DREAM MAKER: A MYSTICAL TALE
-The Visitor-
At eleven that night, when he came to their bedroom, she was sitting on her side of the bed reading. From the cover he could tell it was another one of those new age books, someone talking about reincarnation, prophesies, U.F.O's or some inane thing like that. When he got in bed, she closed her book an looked at him.
“Let’s talk, Martin.”
Oh no, not tonight. He let out a sigh. He needed quiet and he wanted rest. He had been looking forward to sleep . . . to letting go.
“I know you find it an imposition, but sometimes married people need to talk.”
Martin tried to pull himself together so at least he could go through the motions. Her voice now seemed distant, disjointed .but then the whole world was starting to feel that way. He became aware of his breathing, and heart beating, but there were no feelings, except a soft aching. In the last few hours it had been an effort just to go through the details of life: washing dishes, a phone call with his brother he had kept short, leaving water out for the dogs, brushing his teeth, undressing. He knew it would be almost impossible for him to appear responsive.
She was saying it was lack of communication that was driving them apart. “Oh, I feel it too, Martin. I’m very sorry to see this marriage go down just because you don’t ever feel like talking.”
He wondered if that was her original topic, or one that she just dove into on the spur of the moment. He watched her eyes glitter with emotion and her mouth become more expressive, but he was most concerned about his depression and whether he would be able to carry on the next day. However, her words had actually registered and he nodded when she told him there was something wrong with him.
“And you go happily around giving rides to strange people from the ghetto, when you are needed at the office. You know they called three times this afternoon.”
He almost told her he drove home that afternoon looking for her, but that would probably just prolong the conversation and maybe lead to a fight. At some point she must have checked the answering machine . . . she can do it by calling in . . . and now she’s making it sound like she was home.
“Helen also thinks you need to see a therapist,” she said.
Why would two women sit and talk about me when they could talk about so many other things? Martin momentarily visualized the two sisters sitting around, in his own living room, passionately discussing his problems. The image dwindled and then grew grotesque. He had no energy left. In her mood anything he said would be an opening for a fight. Martin got up with pillow under his arm as she continued talking. While he walked down the stairs to the guest room he could still hear her voice, now louder.
“That’s right, walk out on your problems, big man.” She was no longer keeping her anger in check; her voice now had that shrill quality he knew so well. He heard words like “failure” and “jerk” as he made it to the bottom of the stairs. He was tired, very tired. He went into the guest room and locked the door.
Tomorrow I’ll talk to her; tomorrow I’ll go to the office early, and tomorrow I’ll be fine. Martin brushed aside the oversize pillows and pulled down the covers. With a sigh he plopped himself down and pulled the blankets over him. Actually, I miss her; miss the woman she was a few years ago, before . . . Oh, what the hell, go to sleep. There was a sullen quiet now, as though their distance was palpable and had spread through the big house, making everything thick, thick and cold.
Martin slept. For a time he fidgeted. Then he went into deeper sleep. After a while he dropped into an even deeper state and his eyes fluttered under his closed lids. His body was now very still. Only that part of him that was always aware, deep down in his subconscious mind, observed a silent being that came into his room and stood by the bed, watching him. An arm reached out and a hand waved across the top of Martin’s head. At that very moment he started to dream.
In his dream he was driving along a road on a tropical island, and there was pristine blue ocean and sky, and air that felt clean and warm. Then he came to a gate with a man standing by it. Martin could see him clearly, a heavy-set man with red hair wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He was friendly, and Martin told him he had to get to another world in a parallel universe.
The man told him to go through the gate.
Then there was a curving road and a wooden bridge. He saw a beach, a stretch of sand fringed with trees and black rocks at either end. In the middle of it was a big gold door with white columns on either side. The door appeared to be translucent, because he could see lights shining through it. Martin knew he had to go through to the other side.
An impressive looking old man stood by the door. He had a white beard and hair, with gentle but piercing eyes, and Martin somehow knew he was very wise, had powers, was a magician of sorts.
Martin told him he couldn’t go on, he didn’t want anything more to do with the world because nothing made sense.
The wise man told Martin he would take him to a place where life made sense, where everything was real.
Then the dream ended.
The being waved a hand across Martin’s head again, sinking the memory of the dream into his deep subconscious. He stood watching him sleep, perhaps pondering something or other. Then apparently satisfied, the visitor left.
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