Chapter one- Where am I?
*Disclaimer is very first page. But just so I don't get sued, I own no characters, and this is a real book by Cynthia Swanson.*
This is not my bedroom.
Where am I? Gasping and pulling unfamiliar bedcovers to my chin, I strain to collect my senses. But no explanation for my whereabouts come to mind.
The last thing I remember , it was Wednesday evening and I was painting my bedroom a bright, saturated yellow. Clara, who had offered to help, was appraising my color choice. "Too much sunniness for a bedroom," She pronounced in that miss-know-it-all tone of hers. "How will you ever sleep in on gloomy days with a room like this?"
I dipped my brush into the paint can, carefully wiped off the excess, and climbed the stepladder. "That's entirely the point." I told Clara. Leaning over, I began cutting along a tall narrow window frame.
Oughtn't I to remember what happened next? Oddly, I do not. I cannot recall spending the evening painting, then standing back to admire our work before we cleaned up. I have no memory of thanking Clara and bidding her goodbye. I don't remember going to sleep in the sun colored room, the sharp smell of fresh paint filling my nostrils. But I must have done those things, evidently I am still asleep.
Nonetheless, this is not my typical sort of dream. My night time forays tend toward the fantastical, toward the dreams that place one outside of time and space. This, I have concluded, is because I read to much. Have you read Something wicked this way comes? It just hit the stands this past June, but it is anticipated to be one of the best selling books of 1962. Ray Bradbury is splendidly readable, I press the novel on everyone who steps into Clara's and my bookstore looking for something "really gripping".
"It will haunt your dreams," I assure such customers. A self-fulfilling prophecy. The night before last, I dreamed I was standing behind Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade, the two young protagonists of Bradbury's book, as they were enticed by the middle-of-the-night arrival of the carnival in Green Town. I was trying to persuade them to proceed with caution, but they, being thirteen (me :and the fact that this is all a dream and this is a story you read), simply ignored me. I remember how difficult it was to keep up with them, how I could not get my feet to operate correctly. Jim and Will moved farther away in the shadows, their shapes turning into dots and then finally to nothing. And all I could do was blubber in frustration.
So you see, I am not the type of woman who dreams about something as straight forward as waking up in another person's bedroom.
This dream bedroom is quite the bit larger and swanker than my actual bedroom. The walls are a dark blue, nothing like the bright yellow I chose for home. The furniture is a matched set, sleek and modern. The bed spread is neatly folded at the foot of the bed ; soft, coordinating linens encase my body. It's delightful, in a too-put-together way.
I slide under the covers and shut my eyes. Surely, if I keep my eyes closed, soon I will find myself hunting in the South Pacific, dressed in rather grubbily and swilling whiskey with the mates on my ship. Or I will be flying high over Las Vegas, the wind blowing my hair back against my face, my arms transformed into enormous wings.
But nothing of the sort happens. Instead I hear a man's voice "Wake up, Petunia, love, wake up."
I open my eyes and look into the deepest brownest eyes I have ever seen.
And then I close my own again.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, which is nude, save for the thin strap of my satin nightgown. It's been a good while since any man has touched me intimately. But some feelings are unmistakable, no matter how infrequently one experiences them.
I know I should be terrified. That would be the appropriate response, would it not? Even if one's asleep, one should be horrified to sense an unfamiliar man's hand placed on one's bare flesh.
Yet, curiously, I find this imaginary fellow's touch utterly enjoyable. The clasp is gentle but firm, the fingers curled around my upper arm, the thumb gently caressing my skin. I keep my eyes closed, enjoying the sensation.
"Petunia. Please, love. I'm sorry to wake you, but Lilly's forehead feels warm… she wants you. Please, you need to get up."
Eyes shut, I consider this information. I wonder who Lilly is, and why her forehead should be any concern of mine.
In that rambling way in which events occur in dreams, my thoughts are replaced with the lyrics to a song that was popular a few years ago. I can hear the melody, though I'm sure I don't have the words right, Rosemary Clooney sang the tune, and it was something about having stars in one's eyes. Something about not letting love turn one into a fool. The idea makes me smile, clearly I am being about as foolish as one can possibly be.
I open my eyes and sit in bed, instantly remorseful that this position shift causes the brown eyed man to remove his warm hand from my shoulder.
"Who are you?" I ask him, "where am I?"
He returns me quizzical look. "Petunia, are you ok?"
For the record, my name is not Petunia, it's Rose.
All right, technically it is Petunia. But I never really cared for my given name. It's always felt too silly. Petunia doesn't roll off the tongue, the way that Rose does. And since my parents bestowed upon me such an unusual name, I had decided earlier in life to change it to Rose.
"I think I'm ok," I tell brown-eyes. "But really, I have no idea who you are or where I am. I'm sorry"
He smiles, and those handsome peepers twinkle. Other than the eyes, and the hair, and the… oh forget it, this man is gorgeous. His hair impossibly defies gravity, his body is skinny, but not like a sickly skinny, but like a built skinny. He had freckles scattered across his face. And he had the most amazing British/Scottish accent I have ever heard. He was probably five years my elder.
"You must've been in a deep sleep love," he says. "You know who I am. I'm your husband. You're in our bedroom, at our house." He sweeps his arm around the room as if to prove his case. "And right now, our daughter -whose name is Lilly, by the way, in case you've forgotten - is likely running a fever, and she needs her mother."
He holds his hand out to me. As if on instinct, I slip mine into his, which by the way, fit perfectly.
"Okay?" he begs. "Please Petunia."
I furrow my brow. "I'm sorry, you said you are…"
He sighs. "Your husband, Petunia. I'm your husband Theta."
Theta? What a peculiar name. I cannot think of a single person I've ever met called Theta. I half smile, thinking about my oh-so-imaginitive brain. It couldn't just invoke a Harry or an Ed or a Bill. No ma'am, my mind has fabricated a husband named Theta.
"All right." I say "Just give me a moment."
He squeezes my hand and releases it, then leans over to kiss my cheek. "I'll take her temp while we're waiting for you." He rises and leaves the room.
Once again, I close my eyes. Now the dream will shift, surely.
But when I open my eyes, I'm still there. I'm still in the blue bedroom.
I see no alternative. So I get up and cross the room. With it's clerestory windows above the bed, its sliding door that looks as though it leads to some sort of patio, and its large, adjacent bathroom. I deduce that this room, were it real, would be part of a rather modern residence. More modern - and presumably bigger than the one-bedroom 1920's era duplex that I rent in the Powell estates in Cardiff.
I peek into the bathroom. The fixtures are light blue, shiny and chrome-accessorized. The long vanity has two sinks and a gold flecked black Formica counter. The vanity is composed of white wood cabinetry that gently taper downward and inward toward the wall, such that the vanity is deeper at the counter top level than it is near the floor. The tiled floor is a fresh mosaic of dark blue, white, and black. I have no idea if I'm in Cardiff anymore, and if so, this certainly is not old-time Powell estate, where nothing new has been built since before the war.
Examining myself in the mirror over the dresser, I half expect to see some entirely different person - who knows who this Petunia is? But, I look exactly like myself. Medium, straight, if not for the bed head, blonde hair. I put my fingers through it, noting that on the ring finger of my left hand area. Sparkling diamond and a wide gold wedding band. Well, naturally, I think. And how optimistic of my brain to have invented a husband who can afford a nice-size rock.
Foraging in my closet, I find a pale pink quilted bath-robe that fits me perfectly. Belting it around my waist, I enter the hallway on my way to find the oddly named Theta and his unwell child named Lily.
On the wall directly in front of me, clearly positioned so that it can be seen from inside the bedroom, is a large color photograph. It shows a mountain scene : the sun sunk over the horizon, the peaks backlit with pink and gold tones. Ponderosa pines rise the length of the photograph on the left-hand side. I've lived in Cardiff my entire life, but I have no idea where this is, or even if it's Cardiff.
I'm trying to decode this mystery when I am tackled around the waist on my right side. I struggle to regain my balance and keep from falling over backward.
"Ouch." I say as I turn around. "Don't do that. Remember to support yourself entirely. You are too big now to lean on other people and expect them to hold you up."
What in the world? Who is this woman saying these things? It can't be me. These words don't sound anything I'd ever say or even think.
Looking up at me is a small boy. He's got Theta's piercing brown eyes and a neat short hair cut that nevertheless can't hide a little scar over his brow. His peaches-and-cream face is scrubbed clean. He looks like he could be in an advertisement for milk or popsicles. Yes, he is that cute, and I find that my heart melts a bit, looking at him.
He releases and says sorry. "I just missed you, Mama," he says, "I haven't seen you since yesterday."
I am speechless. Then, reminding myself that, I am after all, asleep. I smile at the boy. I lean down and give his shoulder a squeeze. I'm just going along with this dream now. Why not? So far, this is a pleasant enough place to be.
"Take me to your father and Lily." I say, grabbing the child's soft, plump hand.
We walk down the hall and go up a half flight of stairs. At the top is a girl's bedroom, with carnation pink walls, a little white wooden bed and a low bookcase filled with picture books and stuffed animals. Sitting upright in the bed is an equally angelic child, a female version of the boy who holds my hand. Her expression is forlorn and her cheeks flushed. She is about the same size as the boy. I am terrible at deciphering children's ages, but I'd guess they are around five or six. Twins?
"Mama's here!" Cherub boy says, climbing on to the bed. "Lily, Mama's here and you're going to be fine."
Lily whimpers. I sit next to her and touch her forehead, which feels distressingly warm under my hand. "What hurts" I ask her gently.
She leans toward me. "Everything Mama!" She says. "My head especially"
"Did Daddy take your temp?" I can't believe how easily these words, these motherly actions, are coming to me. I feel like an old pro.
"Yeah, he's washing the ther-mon-eter."
"Thermometer," cherub boy corrects her. "It's a ther-mom-eter. Not a ther-mon-eter."
She rolls her eyes at him. "Mind you own beeswax Tony."
Theta appears in the doorway. "One hundred one-point six." he reports.
I am unsure what that means. Oh, I know, it means her temperature is 101.6 degrees Fahrenheit. But I do not know what it means on terms of medication, bed rest, staying home from school.
Because I don't have children. I am not a mother.
I don't mean to imply that I never wanted children. Quite the opposite. I was one of those little girls who loved baby dolls, who fed them pretend bottles and changed their pretend diapers and pushed them around in a tiny doll-size pram. An only child, I begged my parents for a sibling- not because I wanted to be a big sister, but because I wanted to be a little mother to somebody.
For a long time I thought I'd marry Jimmy, my steady during college. He left for the pacific theater in '43, along with just about every other young man who hadn't already gone. I remained faithful to him - girls in those days did that, remained faithful. Jimmy and I exchanged letter after letter. I sent him care packages of cookies, socks, and shaving soap. In my sorority house, we stuck thumbtacks on a map of the south pacific, marking our soldier boys' progress. "It's hard to wait, but it will be worth it when they're home." we girls told each other. We sobbed into our hankies when we got word that someone's fellow wasn't coming back. But we also sent a little silent prayer of gratitude to heaven that it wasn't our fellow, not this time.
Much to my relief, Jimmy returned home from the war, what I thought, intact and seemingly unchanged, eager to resume his studies as a pre-med student and attain his goal of becoming a doctor. We continued dating, but as the years went on, I wished we hadn't. The war did change him. Over the years he got abusive. He started to drink more. He dropped out of school. He got into drugs. And that's when he started beating me. Let's just say, he went to jail.
Well, clearly, in this dream world, none of that- those wasted years, Jimmy's beatings - matters at all. In this world, I landed myself a winner somewhere along the way.
I look up from Lily's bed, and my eyes meet Theta's. He's staring at me with admiration and - could I be reading this correctly?- desire in his eyes? Even in the middle of a kid-has-a-fever crisis?
"What do you say?" Theta asks me. "You always know what to do when these things happen, Petunia?"
Do I? How interesting this dream is. I glance out the window at what appears to be a winter morning, the window pane frosty and snow falling lightly.
And then, suddenly, though, I can not explain it, I do know exactly what to do. I rise and walk across the hall to the bathroom. I know precisely where on the medicine cabinet shelf where I would find the tiny bottle of St. Joseph's tylenol for children. I pull a plastic cup from the dispenser attached to the wall and run some cool water into it. Opening the bathrooms linen closet, I remove a face cloth, hold it under cold water, and ring it out.
Walking purposefully, I carry the medicine bottle, face cloth, and cup to Lily's room. I apply the cloth to her forehead, gently pressing it against her warm skin. I hand her two aspirin tablets, these she swallows dutifully, using the water to chase them down. She smiles gratefully at me and leans back against her pillow.
"Let's let her rest now." I settle Lilly under the covers and fetch several picture books from her shelf. She begins paging through Madeline's rescue, a volume in that delightful children's series by Ludwig Bemel about a partisan boarding school student named madeline and her eleven classmates - the house covered in vines, the girls in two straight lines. Lilly's fingers trace the words on each page as she sounds them out in a whispery, throaty tone.
Theta comes forward and takes my hand. We smile together at our daughter, and with our adorable son beside us, we quietly leave the room.
But then, as suddenly as it happened, the dream is over.
My bedside alarm clock is ringing sharply. I reach over, my eyes shut, and press down hard on the button that stops the alarm. I open my eyes, and the room is yellow. I am home.