After I'd done with work at school, I always took the same road home as I did the day before. Every night, whether grading papers or watching TV, I didn't feel any different. I was as content as I was yesterday, and the day before that. Last week, it was the same, just as it were last month… maybe even last year.
Each morning, I'd wake up, wash up, and right after I'd finished getting dressed, I put on the ring. I thought I knew about where I bought everything in my apartment—the chairs, table, dishes, nothing superfluous—but I could never figure out where I got the ring. Maybe it was something I got from my mother, that sweet but pale face clouded by the fog in my head. That must be why I was so attached to it, or so I thought all those years ago. It made me feel safe, like the clover-green shine of the rock was a sign of good luck.
But good luck or no, nothing changed routine. Every weekday was dealing with ten-year-olds and helping out at the hospital. Every weekend was spent at home, maybe a few hours at the hospital garden grounds, where spring would offer fresh buds and the songs of the arriving larks. The biggest thing to look forward to at Christmas or New Year's was a quaint celebration at the convent followed by a much louder and longer party at Granny's. At either place, I was the fly on the wall, misplaced in a town I grew up in. Nothing strayed out of place until Emma arrived with Henry at tow. Until she came, I didn't have a roommate, or any relatives who visited, for that matter. Memories of any family I had would slip away as soon as I tried to grasp at them, or they'd stay in a constant haze like the memory of my mother.
However… some things were clearer, mostly when I was dreaming. When I was alone, when parts of my day—Mary Margaret's day—would dissolve as I slowly drifted into sleep, there were pictures that seemed less obscured from the mental fog. One night, it was a vibrant forest with strokes of bright emerald, the rich dirt dotted with white, gold, and lavender. The next night was a brief glimpse into a room made of sturdy wood and ivory, a wide ocean view just beyond the window. Wherever the visions took place, they had one thing in common, something that made me hug the covers closer: its space was filled with people—warm, smiling people, gathered in that sunlit space, welcoming each other; welcoming me.
In my heart, I knew that it was only a dream, and even (or especially) now I don't know when that fairy tale haven can become a reality.
"Mom?"
But even in the face of doubt, I will never lose face. It took twenty-eight years for Mary Margaret Blanchard to stand up for herself, but her dream has been the same as my own. Both of us have had enough of being haunted by these wonderful visions when for the longest time, we could never escape to them. And now that I have the chance, I am never going back.