Chapter 20

The Girl of His Dreams

A text chime called to Alan as he lay in bed Friday night, skimming the state driver's manual. As he faced the open book down on top of his bed to hold his place, he was certain he knew who it might be, and he was delighted to see he was correct. It was Muffy.

I hope you're not still studying that manual.

That was marginally alarming. How had she known that?

She's likely just teasing again. Alan grinned at the thought as he tapped out his response.

I'm not.

You're fibbing. You took way too long to reply. ;)

I was more or less trying to lull myself to sleep. George is bringing the chessboard over first thing in the morning, then I have yoga, all before the knowledge test.

Busy morning. Don't let me keep you.

Alan realized his response could easily be taken the wrong way. Hastily, he tried his best to type, "I'm not trying to brush you off". In fact, the opposite was true. This was a good distraction. Should he just delete the message and call her and explain? Perhaps carry on from there? If she wanted to talk, he was willing to talk as well. Right now, it sounded more appealing than reading about hand signals for the umpteenth time. However, Muffy, the more experienced texter of the two, with smaller hands and faster thumbs, had already added to her reply.

I should go to bed early too. A stylist is coming over at 9:30 to do my hair for the ball.

He sent his message anyway.

I'm not trying to brush you off.

I know. I was just teasing. Should have added a ;) Sorry!

Perhaps they should call each other from now on. Their conversations would greatly benefit from contextual vocal inflection. He was about to suggest this when another text popped up:

Goodnight, Zen Master! I'd wish you good luck, but you don't need it.

Alan wanted to ask Muffy to stay on. Instead, he let her go.

Goodnight!

He placed the manual and his phone in the floor next to his bed and turned off his lamp before settling down. Folding his hands atop his stomach, Alan began a breathing exercise. It was tricky, portioning his exhalations and inhalations into a respective two-to-one ratio, but he would give it a shot while he waited for the Zenolta-induced drowsiness to kick in. He inhaled for three counts as his hands rose with his stomach, and they fell back again as he exhaled for six counts. It was not simply a sophisticated way of counting sheep, but it was effective in that regard in addition to helping him calm his nerves. He had performed deep breathing during yoga last week, though he had not discerned a specific pattern. Could that have been a contributing factor to the ease with which he had fallen asleep during Shavasana? He wondered if Prunella knew any other breathing techniques or if she employed them in her classes? He wondered if he would discover anything new tomorrow…

"Wow, Alan Powers. You're such a prescriptivist…"

Dark was coming to light, and with her voice, the sound of birds and a breeze rustling leaves could be heard.

"So are you…"

That was his voice. He was chuckling. The scene was coming into focus. Alan knew this place, had been here before in real life, then subsequently visited it over and over again in his dreams. He was sitting on a bench at World's End Park, specifically, the bench between Bear Lake and Moose Mountain, where he had originally planned to confess his love to Lydia. Lydia was here too, sitting next to him, wearing a pretty dress, pink and sleeveless, appropriate for the late summer weather. Her wheelchair was nowhere to be found. That was odd. Where was it? And why were they here? Would he be stupid for asking? Lydia rebutted quickly, not giving him the chance.

"No, I'm not," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "Okay, so I suppose I can be a language snob, but only to a certain extent. I'm way more flexible than you."

What had they been talking about? Alan felt as if he had drifted mid-conversation, and he had no idea what the topic was, never mind why they were discussing it.

"Learn to bend," she said. "Adapt."

"What if I don't want to?" said Alan, his voice more amused than defiant.

Why had he said that? And how had he known to say it? It was as if he had no command over himself.

"Sorry, that's not how life works." Lydia regarded him with a sad smile. "Things change. Even you." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, but he could not feel it. "Don't fight it. Deal with it."

The illusion lifted, and Alan understood. This was yet another dream, the thing he felt might happen, the reason he had struggled to fall asleep in the first place. He was here again, and he wanted answers.

"Why do we keep doing this?" he blurted, now in complete control of his speech.

"Gotta go!" Lydia said.

The scene began to distort, haziness creeping inward from the perimeter of his vision toward the center of it. Lydia smoothed out her dress as she stood, which had shocked Alan when she had first done it but was now an expected part of the routine. She turned from him and walked to get back onto the path, fading out as she did.

"Wait!" Alan called, reaching out. He tried to stand but felt as if he were being pulled backward, out of the dream.

"Wait…"

Alan woke with a start. In the moonlight streaming through the window, he could see the fingers of his left hand, extended toward the ceiling, reaching for it, while his right remained clenched on his stomach. Sighing, he sat up and turned on the lamp before swinging his feet off the bed and onto the floor. There he sat, thinking about what had just happened. He hardly dreamed at all unless something immensely bothered him or there was a problem he was trying to solve. Even so, he could not remember having recurring dreams.

Lately, Alan revisited the same scenario with the same outcome, and there was little variation in between. Without fail, he dropped into the dream in medias res, realized he was dreaming, and then Lydia walked away before he woke up. Sometimes their clothes were different, and sometimes they discussed different subjects, but as soon as he realized he was dreaming, Lydia would say goodbye. Alan did not find the dreams scary like the ones he had experienced in October. On the contrary, it always seemed as if he had been enjoying himself before he became too aware, before he realized the dream was what it was, a new mystery, and he would wake up with a hollow and clueless feeling that faded the more alert he became. Tonight was the first time Alan had fought for answers during the dream, but Lydia had not given him any, leaving him as hollow and clueless as ever. What did it mean? What did any of it mean?

In this moment, Alan also felt sweeping loneliness. He grabbed his phone and checked the time. He had been asleep for nearly two hours, but he desperately wanted to talk to her.

Should I?

He wrestled with the question for only a second before opening his text conversation with Muffy and typing, "Is there any chance you're still up?" His thumb hovered over the paper plane button, ready to send, when soberness began to take hold of him.

No, I shouldn't.

This was a strange dream, hardly a crisis, and there was no need to wake his friend now when she needed sleep just as much as he did. He deleted the message and tossed his phone aside, then quietly headed downstairs toward the kitchen, where he drank a glass of water while applying a cool, wet tea towel to the back of his neck. Once he felt calmer, more normal, Alan went back to his room and curled up with his manual again, wondering what Muffy was doing after the Autumn Ball.

To be continued…