The Last Dreamer

by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  “And is there a wife? Was she there, too?”

  “No, she wasn’t there.”

  He paused. “Iliana, did you . . . have an affair with him?”

  “No,” she said firmly.

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Then why were you with him?”

  “Because I thought it would make me a writer again. At least that’s what I told myself.”

  “Well, did you stay in the same hotel?” She nodded. “You went all the way to California and stayed in the same hotel and nothing happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” Iliana said. Marc looked at her. “Nothing,” she repeated. She waited a moment. “Okay, we kissed, but that’s it. I kicked him out after that—”

  “You kissed?” Marc said. “You kissed him?”

  “It was a mistake, and I ended it right away,” she said. “And I’m sorry I let it happen at all. But I’m not sorry about going to California. I learned a lot about myself while I was there, and it’s going to make our marriage stronger—”

  “But you kissed?”

  “Yes, we kissed, but haven’t you heard anything else I said?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard plenty,” he said, walking to the steps. “Plenty enough to know that I’m leaving. Go live in your little writer fantasy, Iliana, because I’ve had it. I’m gone.”

  She sat down on the sofa and listened to him upstairs, packing. He wasn’t frantic and furious, the way he had been on the phone. Just calmly hell-bent on leaving her, which was even more devastating. A short time later, she heard him come back down and walk out the front door.

  She went upstairs and checked on her sleeping children. Then she went into her bedroom.

  And it was after she saw his chest of drawers, with the empty space where his wallet and watch should have been, that she lay down on the bed and sobbed.

  Chapter 22

  “Daddy brought home Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast yesterday,” Dara said as she picked a piece of blueberry skin out of her teeth.

  Iliana handed her a napkin. “I guess he’s the better parent.”

  “Even chocolate frosted, the ones that are ‘toxic,’” Matthew added, putting down his cereal bowl and placing the word in air quotes.

  “That’s right. That’s what they are,” Iliana said.

  “Would you ever buy us Dunkin’ Donuts for breakfast?” Dara asked.

  “Never.”

  “Not even for, like, a birthday?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even a birthday?”

  “If you’re done, will you please clear your place?”

  Dara carried her cereal bowl and juice glass to the dishwasher. “What’s wrong with you? You’re so mean today.”

  “I’m tired, I got home late last night. Let’s go.”

  “So what was with all the shouting?” Matt asked as they climbed in the car. “I was half asleep. I didn’t know if it was real or I was dreaming.”

  “Sorry if we were loud. It was nothing.” Iliana backed out of the driveway.

  “Did you guys have a fight?” Dara asked, sounding hungry for drama. “Is that why Daddy was gone this morning?”

  “He’s usually gone before you get up,” Iliana told her.

  “What time will he be home tonight?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I don’t really know what his plans are.”

  “When the parents got in a fight in Good Luck Charlie, the mom sent the kids to a movie and set up the dining room to look like the place where they had their first date,” Dara said. “Mom, why don’t you send us to a movie tonight and make the dining room like your first date?”

  “You moron,” Matthew told her. “It doesn’t work that way in real life. That’s just an old TV show. Are you really that stupid?”

  It was a question that Iliana had asked herself all morning, and answered to herself as well. Yes, she had been that stupid to get carried away by a TV show. But she wasn’t anymore.

  For the rest of the day, she tried to decide what to say to the kids when they got home. She would have to tell them that Marc might not come home that night, and she thought it was better to do it sooner rather than later. But in the end, she didn’t need to explain it at all. She was setting the table with only three plates for dinner, and the kids were in the family room watching TV, when she heard his key in the front door.

  “I didn’t want to come back,” he told her, as they stood in the doorway. “But I didn’t want to not come back more. I missed you guys. I want to be here.”

  He looked horrible—tired and pale, his overcoat unbuttoned, his tie askew. She stood next to him, not daring to even touch him yet for fear that she’d drive him back out. She was so glad he was home. She didn’t want to live her life without him.

  “Marc,” she said. “I love you. I always have.”

  Later that night, after the kids were in bed and she had finished cleaning up in the kitchen, she found him in the living room, staring into the dark. She walked over and curled up on the couch next to him, wordlessly. She didn’t know what to say, and she suspected he didn’t know either. They had spent so much time blaming each other—him, for pushing her to end her career and make his the priority; her, for holding him back and ruining his chances for greater success—that it was almost as if they needed to learn a new way to communicate. Iliana didn’t know how long the two of them sat there on the couch. But at one point, she placed her hand on his leg. At one point, he put his arm around her shoulder.

  The thing was, when she really thought about it, she wasn’t even sure he had done all that she accused him of. Maybe he was right, maybe Business Times wasn’t as big a deal as she always thought, and maybe Stuart would have gotten promoted over her even if she had stayed, just as Marc said. Maybe the reason she hadn’t done much as a writer wasn’t only because she was too busy doing errands and taking care of her family, but also because she got discouraged too quickly. And maybe Marc was seeing things differently, too. Maybe he realized that part of the reason he’d always wanted her home was that he found her success threatening, and maybe his concerns about financial security were partly about exerting control. And maybe Jeff Downs didn’t really save her sanity in middle school. Maybe the rich girls weren’t so, so bad, and she would have been fine if Guitar Dreams had never existed. The past was a funny thing; in some ways, it was as unknowable as the future.

  The next day Iliana went back to Chelsea’s Home Details and arranged to return the writing desk. It was far too expensive for them. They needed to be careful with money, since Marc wouldn’t be getting a promotion this year, and there was no way of knowing how much time it would take for her to start working and earning some money. But more important, she didn’t need it. She didn’t need some desk—some sentimental, knockoff piece of furniture, as Jodi had said—to provide some cosmic connection to the dreams of her childhood. Romantic notions like that belonged on TV.

  Marc called that afternoon to suggest that she reach out to Jena Connors and say that she didn’t have time to participate in her program. But she told him she’d rather apologize for missing the first meeting and plan to go to all the rest. As long as she was making time to actively look for work, what difference did a couple of afternoon sessions in New Jersey make? Once she stopped seeing the workshop as a threat to her identity, she realized she wanted to help Marc. And Jodi was right. It would probably be fun to play around with flowers.

  After sending off the note, she went into her browser and took a look at some boutique hotels in Manhattan, finally settling on a small one two blocks from Marc’s office. She made a reservation for the following week, and then called Marc and invited him to meet her there for a lunchtime rendezvous. She imagined walking into the hotel and spotting him, sitting in the corner of a darkened bar, waiting for her. With his t
op button unbuttoned and his face aglow from the light of a single candle, he would look irresistibly handsome. After all, he was the man who had built a life with her, made a beautiful family with her, and then come back home to pick up the pieces with her, all because he loved her. He was her husband. And that was better than any dream.

  A few months later, Dara tiptoed into their bedroom late at night and tapped Iliana’s shoulder.

  “Mom, my belly hurts,” she whispered.

  “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Iliana whispered back.

  “No, I just tried.”

  “Any of your friends sick?”

  “Jayden was absent today.”

  Iliana pulled back the covers. “I heard there was a stomach bug going around. Okay, let’s go downstairs and see what we can do.”

  She took Dara to the kitchen, where she poured her a glass of ginger ale, and then settled her on the family room couch, covering her with the wool throw. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV. Keeping the volume down, she flipped through the channels.

  “Ah, Sponge Bob,” Iliana said. “Dara, this should take your mind off your troubles.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Dara said and lowered her head onto Iliana’s lap.

  A few minutes later, she was fast asleep. Not wanting to disturb her by bringing her upstairs, Iliana picked up the remote again and flipped quickly through some more channels to find something interesting to watch. There was a travel show, an old episode of Friends, a few sports shows, a talk show, some music videos, another talk show, and—

  Suddenly she sat up, as straight as she could with Dara curled against her, and went back a few stations to the face she had recognized. Oh my God! she thought when she found the right channel. It was Terry, and he was being interviewed on ET. She never would have guessed it was possible. He really did it. He really got himself back in the spotlight.

  “. . . and the greatest song we ever recorded was ‘The Best of Times,’” he was saying. “We really reached our peak with that one. It had a nice melody and a good beat. But the real reason it took off was that it really captured that time in everyone’s life when things couldn’t be better—you’re young, you got your girlfriend, you got the beach, and the road keeps rising up to meet you . . .”

  Iliana leaned forward, listening to him thoughtfully discuss the Dreamers’ most successful pop song. He sounded smart, much more analytical than she would have ever guessed he could be. And he looked good, too. Not that he had changed so much from when she met him in LA. He was still overweight, with thin, combed-back hair. But he was more relaxed, less desperate than he had appeared the night they went out to dinner. His calm demeanor brought out his eyes, which were as clear and blue as they had been back when Guitar Dreams was on the air. She was glad that Terry was pulling himself together. He really had been sweet to her.

  “Terry tells us he’ll be appearing for two weeks at Bally’s in Las Vegas with other former recording stars,” the reporter was saying. “Check out TerryBrice.com for dates and details.”

  “But Terry is not the only Dreamer cashing in on former glory,” another reporter said, as an old close-up of Jeff appeared on the screen. “Sources tell ET that Jeff Downs, known as the gentle-mannered member of the group, has reached out to the other two bandmates and is close to signing with an indie film company to produce a documentary of the group’s reunion tour, which is scheduled for sometime next year. It’s a complete Dreamers affair, as a source with knowledge about the deal tells us that the tour will be managed by Downs’s wife, Catherine, who had a small, recurring role in Guitar Dreams. Terry added that he and Jeff got together a few months ago in LA.”

  The image switched back to Terry. “This all came about because of this writer friend of Jeff’s,” he said. “He met her in New York, and she convinced him that people still cared about us. So I met up with the two of them in LA, and things just skyrocketed from there. I hope our paths cross again. I’d love to tell her thanks.”

  A new reporter came on-screen and as she began to talk about celebrity pregnancies, Iliana felt herself break out in a big smile. How about that? Terry was fielding interviews, the Dreamers music would be back on the market, the group was scheduling a tour, and Jeff and Catherine—the wise, fame-averse Catherine—were planning a documentary. In spite of everything that had happened, and even in spite of how scary Jeff had been that last night in the hotel, she couldn’t help but feel glad that he was getting the comeback he wanted and that Catherine was okay with it. Life was never short of turns and twists, and people never stopped landing in the most unlikely of places. It was the reason she liked being a writer.

  With that in mind, she wriggled off the sofa, placing a throw pillow under Dara’s head and covering her up again with the blanket. Then she tiptoed over to the dining room and turned on her computer. With the streetlights shining through the windows, she went to the hall closet and fished her digital recorder from her shoulder bag. She put it on the dining room table and opened a blank document on her laptop.

  For a moment she considered writing up Jeff Downs’s story. She could write it from her own perspective—which, after all, was certainly unique. She had been the only one around when Jeff had hatched his comeback plan and when Terry had shown up to join him. And now that he and Terry were back on the entertainment industry’s radar, maybe it would be more marketable than when she had tried to pitch it to magazines before. All of her impressions from California were still in her head, and all he had said to her in Mount Kisco about his Guitar Dreams days was saved there on the recorder.

  But then she closed the computer. No, she thought—that ship had sailed. Jeff’s story didn’t merit a book or even an article, at least not by her. It was a story of looking backward, of glomming on to past fantasies, and she had no interest in doing that ever again. If there was anything productive that had come out of her time with Jeff Downs, it was the realization that she could be passionate and determined. Now it was time to find a writing project that was entirely hers, and that warranted her passion and determination. Maybe, she thought, she would move ahead with the book she had always intended to write, about four distinct people striving to make it in New York. Maybe it didn’t have to be four, and maybe it didn’t have to be about New York. But it should be about people taking a chance and making an impact. She had always loved to uncover what made people tick.

  She decided to think more about how she wanted to proceed tomorrow. For tonight, she had an under-the-weather daughter to take care of. She turned on the recorder and, with a quick touch of a button, deleted Jeff’s interview. Then she went to take Dara upstairs.

  Leading her daughter to the stairway, Iliana thought about the teenage world that Dara was about to enter. It was so different from when she was growing up. Back then, she had to wait for the monthly issue of Teen to find out what Jeff Downs was up to, and the news was always G-rated. These days, a person couldn’t go more than a few hours without hearing about drug busts, DUI arrests, rehab stints, and ugly breakups and hookups involving any number of hot young stars. Was Dara more jaded than Iliana had been? Too jaded to fall in love with a guy simply because he looked good on TV?

  She thought that the answer was yes, but when she reached Dara’s room, she realized that it actually was no, not at all. Iliana hadn’t focused on it for a long time, but on the bulletin board right above the bed was a photo of Dara with Brandon Ryde of Amplify, taken after the concert she had treated Dara to last month. He had put his cap on Dara’s head just as Iliana snapped the photo, and Dara had transferred the photo to her Instagram account, where she had gotten more than eighty “likes” from her friends and classmates. Then she had posted the photo on his Facebook fan page, and he had “liked” it there. She came downstairs the next morning exclaiming how awesome he was to have “liked” her photo, inferring from his technological handiwork all the wonderful personality characteristics that
Iliana had inferred from Jeff Downs’s unique smile. And so it began.

  Iliana helped Dara into bed, covered her with her comforter, and kissed her cheek. Dara would be thirteen in a few weeks, and Matt would be fifteen a month after that. Driver’s licenses, prom, college . . . Matt was at the starting gate of adulthood, and Dara was right on his heels. How long would it be until a flesh-and-blood boy replaced the charismatic singer on the bulletin board?

  She watched Dara sleep for a bit, then quietly left the room. It was fine if Dara dreamed about pop stars—for now. But someday soon, her dreams needed to center around who she wanted to become and what wonderful things she wanted to accomplish. And Iliana was determined to teach her that those kinds of dreams were the ones that mattered. It was a lesson that she owed her beautiful daughter.

  Acknowledgments

  I am so thankful to my mentors and good friends, Patricia Dunn and Jimin Han, of Sarah Lawrence College’s Writing Institute, for their extraordinary teaching and unending support. Thanks, too, to Cynthia Manson, the best agent a writer could have, and to her immensely gifted editorial assistant, Nancee Adams-Taylor. I couldn’t be more thrilled to have Danielle Marshall of Lake Union Publishing as my acquisitions editor and Tiffany Yates Martin as my developmental editor. Their insights helped me discover and explore elements of the book that I never even realized were there—and working with them has been pure pleasure! My gratitude extends to the entire Lake Union team for all their help and expertise. Finally, I send a huge thank-you to my wonderful husband, Bennett, and our three amazing children—David, Rachel, and Alyssa. You four are my dream come true!

  About the Author

  Photo © 2015 Andrea Harnick Tuchman

  Barbara Solomon Josselsohn is a magazine writer specializing in articles and essays about home and family. Her work has appeared in the New York Times, Consumers Digest, Parents, American Baby, and Westchester Magazine, as well as on numerous websites. She and her husband live in Westchester County, New York, and have three children and a lovable shih-poo. The Last Dreamer is her first novel.