Chapter Nine: What Happens After

And so we remained till the red of the dawn began to fall through the snow gloom. I was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror. But when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again.

- Bram Stoker

Sometimes I wake in the night, soaked in sweat. My heart is racing and my fingers are clutching the sheets. I wake and the first thing I wonder is whether I'm still dreaming and where I am. I look around for the telltale signs - suitcase propped in the corner of the room, the single size coffee maker and the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the doorknob. I should be used to my surroundings by now but it takes me a few minutes to absorb the slanted, wood-slatted ceiling which serves as extra hanging space for the framed posters of old French films. Or the balcony that can barely fit a person comfortably (or altogether safely) but has the most breathtaking view of Sacre Couer. During the summers, the doors are left open to let fresh air circulate throughout the flat; when I see the breeze tangling invisible fingers through the gauzy curtains, I realize where I am, where I have been for awhile.

I wake up, frightened and in the dark but I don't remember anything. Eames and Ariadne have a theory that once the somnacin runs its course and is gone from a person's system, that person will remember his dreams again. There's no real proof of this, but, Cobb tells me that he has begun to dream again, without any help. The first time this happened, he was sailing on an ocean. It was so deep and still and lacking in any waves that at first he believed it to be a lake. But it stretched on for miles, meeting the horizon at every direction. Around him swam fish of different sizes and shapes; they were made up of bright jewels and gems. Neither of us were embarrassed when he spoke of waking up to find his pillow wet with tears. I think he is hoping for the night when he'll be able to see Mal again. We have gone to visit him and the children all the way in Chicago but it's not very often - the desire of traveling seems to have flown away from me after I left Tokyo for the last time. I asked Dom if he experienced night sweats prior to regaining the ability to dream but he hadn't. Again, there's not enough research to prove what I'm going through is typical. I never thought I would get to this point, but at last, I have no interest in finding out.

When it happens, it happens the same way. I wake up, gasping for air, calling out a name. I swipe a hand across my forehead and down the side of my face. It comes away shining with cold perspiration. Then the light flickers on, flooding the apartment in a warm glow and the figure beside me stirs. Sometimes she cradles me like a mother does to a child, murmuring into my ear until my heart stops its wild staccato and my breath evens out. Sometimes she sings or hums a song, while she runs fingers through my hair, or helps me into a dry shirt. Sometimes she just lays a hand over mine until I can unclench to hold onto it. Whatever she does, she always wakes with me.

I admire her and I am in awe of her. She is the woman in my dreams, even though she doesn't like to hear me say that. She doesn't think she is capable of living up to the perfection constructed inside my head. This reminds me of Mal - not the version in my head, but Cobb's. He had once said that his was no match against the real Mal, his Mal. That she was a shade. I understood it before, but now, after all this, his words resonate with me.

Last week, on our way to the local patisserie for our morning baguette, she said to me in an offhand tone, "I think we should buy chocolate croissants and get married."

She had turned her face to look over at mine but I deliberately kept my eyes fixed ahead. In an equally casual manner, I responded with, "Ok, let's go."

The ensuing silence was almost enough to undo the bland expression I wore. "Ok, let's go?" The anger bubbling in her voice was clearly evident.

That was when I finally looked at her. "Chocolate croissants. Marriage. Ok. Let's go."

"Are you being serious here?"

The suspicion which marred the smoothness of her brow only served to make me want to rub my hands in glee. "Actually, yes. Weren't you?"

She peered into my eyes, and, I could see the cogs in her brain were working away furiously. I will always remember how she looked at that moment - the way that blush of hers slowly unfurled on her face, and how her lips curved upwards, against her will. She threw her arms around me. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to scare you away. I wanted to be certain you were certain."

She makes a face, the kind I have seen before on others but on her, at least, never fails to thoroughly amuse me. "That's funny, coming from you. I wasn't the one running away from us."

I took her hand, pressed it against my mouth. "You - and your persistence - saved me." We didn't speak for a long while after that.

We both wanted to keep things small. A few weeks were all we needed before the ceremony, and that depended solely on the marriage solicitor's schedule. I wore a suit and she, a blue dress. Haru, by way of a high speed train, coincidentally came to visit from Oxford and ended up being our witness at the civil ceremony. It lasted no longer than fifteen minutes. He took a picture of us (after reluctantly conceding that there should be one picture of the bride and groom which didn't include the witness); we are standing in front of an impressive marble fountain nearby Hotel de Ville. The day is clear; our rings glint in the bright sunlight. I look at that photo of me, the unabashed grin on my face, the proud way my arms are around my wife and her arms are around me. I look into my face and I almost see the hopeful person I think I used to be.

I check in with Hitomi via telephone call once every few weeks. I can see why her practice is flourishing. She has expressed that my marriage is a step in the right direction. She is not the only one to say this.

We settle into a routine - she attends classes at university, while I volunteer around the city. I hadn't planned to do this, but after three weeks of inactivity, I realized I would never be a man of leisure. It was my wife who suggested I try the soup kitchens in the poorer neighborhoods. Now it has expanded to include delivering meals to the elderly, organizing food and clothing drives, and, visiting the sick at hospitals. My love, my wife - she continues to save me.

I start. "Paige."

There is the promise of a new day finding its way into the dimness of our flat. She turns at the crack in my voice and presses the length of her warm body against my side. "Shhh... It's only a dream. She's safe. We're all supposed to be where we are." Her voice is a sepia-colored photo, blurred at its edges.

I remember the day we met, the way I instantly took to the frank and obvious assessment she made of me. I remember our first kiss, so perfectly innocent yet so thoroughly flustering my heart still palpitates recalling that memory. I remember the day I went back to her and told her the truth, every shameful kernel. The way she held my hand and listened, her face serene even during the part about the cover up and the feeble resistance I offered in the wake of my parents' demands. The resulting, instantaneous regret for not having righted a wrong when opportunity presented itself. How these feelings pooled, banded into a wild herd of dark phantom horses, and, grew so large I could see nothing else, I could not escape them, I was helpless under their sharp hooves which tore at everything in me.

I remember her first words after I cast out all of this darkness. She had been looking down at our conjoined hands. "Maybe it's time you kissed me, Arthur." When she lifted her face, there was nothing there except a shining sweetness.

And how I did, oh how I did. That's when I let go. Just like that. I watched my relentless quest for an unobtainable truth spin from my grasp, a helium balloon in the sky. It floated away while we kissed - too much time existed between our kisses, I remember thinking as we both prolonged the contact - and somewhere, something whispered, You keep this up and you're not going to want to stop. But it no longer seemed like a warning. It had become a promise. It - I - was weaving around her, enveloping her in.

I think about this, I relive this to remember. I need to remember because when I wake up with the darkness creeping up on me, I have to remember my reasons to keep moving forward, to press on, to make a choice.

I remember.

Fin.