Berlin, Germany 1989
What a wonderful dream I had last night. I remember it in vivid detail. Ha! Papa's always telling me what a bright girl I am. "Ray," he always says in his booming baritone, "You're as smart as a whip, don't ever let nobody tell ya differently, ya hear me?" That's probably why I still remember the dream.
I dreamt it was my sixteenth birthday. Decorations of red, blue, green, and gold lined the house. The fire in the hearth burned brightly and filled the house with the sent of burning pine. Mama was at the table, her long hair falling over her shoulders, her white apron smudge with bits of cake batter. Papa was holding my little brother, Yevik as he sputtered, in that secret language only babies know. There were lots of people lounging, mostly village kids, whose names I don't remember.
Everyone was laughing, talking, and eating. Small packages wrapped in brightly colored paper, I took to be presents, were sitting in a corner against the timber walls, and waiting to be opened. In the dream I rushed upstairs. I rushed past the old family photos, sprinkled with dust, of my great-grandparents Lvon and Mischika. I rushed past my parent's room and made my way into my room. The scent of Lilies and babies' breath filled the room.
There it was lying on my bed, exactly where Mama said it would be. The dress, the beautiful dress my mother made especially for my sixteenth birthday, the day, when I became a woman. I reach out and touch the soft gauzy fabric. It feels airy between my fingers, like cloth made by fairies. I can't believe this was once my great grandmothers wedding dress. The dress she wore as she say "I do" to my great-grandfather Lvon, as they boarded the train bound for the "new world". I can almost feel my history woven into the threads.
The dress is amazing. Although simple in its straight silhouette, the small gold designs of roses across the bodice show the time my great-great-grandmother put into it. I can imagine her gnarled hands sewing the fabric by the dim light of candles. The dress has been passed down from generation to generation, from my great-grandmother to my grandmother, my mother, and finally to me.
I am almost afraid to put it on, my hands shake. What if I rip one of the seams? Though, there is little chance of that happening, my mother worked endlessly to get the dress ready for me, sewing and mending many hours. I am still hesitant; I have a natural knack for clumsiness. I firm my resolve and press the dress close to my body. I turn side-to-side trying to imagine the dress on my skinny body. The light catches the strands of gold thread making the dress shimmer.
Hastily, I slip off my ragged hand-me down shirt and trousers. Carefully, I slip the dress over my head. It floats over my body like white liquid, falling gently into place. I adjust the tiny straps and turn to the mirror. The vision that greets me is unfamiliar, hardly my own.
In place of the tall, skinny pale peasant clad in ragged clothes is a princess dressed in her silk best ready for the ball. The little straps of the dress leave the front of my almost non-existent cleavage, exposed to the warm air. My long red hair, falling in waves over the dress, looks radiant next to the creamy white of the gown. My eyes shine, I look…beautiful. I concentrate hard and try and envision my great-grandmother, Mischika, getting married in the gown that I am wearing. Did she too look into the mirror and feel herself become transformed? The thought makes me laugh. I spin and spin, enjoying the rush I get.
When the room finally stops spinning, (long after I've halted) I take another look into the mirror. A powerful blush creeps to my cheeks. I should have returned to the party a while ago. I take the brush off the edge of my dresser and run it through my hair, a little harder than usual.
"Raven, langsames Kind, beeilen sich oben," my mother's voice floats up the stairs. As I smooth down the dress, I swear I can hear my soft Mischika's laughter following me down the steps. I move as slowly as a snail in autumn, I don't want to trip or damage the dress. As I reach the stair landing, I see my mother's face. There are tears in her large blue eyes. I want to take her in my arms and tell her that I'll always be her little girl. Instead, I walk gracefully down the steps to the whispering and staring of my friends and family.
I have to look anywhere but at my mother or I'll start to cry too. My papa is standing next to her looking like the proudest father in the world. For an instant, I can see the young vibrant man my mother married 25 years ago.
"Ein was für Anblick, eine Prinzessin, do I not have the most beautiful daughter in the world," my father boasts loudly. A chorus of agreements rises up to meet his declaration. My blush deepens.
Playfully, I slap him on the arm "Oh, Papa."
My mother dabs at her eyes with the end of her apron, "Mein schönes, your Mischika would be so proud of you."
Before I can respond, thankfully my father steps in. "Come now my love, our little Mädchen is growing up. If I am correct, I believe there is a cake in the living room with a special someone's name on it."
I smile and follow him in the living room. I try to avoid catching anyone's eye, concentrating on taking miniature steps.
The cake looks beautiful, icing at its edges as soft as clouds. My father quickly gathers everyone into the living room (much too small to accommodate every member but somehow they all fit). His booming voice calls for immediate attention. When Papa speaks everyone listens. I feel strange; I don't like the stares boring into me, even if it is my birthday.
The cake sits in front of me, my family pressed close at my sides. I feel slightly claustrophobic staring at all of their smiling faces. My mothers hand lands gently on my shoulder, "Go ahead meine tochter, make a wish" I stare hard at the cake my mother slaved all day to bake, the sixteen candles flicker and dance in the still room.
I turn my head and look at all the expecting faces. Tall, short, old, young, every possible variation stands before smiling with a happiness that resonates around the room.
The candles flickers, "What shall I wish for?"
I have my friends, my family, my history, what more could I possibly wants? My mother and father's hands are clasped tightly, love radiates from them in invisible waves.
Love.
That is what I shall wish for, a love of my own, someone who is exciting and handsome, and someone to spend my lone nights with. The thought of some handsome prince descending from the clouds dances before my eyes. I shake my head; I am too old for such foolish fantasies. The cake looms before me, waiting for me to choose an action.
I will not keep everyone waiting.
I blow out the candles with a soft breath, the wish still fresh in my mind. Everyone claps, and I am relieved. My cousin, Gyna looks to me expectantly, "What did you wish for?"
My only reply is a sly smile.
It is rumored, that if you revel your wish to someone before it comes to pass, it never will.
Perhaps that is why I kept my mouth shut.
Author's Note: I hope you liked this chapter. Remember, the setting is in Germany in 1989, Mystique is having a memory of her sixteenth birthday. Please review, hoped you liked the chapter. The next chapter also takes place in a memory, although Mystique will not be dreaming.
