In A Dream

How it begins varies from night to night, but the dream always ends the same. To simplify matters, I will tell you the most recent incarnation of said dream; the last time I dreamt of those events before my real life became more… complicated. She was a fourteen-year-old girl and I had no idea who she was or if she was even real. Raven colored hair was neatly tied into two braided pigtails and the top of her head was neatly covered with a green hair rag. Her eyes were a vibrant baby blue hiding behind a thick pair of eyeglasses with brown rims. She wore a navy blue thermal sweater underneath a worn gray t shirt with a pair of worn out black denim jeans.

There was no name mentioned nor was there much of a reason for me to be chasing her, but I knew that finding her was the object of the dream. I chased her through a small residential neighborhood where each house stood lined up along the streets like gigantic soldiers. The smell of wet grass still lingers in the nostrils long after I wake up. All I hear is the pitter patter of her Chuck Taylors on the asphalt followed by mine and closely behind is another set. As I look back to see who it is, it’s my best friend, Roger, who’s out of breath and about to pass out. We reach a cul-de-sac and sway your heads about our necks searching for our would-be captive.

From the house to my right, I hear the sliding of a window and see the soles of her feet sliding away from sight. Roger leaps to the front door to alert the resident to the presence of an unwanted visitor in the home. I see the cedar wood fence leading to the back door and don’t even hesitate to leap over it. My feet land together on the other side. Out of breath, I brush the hair out of my eyes and tiptoe towards the backyard. A lonely swing set sat quietly on the lawn; a small dirt lot with patches of green and brown grass. There was no way for her to escape without my knowing it. I peek through the back door and see Roger already inside, invited by the owner of the house. Roger gestures for me to come through the backdoor.

Still cautious, I approach with soft steps. The homeowner looks at me as if I had been in his home before. He points to a door and tells me that that’s her bedroom. I turn the knob and it rattles before the door creaks open. The young girl is sitting on her bed facing the corner of the room, softly sobbing to herself. I reach over to place a hand gently on her shoulder and ask if there is a reason for her tears and she slowly turns her head towards me.

The eyes that are staring back at mine are all of a sudden familiar. My chest collapses as the breath is quickly stolen from my lungs. The room spins about me as I sit on the bed. Her small hand reaches over to mind and as her fingers curl to touch my palm, a chill bolts down my spine. She’s icy cold. I look into her cobalt blue eyes as the corners of her lips curl into a soft, welcoming smile.

“Yes, William,” her gently and hauntingly familiar voice says, “It’s me.”

“Carmen?” and in a cold sweat I wake up alone in my bed.

“It’s just a dream,” Roger tells me, “There’s nothing more to it.”

“You’re probably right,” I hesitantly agree, “But so much of it felt so real.”

“You’re talking about Carmen, here, Will. Of course you’re going to have dreams like this. She left you seven years ago when we were all fourteen. I know you miss her, but it’s not healthy to look into your dream as anything more than just that.”

“But what if--”

“I’m sorry, Will. I’m your best friend and I’ll be by your side whenever you need me but I’m not going to play Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote on this wild goose chase.”

I scoured the internet and buried myself in newspaper clippings hoping to find a clue that matched the neighborhood in my dream. After 5 days of constant research I thought I found the area I was looking for in an obscure neighborhood just outside Rochester, NY. I took the next flight out the following day and stayed in a rundown motel just off the main highway. My financial situation dictated that that was the only living quarters that I could afford at the time, despite its being so shady.

The next day, my eyes were puffy as they spent the majority of the night staring at the ceiling more than they did the inside of my eyelids. I drove to the spot with my stomach in knots, unsure of what I was about to get myself involved in. I parked the car around the corner and walked to the spot where my dream usually started. For some reason I felt the uncomfortable warmth on the back of my neck as if someone had followed me from the motel.

A large friendly hand landed sharply on my shoulder and my heart skipped two or three beats in the process. I nearly swung a fist in the direction of my arm before I turned my weary head to see Roger standing at my side. His mouth scrunched over to the side of his scruffy face as he nodded in hesitant approval.

“I appreciate you being here, Roger,” I commented.

“Your parents were worried,” he answered, “I came here as a favor to your folks.”

“How did you find me?”

“You never did learn to clean up after yourself in the library. Besides, you’ve described your dreams so many times; I could have found the place on my own.”

“I’m not ready to go home yet.”

“I’m not asking you come home. I know you have to do this. But if we’re here for more than a week, I’ll be forced to use chloroform and drag you home.”

“Whatever brought you out here… I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”

“So when is Carmen supposed to show up?” Roger asked with a whisper of skepticism in his voice.

“I’m not sure that that’s exactly how this is how it’s supposed to work,” I answered, just as skeptical.

Just then, I had the sudden urge to trace my footsteps in the dream. I was standing in that exact spot when I realized that Roger was at my side, chasing the young girl. My eyes shut gently and I could almost hear the clopping of the rubber soles of her shoes hitting against the asphalt. The air was cold as I gulped it into my lungs and opened my eyes. Retracing my footsteps from the latest version of the dream I chased a phantom of the dream down the street and around a corner and finally into the cul-de-sac. Roger tried hard to catch up to me, and his breath tried to catch up with him. Suddenly, a voice broke the monotony.

“William?” an elderly man called out from my right, “Roger? Is that you?” We both turned our heads to find Carmen’s father whom we hadn’t seen in seven years but the effects of aging made him appear at least 15 years older. He invited us into the house, which was accurate to the one depicted in my dream. Every square inch, every brick and beam and brown patch of grass, even the lonely swing set in the back yard was there as they were in my sleeping subconscious. I looked around and saw pictures of the family and noticed a cryptic pattern.

“Where is Carmen?” I asked.

Her father responded with a hard swallowing gulp and looked at the ground for three seconds before looking up at me and changing the subject. He smiled uncomfortably and closed his eyes as if to say that he was giving up the charade he had apparently been performing. Weakly, he raised his strong but old arm and pointed a finger to the hallway just behind the spot where I was standing.

“That’s her room,” he responded, “You can have a look for yourself.”

Roger gave me a nod and I turned the knob slowly. The hinge groaned slightly as the door swung lethargically open almost as if it were trying to stop me from entering the room. It didn’t seem to be out of the ordinary at first glance. The posters and bedding and pictures were all just how she had arranged them in her old house before she moved. But I quickly realized that this was the room of a fourteen-year-old girl. Had she not changed in the seven years that we were apart? What had happened to cause her father to age so horribly?

“Everyone tells us that there was nothing we could have done to help her,” Carmen’s father finally responded, “But it’s hard to walk past her room and except what’s happened as reality. It happened shortly after we came here.” He handed me a newspaper that he had kept for the past seven years and opened to a specific page that explained it all. As I slumped over, I took a seat on her bed, the way her fourteen-year-old self always did in the dream. And through salted tears, I read her name on the obituary.