Title: There's Luke
Chapter: Six (Luke's Point of View)
Even though I know that this is a dream because I can hear my own voice telling me that it is, I beg my conscious self to shut up. It's not often I have a dream like this, one that is clear and almost logical and obviously a dream, even while I'm having it. Something about this dream is unsettling, but out of curiosity I force my subconscious to keep going.
I'm in the diner, and it's dark outside. The diner is closed and it feels empty, but when I look up from the counter I'm wiping with a rag, I notice my sister and my mom sitting at a table in the corner. It's jarring to see my mother here; I haven't dreamt about her in years. When I was a younger, when she died, I'd see her every night. Then I stopped.
They're leaning towards each other, almost whispering, glancing at me every once and a while and then turning back towards one another. I want to ask them what they're doing here, but I can't bring myself to say anything. I just stare.
They're not laughing or smiling. Liz is stirring her coffee too much, shaking her head. I can't take my eyes off my mother, because I've never seen her like this: She's old. In my memories, she'll never be older than 40. In my dreams, apparently, she can be old.
So this is how it would be if she hadn't died when I was a kid and she'd lived long enough for those lines around her eyes to deepen and her hair to start turning gray?
My mother puts her hand over Liz's, the one that's not incessantly stirring her coffee. This strikes me as sad, because when I see it, I realize how much Liz needed my mother. Liz would have been so different if she'd just had my mother for a little bit longer.
My mother glances at me, and I can see the sadness in her eyes. They're not shining like they used to when I was a kid, when she'd sit in the backyard and watch us playing catch with Dad. Why are her eyes so sad? Don't they know how good the world is today?
It's my dream, I tell myself, as I walk to them, wordlessly pulling out a third chair from under their table and sitting down. I put my hands flat on the table.
"What?" I say.
They say nothing. Liz keeps stirring her coffee.
This is all very strange. I don't dream about my family. If I dream at all, it's about running out of bagels, forgetting to get dressed before opening the diner, Taylor deciding to move to Florida. What is it about tonight that's different? Is it because the whole day, while I was showing Lorelai around my dream house and describing our future, I was fighting to keep out images of the past? Is it because when I stood upstairs, showing her where I was going to build a swing set for our future children, I was visualizing the swing set my dad had built for me?
I hear someone knocking softly on the door. When I go to unlock it, I see that it's Lorelai. I'm incredibly relieved to find her here, in my dream, and I gratefully open the door for her. She's dressed in all black, and she just looks at me with those same sad eyes my mother had before. She just hugs me, letting her face linger a moment against my neck, and walks over to the table with my mother and Liz. Silently, she sits down.
I join them again, leaning back in my chair. This is a frustrating dream. Can't I make them talk? Aren't I in charge here?
"Damn it!" I mutter. "What's wrong?" I demand. I'm not even sure if I'm dreaming at this point; maybe I'm trying too hard and this has become more of a daydream than an actual dream. Am I forcing this on myself?
They all look at me for a moment – my mother, with her sad eyes; Lorelai, with that black outfit; and Liz, still stirring. Then, almost instantly, they look away again -- back at the table, the darkness outside the window, Liz's coffee cup. Anywhere but at me. That's when I figure it out. This is how everyone acted when my dad died. That look.
Of course, when my dad died my mother was dead, my sister had already left Stars Hollow, and I didn't know Lorelai. But still. That look. My dad died 15 years ago, but I'll never forget the way people looked at me when it happened. They'd glance at me, their eyes full of pity, and then look away, as if his death were contagious.
The door to the diner opens. I look towards the door, and there he is. My dad. Standing in my diner, just looking around, sort of smiling. Unlike my mother, he doesn't look old. He looks the way he did before he was sick. But as soon as I realize that my dad is here -- when I'm about to stand up and walk closer – he leaves. He just sort of glances at me, looks away, and walks out.
Suddenly I don't want to be having this dream anymore. I don't want to be here with this fake image of my mother and an anxious Liz and my disappearing father. I want to stop this and wake up and--
--I'm on my stomach, facing my alarm clock. It's 3:14 a.m., and my apartment is quiet and dark. Instinctively, I reach over to touch Lorelai. I'll be able to get the ice water out of my veins and feel better as soon as I can see her sleeping, wrapped in my bed sheets instead of wearing all black. I'll tell her about this, and she'll slip her arms around me, and I'll realize that it was just some dream, but this is real.
I slide my hand across the sheet, but it passes over emptiness. She's not in bed. Reality is not turning out to be much more comforting than that dream.
"Lorelai," I ask, as I sit up and rub my eyes.
"Yeah," I hear from the chair by the bed. I switch on the lamp. She's sitting there, wearing my blue shirt, holding a pen and paper.
"It's 3:14," I say. "You couldn't sleep?"
"It's 3:15," she corrects. "And no." She rearranges herself so that she's sitting normally in the chair instead of curled up with her legs folded under her the way she was when I woke up. She leans towards me, but her eyes are looking sideways at nothing.
I want to ask her why not, but that seems stupid because I know why she can't sleep. She's thinking about that basement room at our new house. She's thinking about her little girl, and she's thinking about Rory living in a pool house in Hartford.
"What have you been doing all night?" I ask.
"Nothing. You know, just list making," she says, smiling. She holds up the list, as if I wouldn't believe her otherwise. But I would believe her, because making lists is one of the things she does when she's trying not to deal with something. "But you! Why are you awake? I hear it's 3:15."
I hope that the clock has changed so I can correct her, tell her it's 3:16. She'll laugh and I will have made her stop worrying for a second, but it hasn't. In big red numbers, 3:15 shines back at me.
"No reason." I don't know why I didn't tell her. She looks at me, raising her eyebrows. "Bathroom," I say, lying again.
"Ahh, yes. A few too many cups of herbal tea with your pile of vegetables this evening?" she asks.
"It's called a salad, and yeah, I guess so," I say, pulling myself out of bed.
Now I'm wondering how long I'll have to stand here, in the bathroom, before I can get back in bed. I'm trying to shake this feeling, but everything just seems dark and sad. I was happy today and last night – actually smiling. This morning, I'm standing in my bathroom, staring at my mirror, clutching each side of the porcelain sink, asking myself why I suddenly feel so rotten.
Well, let's see. For one, I just dreamt about my dead mother and my sister and Lorelai dressed in all black, and I saw my dad, who I haven't seen in so long. When I'm awake, it's easy not to think about him. Even on my "dark day" every year, I spend the time trying not to think about him. I'm pretty good at it, too.
I want to tell her about it; I really do. This is the woman I'm marrying, and if I can't tell her about some stupid dream, what hope is there for us? But I'm holding back, and I really think it's because I'm worried about her. If there's one thing Lorelai likes to do, it's sleep. She wasn't sleeping. I can't tell her this right now.
When enough time has passed, I flush the toilet and run the sink for a few seconds and leave. She's writing when I find her, still sitting in the chair.
"So," I say, walking to the chair, putting my hands on her tense shoulders. "What's on this list?"
"Nothing important. Just stuff." She doesn't look up, just keeps staring at her paper. I start rubbing her shoulders, trying to squeeze the tension out of them and out of this moment. I feel her relax a little bit.
"Can I help you with any of it?" I ask.
"It's just, you know, chores and stuff."
I sit down on the edge of the bed, facing her. I stare at her, unwilling to let her off the hook.
"Luke, c'mon, it's nothing," she implores. "Here, listen." She picks up the list and reads it. "Call realtor. Fix front steps. Paint downstairs bathroom."
"House stuff?" I ask her.
"Yes," she says, putting the list down.
"All house stuff?"
"Yes." She hesitates. "All house stuff."
"So mostly house stuff?" I ask.
"Yeah, mostly." She looks at my face for a second and then looks away again, back at the list. I remember the Lorelai-dressed-in-black from my dream because she gave me the same look, and I shudder. She must see that I'm upset, although she doesn't know why.
She picks the list up again. "Clean upstairs closet. Visit Sookie. Check light fixture in room 14. Luke, you don't want me to keep reading this."
"You're right," I say. I put my hand out. She studies my face for a moment, and hands me the list. I read it over. There it is, scrawled in blue, between "more Pop-tarts" and "fix lock to back door." Two simple words: "Tell Rory."
She knows what I've read, and we sit there silently for a moment. "You have a quite a day ahead of you." I pat the bed next to me, and she moves onto the mattress. She rests her head on my shoulder. After a moment, she speaks.
"I don't know how to do this, Luke."
"That's okay," I say.
"Part of me just wants to say, 'You know what, kid? I didn't make you leave; I didn't make you move into some stupid pool house. If this is what you want then –'"
"Lorelai," I interrupt, trying to stop her from finishing that thought.
"How could she do this? She doesn't want to be part of my life. That's what she said when she packed up and moved in there with them. Why do I have to be the one to go to her?" she asks.
I put my arm around her. "It would be a lot easier not to tell her."
"It would," she says.
"Until she finds out from someone else," I say. Lorelai knows this. She also knows she is going to tell Rory. I just wish there was some way to make this easier for her.
Lorelai takes a deep breath and collapses into me a little bit. "I'm tired," she says.
"It's 3:23," I say.
She actually smiles. "Aww, honey, did you miss that day in kindergarten? It's 3:24." And she's right, because as I spoke, the clock changed. Damn.
We maneuver back into a sleeping position – our heads on the pillow, my arm around her waist. But neither of us is sleeping. I'm afraid to shut my eyes because I'm afraid to sleep. She's afraid to shut hers because she's afraid to wake up.
So we lie here, not speaking or moving. At about 4:30 she takes my hand in hers, and just sort of holds it. We don't talk until almost six, when I ask her if she'd like some coffee. When I bring it back upstairs, she's getting dressed in the dark.
"Thanks," she says, taking the paper cup.
"Are you leaving?" I ask stupidly.
"I'm going to Hartford, I guess."
"You're just going to show up?" I don't mean this to sound so sharp, but if Rory is still upset, which I think she is, she might not appreciate waking up to an invading Lorelai.
She glances at me, and then looks away, back to the purple shirt she is buttoning. "Yeah. I guess that's the plan."
"It's early."
"I know. I won't miss her if it's early. She won't answer if I call."
"So you're just going to sneak in?"
"Well, I've had a lot of practice sneaking out," she snaps, but her expression instantly changes to one of regret.
"Let me come," I say. I don't know what I'd do, or how I'd help, but I could. Hell, I could tell Rory about that dream I just had. I could tell her about how my dad was fine, minding his own business, selling hardware and building a boat with his son, and then he just got sick and was gone, and I can't even let myself think about him. She shouldn't be wasting all this time not talking to her mother. Lorelai loves her more than anything in the world.
But I can't say that to Rory, for so many reasons. Lorelai just sighs, and shakes her head. "This is a me thing."
"It doesn't have to be."
"No, Luke. It is. This is a me and Rory thing." She shuts her eyes and sighs again. "But thank you."
She picks up her coffee and her bag. "I'll call you later?"
I shake my head, and with that she leaves the apartment. I sit on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my hands. This is going to be a long day.
Eventually, I manage to get ready for work and trudge downstairs. It's a little after six, but Cesar has everything under control. I pour coffee, deliver plates of eggs, make small talk with the regulars – I'm going through the motions. But this morning is hollow and empty. I can't stop thinking about Lorelai, driving to Hartford. I can't shrug off that feeling from my dream. I keep seeing my dad, standing right here by the front door, but then he's gone again.
I wonder what Lorelai will say to her. It should be easy to tell someone you love that you're getting married to someone else you love. But for Lorelai, it won't be.
And for me, it's not easy either. I realize this as I'm refilling a coffee mug at that table from my dream. I'm talking to Mrs. Nichols about something – the weather, I think – but I keep thinking of Liz and my mother sitting here, whispering. I realize that I haven't told Liz that I'm getting married. Why is that? How can I encourage Lorelai to be honest with Rory, someone who she's upset with, yet I haven't called my sister to tell her my good news?
"Let me know if you need anything," I say, probably interrupting Mrs. Nichols' weather speech. I walk away awkwardly, and slip into the back closet, pulling the phone with me.
This is going to work. Maybe that was the point of the dream. I need to share this with my family. Maybe it wasn't about my dad at all. Maybe I won't have to think about him -- to remember playing baseball in the backyard or fishing in the pond near our house -- if I can just call Liz. I dial.
"Hello?" I hear her say. I realize that it's only 6:45.
"Liz? Did I wake you up?" I ask.
"Luke? No," she lies. "Don't worry about it. TJ and I were just eating breakfast. What's up?"
"Well," I say, moving the phone cord from hand to hand, "I have some news."
"News?"
This isn't so hard. I can do this. "I'm getting married."
"You are?" she says, and I can hear anticipation in her voice. It makes me happy, and now I'm smiling. See. This is working.
"I am."
"To--?"
"Lorelai."
"Oh! Lorelai!" she shrieks. "TJ they're getting married!... No, it's Luke… Luke, my brother… Yes, to Lorelai… I know! Luke, I knew this would happen. A sister knows these things."
I'm actually laughing. She sounds so incredibly happy for me.
"When? How did it happen? Tell me everything?"
So I do. Except I tell her the fairytale version. I leave out the fact that Lorelai asked me first, that she was crushed about Rory right before it happened. I don't tell her that I didn't give her the ring until the next morning. I just tell her the part about kneeling on the diner floor, and I tell her it happened last night. Then I move right on to the Twickham house. Every few sentences, she interrupts me with an "ooh" or an "aww" or some other girl noise, and each time she does, I smile a little bit. This is nice.
"I'm happy for you, Luke. I really am," she says when I'm finished.
"Thanks, Liz." I'm still smiling. "Look, I better get back to work. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
"Well, call back soon. There have been some developments on the Renaissance Fair circuit that might interest you."
"Bye, Liz."
"Bye."
See. All better. When I leave the closet and walk back into the diner, I don't see Liz and my mother sitting at the table; I see Mrs. Nichols reading the paper. It worked. I go back to coffee and eggs and taking orders.
But somehow, now that I'm immersed in diner work, everything is hollow again. That feeling is back, and I know what I'm going to have to do today.
Thanks for reading. Please review! TBC…