’s uneven wheezing peppered with an intermittent snore or groan. He sounds so bad. Much as I’ll miss him myself, and hard as I know it’ll be on Kori and her son, it truly will be a blessing when his pain draws to an end. I know, from the conversations he and I have had, that he’s almost looking forward to it. And I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s asked me to look out for them once he’s gone. It’s almost as if he’s aware, on some sublevel, that she and I will be together. I wonder if he really knows what that means. He shook his head, not ready to fully wander down that path just yet. Eventually, I’ll have to tell him, I think, if for no other reason than to let him go with the peace of mind that his family will be well taken care of and loved.

  He began to make his way back down the hall, looking at the other wall; the photos on this side were enlargements of colorful landscapes and striking skylines, rich with the sherbet and easter-egg hues of the rising or setting sun. If I didn’t know what an eye she had for composition, I’d swear she lucked into some of the most beautiful… what the fuck is that? I know that place, know that rocky outcropping and that overhanging cliff. Somehow she managed to catch the red of the rocks just perfectly… He glanced down to the little paper caption she’d affixed at the bottom of the photo: Red Rocks, Jemez, New Mexico 1995.

  What the hell am I thinking? I’ve never been there. I don’t even know how to pronounce the city. But I know that place. I’ve seen it. I can almost smell the crisp air there, so high in the sky it is. And at the edge of that ridge… He peered closely at the right side of the photo, but the frame cut off the downward-slanting edge of the red-tinted crest. It’s there. I know that bent little tree is there.

  JT pulled the photograph down from the wall and flipped it over. He quickly bent back the tabs that fastened the flimsy cardboard back onto the frame and pulled it off, letting it drop to the carpet. His hands were beginning to tremble and he couldn’t grasp the edge of the photo to take it out. I know this place, I know this place… goddamn it… What the FUCK with this thing!

  He swore under his breath, his patience gone as his nail-less fingers failed to bring up the edge of the photograph again and again. Exasperated, he placed one hand on the glass and pushed it backwards; the glass popped loose and the frame slid down his arm to dangle like an oversized bracelet. He sandwiched the paper and glass between his palms and slid the paper to one side, exposing at last the edge of the photo. He bent it back with the pad of one broad thumb and gasped softly.

  There it is, that tree grown all sideways with the constant wind. Holy shit, what does this mean?

  I know I’ve never been here. There. Whatever…

  You know what it means, JT, a voice tickled from deep inside. You may not like it, or even have known about it, but you know very well what this means.

  “Holy fuck,” he mumbled, too stunned to notice he’d cut his thumb on the sharp edge of the glass.

  What else do I know that I don’t know I know?

  JT drew his eyes quickly over the rest of the photos on the wall, but they were fairly recent and he didn’t recognize any of the places in them. Zach’s room was a few feet further down the hall; he stepped through the doorway and looked around for anything familiar. The pictures on the walls seemed fresh to his eyes, as did all the decor. Damn! Nothing in here. He turned to leave and his gaze flickered to the high shelf above the doorframe. And froze.

  It can’t be. It simply cannot be real.

  “But it is,” tickled the voice again. “Touch it, take it down, JT, and you’ll feel it for yourself.”

  His hands obeyed and reached up, gently grasping the mottled fur. He closed his eyes and cradled it to his chest, the disbelief still sounding loudly through his head. Poor Josie Bear. His fingers tenderly stroked the patchy fuzz. Too many washings. I remember how heartbroken she was when you emerged from the dryer with one of your eyes missing. And how she’d been aghast at the suggestion that it be replaced by a button. A button. He can’t see out of a button, she’d said. It’s far better that he only have the one eye and the hole where the other one used to be.

  And the tears she’d cried when one of her uncles pushed your nose clean into your face, leaving behind a pucker that looked like a mouth. The adults thought it was hilarious to look at you that way and didn’t understand why she felt so injured. But I did. You were real to her, her security, the one she held when she wished that she couldn’t hear all the horrible things that people really thought behind the shelter of their skulls. And when she squeezed you
particularly tight, when she was completely convinced that the world was too good for the wretched people in it and she begged for just one person who would understand, you’d bring me to her again.

  His head flooded with the memories and he teetered on the brink of emotional overload. He pulled the battle-worn stuffed bear closer to his face and breathed her in once again. Mostly dust and stuffing, but I can still smell the faded remnants of her favorite perfume as a teenager. I don’t know what it was called, but I’d know that scent anywhere. Sweet, but not so much it was heady, with a little musk and a hint of balsam. A single tear slipped down his cheek and landed on the faded golden fur that had absorbed so many of hers long before.

  Oh my God. I remember it all.

  She’d insisted that it was spelled with an ‘i’ on the end. Cherri, for her favorite flavor and her favorite color. My imaginary friend was not at all imaginary. In the name of all that’s holy, how long have we been doing this?

  JT sank deeper into the pillow-backed sofa, a satisfied smirk flirting with the corners of his lips. I don’t know how long I can keep this a secret, but so far, she hasn’t the foggiest clue that I remember. And she nearly caught me…

  Josie Bear seemed to be the only remnant of her childhood that was in her son’s room. Everything else looked too current. He set off through the house with the ancient bear nestled close to his chest, looking for more clues, more history and more answers.

  He paused in front of the little knickknacks and assorted other brick-a-brack that were scattered over bookshelves, but nothing clamored the bell of recognition. She must have gotten most of this stuff since she grew up. Since she stopped letting me in the way she used to. He wondered if her old mementos were stashed somewhere in her bedroom. She has to still have some of that stuff. She’s too sentimental to have gotten rid of all of it.

  He paused in front of other photographs, and again, none of the places nor the people were familiar. Why did I know that one place like I’d visited it often when in fact I’ve never been there at all? What’s with that Red Rocks photo?

  Photo albums. She’s got to have a lot of them, with as many pictures as she takes. But where?

  Wasn’t that what she took out of the cedar chest to make room for my clothes? I thought it was a bunch of books, but maybe it wasn’t. Hmm, if I had to stash a bunch of big albums somewhere, where would I put them? Better yet, if I were Kori, and I had to put them somewhere, where would that be? Someplace out of the way…

  The sunroom. He spun on his heel and padded in his stocking feet to the little enclave, still bright with the light of the setting sun on the back of the house. Stacked neatly on the floor under one corner of her Danish-style desk were at least seven photo albums in varying somber colors. And one faded pink satin-covered album.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor next to the desk and extracted the pale volume from the pile. Our Baby was stamped in thready gold script on the stained satin binding. JT ran a trembling hand over the words, slightly indented in the padded cover. The answers are all in here. Not that I really need confirmation, do I? Still, it’d be nice to know that I wasn’t a slightly mad child and that I didn’t just experience a moment of lucid insanity.

  JT hugged the worn bear a little tighter and held his breath as he opened the book, passing over the pasted-in newspaper announcement and the inky first footprints on yellowed paper embossed with the name of the hospital where she’d taken her first breath. He flipped further in, past the saved congratulatory cards and the photos of her infancy. I wouldn’t remember any of that, even if she’d found me way back then. I’m only two years older, after all.

  JT turned a handful of pages at once, winding up near the middle of the old book. Fifth Christmas was spelled out in building-block letters across the top of the page. He glanced down at the square photograph, still marginally stuck to the paper with tape stained deep amber from age. A tow-headed girl smiled blissfully back at him, unmistakably Kori. Those turquoise eyes, even then. In her arms she clutched a brand new golden bear wearing a red shirt and bow tie. That’s right, my fuzzy mate, you used to be such a stunning dresser. Those were a washing machine casualty, too. That bow tie unraveled your very first trip through the spin cycle.

  He looked further down the page to the notes section; in her mother’s schoolteacher-perfect cursive he saw something that made him release the breath he’d been holding since he opened the album. Under the word Gifts, about halfway down the list, was written Stoneybear, the stuffed toy’s trademarked name. In a side note next to it, her mother had added ‘Kori insists on calling it Josie Bear for some reason, and I don’t think she’s let go of it since Christmas morning.’ JT grinned and pressed the bear a little closer to his side.

  He turned more pages, flashes of recognition coming with each snapshot. I remember that swingset in the back yard, how it squeaked at the crest of the forward arc when she had the swing going so high that the chain would go slack for a moment and she felt like she was flying. And if she squinted her eyes closed a bit so that all she saw was her canvas tennis shoes silhouetted against the sky, she could convince herself that she’d left the earth. Then the chain would snap tight and jerk her back to reality again. I used to sail along with her into the clouds, our own little imaginary world. God, how could I have forgotten that?

  Or forgotten the time she was riding the swing too high and somehow managed to rip a chunk out of her middle finger with the chain? I never could get out of her how it happened, but I do recall that it was summer. I was heading for bed grumbling that the sun hadn’t finished setting yet and how unfair it all was that I had to go to sleep while it was still light outside when I heard this God-awful shriek. I remember looking around, wondering where it had come from and why no one else seemed alarmed. I heard it again and realized it was her, so of course I was the only one in the house who could hear it.

  I think I shocked the hell out of my mum when I almost ran to my room without another word. My only thought was to get to her and give her comfort. I got into bed and closed my eyes and I was there, right where and when she needed me. (Just like now…)

  We spent a lot of time together that way, passing her late afternoons and evenings in her world while I lay in bed not falling truly asleep for hours. And from the moment I awoke, it seemed she was there, tagging along through the mornings. The little sister I didn’t have, the best friend who didn’t require explanations and always understood my slightly off-kilter sense of humor.

  They’d hold entire conversations without spoken words; they realized early on that voices weren’t necessary. And their parents and friends stopped throwing them strange looks once they’d quit talking to someone that no one else could see.

  JT never thought anything of the easy way they slipped in and out of each other. And the fact that she was most decidedly a girl never came into play, either. Not until shortly after JT’s twelfth birthday that is, and he started noticing the girls in his neighborhood and they began noticing him in return.

  Suddenly things weren’t quite so easy between them. She was a little younger; something else that had never mattered until she perceived his changing feelings toward the females who were right in front of him. And were all he seemed to think about any more. She didn’t understand his new emotions and he found himself attempting to explain something he didn’t fully grasp himself.

  He felt her presence less and less often as the fall and winter of his twelfth year passed, and he, in turn, sought her out less frequently when he lay in bed, unable to fall asleep with the vision dancing through his head of the pretty girl who sat two seats away in school.

  By that spring, Cherri had faded into an occasional dream-figure, since that was the only place I ever saw her any more. Well, as much as I can say I saw someone whose face was completely unknown to me. I knew her hands, her scabby knees, even her bare feet (she hated shoes, and, now that I know who ‘Cherri’ was, I can say that she still does) but I never could see her face.

>   Whenever she looked at her reflection in anything from water to mirrors, I saw my own face.

  That was something else he’d never questioned; since she wasn’t real (so he’d thought, anyway), she couldn’t have a face of her own and had to share his.

  He remembered objects and places he’d seen with her eyes, but the faces of the people she knew, while recognizable when he saw them, vaporized in his memory when they were apart. At first he thought that odd, but after a while he came to expect it and figured out a rationale to explain it. It was part of his imaginary world and thus not worth remembering.

  And now that I know it wasn’t imaginary at all, I do wonder about not being able to remember or recognize the faces of the people she knew. I didn’t get to know their names, either. Maybe someday I’ll get up the balls to ask her if she knows why that is. And if it happened the same way for her.

  For the time being, she doesn’t know that I remember any of it. And now that I do, I wonder how I could have forgotten it at all. Every detail is as vivid now as it was when I was a boy.

  When I was a boy.

  I didn’t notice the gradual disappearing act then, but I do remember one day realizing that we hadn’t talked, or whatever would be the right thing to call it, in a long time. And that I missed her. I wrote it all off to growing up and that only children had imaginary friends.

  Still, I missed her, my Cherie.

  Cherie? What am I thinking? Not Cherie.

  Cherri, like the fruit but with an ‘i’ on the end. Luscious and sweet… stop it, JT.

  Don’t even go down that road.

  But now that makes me wonder. How much had I really forgotten? And how long have I had this suspicion that Kori was Cherri? All it took was a little twist in my mind to drop one ‘r’ and soften the beginning and Cherri became Cherie.

  Good lord, just how long have I been subconsciously trying to find Cherri and bring her back into my life?