woods that Molly and I accessed from outside the back door of our farmhouse-but also the crazy, colorful abstract lines that were hastily painted over the scene.
To some people, these lines, circles and squiggles might seem an annoyance or, at the very least, a kind of self-indulgence on the part of the artist. But to me they represented something more. I’d been having more than my fair share of dreams lately. Dreams that involved Molly and me; that involved our walking through the field to the dark woods, despite our father strictly forbidding us to do so. Those abstract lines made me feel like I was entering into the dream once more, only not in the sleep state. They made me feel like I was dreaming while I was awake. For an added third dimension, the word ‘Listen’ was buried in the painting’s center. A word not everyone saw. Not without my tracing it for them.
Questions flooded me.
Why would Franny decide to give me a painting at all? Especially when the payday for one of his pieces pretty much equaled what I might make in three months working at the Albany Art Center.
Under the circumstances of Franny’s autism, he might not have cared the least bit about giving up the money. But then he had never before gifted me one of his paintings. Did Franny’s mother know that he’d slipped me a ten-thousand dollar present? And why did he call it ‘Listen’ when I was the only person who clearly recognized the word in the first place? Or so it seemed. That is, judging by the argument waged that afternoon by Robyn and myself inside the center studio. With the word ‘Listen’ being flung all over the place, had Franny made the spontaneous decision to use the ‘L’ word as the title of his masterpiece? Or, what was almost too freaky to contemplate, had ‘Listen’ been the title all along?
Seated on the couch in the silence of the old apartment, I once more pictured Franny’s face. Pictured it go from round, rosy and animated to pale and serious, as if for a few seconds, the boy-like autism stepped aside to reveal the hidden man.
I ran my hands over my face. It surprised me to know that I was crying. Exactly why was I shedding tears in the solitude of my apartment?
In a way, I’m not sure I wanted to know. But then the thirty year anniversary that would arrive on Friday and all the memories and dreams it conjured up, might have been reason enough for tears. And now this painting from Franny-a painting that was playing with my head and heart.
A tingle erupted in my stomach, along with a dull ache in the center of my brain. I stood up, felt the dizziness that accompanied the suddenly downshifting blood. Slowly making my way into the kitchen, I retrieved a wad of paper-towels from off the cabinet-mounted roller above the sink. Back in the living room, I got to work cleaning up the spilled water.
While I cleaned, I thought about Michael and his date. I wondered how it was going. I thought about Robyn and her date. I thought about Franny, if he was up inside his attic studio painting the rainy evening away. I wondered if he would paint anything else just for me. I prayed to God he would not.
Outside my apartment the rain fell steady and never ending. What to do with the rest of my night? Maybe head to the gym for a weight training workout? Maybe head outside for my usual five mile run?
I just didn’t have the energy or the will. Besides, it was still raining.
I went to bed without dinner.
Alone.
Chapter 7
That night I dreamt.
Molly and I come to the edge of the field of tall grass behind our house, the thick, second-growth forest standing like a dark impenetrable wall only a dozen feet away from us. There is something forbidden and ominous about these woods. So much so that I have difficulty even looking directly into them, as if they have the ability to look directly back at me. I try and focus my attention on Molly’s narrow back, her blonde hair that sways from shoulder to shoulder, until she turns to me with that mischievous smile of hers, shouting “Come on, Bec. Let’s do it.”
My stomach is tied up in double-knots.
Molly has no fear. Not of the woods, not of what we might find inside them, not of our father who has forbade us to ever enter them. But then I harbor enough fear for the both of us.
Molly turns, shoots me a smile. She begins to step across the invisible barrier between field and woods.
“ Don’t!”
But it’s too late. She is already entering into a place from which there is no return…
I awoke to the sound of my cell phone vibrating atop the nightstand. At the same time, I heard a voice. The cell phone and the voice pulled me out of my dream, away from the open field, away from the danger that lurked there.
“Rebecca.” A whispered voice.
In my half-awake, half-asleep state, I heard the deep, raspy, guttural voice. The voice of a heavy smoker. In the darkness of the bedroom I found myself lying flat on my back, eyes open wide, gazing onto a black ceiling. Although my heart pounded, my body was paralyzed. I could not move my arms or legs. I could not breathe.
The windows were closed to the rain and the wind. The voice had to have come from inside my head. How could it possibly have come from anywhere else?
But it sounded so real, so close. As real as the cell phone. Real enough to make me awake. But then not awake at all. More like caught up in a state somewhere in between conscious and out cold.
I lay in bed unable to swallow, unable to move, unable to speak. I felt the urge to pee. But the down comforter had become my protective steel cage. No way I could attempt to get out from under the covers.
Directly behind me, the rain came down ever steady outside the window. If only I could have reached out for the nightstand, grabbed hold of the cell, opened it, and heard the voice of Robyn or Michael. The voices might have snapped me out of my trance, saved me from a nightmare too vivid for words. There was nothing I could do.
No choice but to lie on my back and listen.
Chapter 8
I woke up earlier than usual. The rain had stopped but the sun hadn’t fully risen over the Berkshire Mountains to the east. Before crawling out of bed, I reached out for my cell, checking to see who had called in the middle of the night.
I scrolled down to Missed Calls.
The last call was from one of my Art Center students-a nineteen year old college freshman and aspiring Picasso by the name of Craig. He’d called me at three-fifteen that afternoon to tell me he’d have to cancel his tutoring appointment for later that day. In all likelihood, I’d missed his call since Robyn and I were so consumed with arguing over Franny’s painting and its inclusion, or lack thereof, of the word ‘Listen’. After that, I hadn’t missed any calls. The odd ‘Unknown Caller’ text I’d received a couple of hours later hadn’t constituted a missed call since I’d quite obviously received it.
Remember
So then, how did I go about explaining last night’s experience of hearing my cell phone ring and at the same time, hearing a man’s voice? No question about it. I had been dreaming. Dreaming in that half awake, half asleep state where dreams can be their most vivid and most frightening.
Dragging myself out of bed, I decided to put the whole night and its nightmare drama out of my mind, greet the brand new day like I was entering a new life. It’s exactly what Molly would suggest I do.
In the kitchen I made the coffee, poured a glass of orange juice, popped a One-A-Day, and ate a small bowl of shredded wheat and skim milk. Taking refuge in my morning routine would help me forget about the immediate
