Stolen Dreams (17 page)

“So, like I was saying,” Stanley said, pointing a
half-chewed piece of bread at the rest of the occupants around the table, “you
can actually learn to completely control your dreams.”

Rosie leaned over and placed a hand on Stanley’s arm. “Dear,
you already mentioned that to Mary, remember?” she asked. “We were in her
office.” Rosie then turned to Mary. “By the way, Casey did an amazing job on
your floor; I can’t even tell where you tried to destroy it.”

Mary grinned and started to speak when Stanley interrupted
her.

“
Dagnabbit
, stop
interrupting me.
I got something important to say here. I
ain’t
daft and I
ain’t
starting
to repeat myself,” he replied. “This was another article I was reading at the
barber shop.”

“Stanley, how often do you go to the barber shop?” Ian
asked, staring pointedly at Stanley’s obvious comb-over.

“I’ll have you know, you rapscallion, that I go to the
barber at least twice a week to keep myself well groomed and sharp looking,” he
replied.

“Your hair can’t grow that quickly,” Ian countered.

“You don’t just go to a barber for a haircut,” Stanley
argued. “You can go there for a shave, too.”

Ian sat back in his chair and looked slowly around the
table. “Are you telling me you don’t have electric shavers here in the States?”
he asked, feigning wide-eyed innocence.

Shaking his head in frustration, Stanley finally closed his
eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s a man thing,” he said slowly, meeting Ian’s
eyes. “A barber shop is a place to discuss politics and sports. It’s a place to
converse with other men. It
ain’t
a
froo-froo
shop with fancy smelling shampoos and stylists.
It’s one final bastion of America where a man can be a man.”

“And it has magazines,” Mary inserted, trying to move the
conversation forward. “And one of those magazines had an article about
dreaming.”

“Exactly,” Stanley said, and then shook his head. “No, darn
it, two magazines, two different magazines had articles about dreaming.
 
One was about the lucid dreaming and this one
was about being able to actually control what you dream about.”

“Why are there so many magazines about dreaming?” Bradley
asked.

“Well, it’s this way,” Stanley replied with a shrug. “These
all
ain’t
new magazines. Old Bert figured out a long
time ago that he only had to subscribe to most magazines for a year and then
save them and put them out every couple months.
 
These were both from the year that dreaming movie came out. But, that
don’t make a dadgum difference.
 
Facts is
facts.
 
And
the fact is
,
if you
wanna
,
you can control your dreams.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Bradley asked.

“Well, for instance,” Stanley said “let’s just say you forgot
where you put down something important and you’ve been searching for it for a
long time.
 
You just tell yourself you’re
going to dream about where you put it down and then you do.”

“But how do you remember your dreams?” Ian asked.

“You tell yourself you’re
gonna
remember them, that’s how,” Stanley replied. “It
ain’t
rocket science.”

“So, all I have to do is tell
myself
that I’m going to dream something and then tell myself I’m going to remember it
and then it happens?” Ian asked skeptically.

Stanley shook his head. “Just like anything else, it takes
practice,” Stanley said. Then he looked pointedly at Ian. “And, of course, you
have to have at least an average intelligence for it to work.”

Ian grinned and nodded. “Touché,” he acknowledged and then
countered. “So, of course, you’ve never been able to do it either.”

Chuckling, Stanley took another bite of his bread. “Can’t
say I have, whippersnapper, can’t say I have.”

Forty-five minutes later, with Clarissa tucked into bed and
all of the men happily arguing in the kitchen as they cleaned up from dinner,
Mary and Rosie sat next to each other, gazing at the fire.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on inside your head?”
Rosie asked. “And don’t tell me
nothing
. I’ve known
you too long for you to pull that one over on me.”

Mary sighed and shook her head. “No, there’s something
wrong,” she said. “I just can’t do anything about it.”

“What is it?” Rosie asked.

Mary quickly explained the situation with Alison and the
painful outcome.

“Oh, how awful,” Rosie exclaimed.
“That
poor woman.
I don’t know how I’d feel if that were me.”

Mary nodded. “And I have to go back to the assisted living center
and tell her,” she said.

“Well, if you need some support, or an excuse to get inside,
I’d be happy to go with you,” Rosie said and then she added with a smile. “Of
course, we’d have to say we’re looking for my mother, because I’m much too
young to be considering a place like that.”

Mary chuckled softly. “Yes, you are,” she said.
“Although, I did already pass Stanley off as my aging uncle who was
looking over the place.”

“They’ll probably be relieved that you’re bringing me
instead of Stanley,” Rosie said.

“He really did put them through the wringer,” Mary
confessed. “I’ve never met someone who knew so much about so many different
things.”

“Yes, that’s my Stanley,” Rosie said fondly.
 
Then she sat up. “Why Mary, that’s it.”

“What’s it?” Mary asked.

“Why don’t you do what Stanley suggested?”

“Go to a barber shop?”

“No,” Rosie laughed. “Control your dreams.
 
You met Alison through your dreams.
 
Why don’t you try and meet her in your dreams
again?
 
Then you can take your time and
explain what happened.
 
You could even
show her, reenact the situation.”

Mary sat quietly for a few moments. “Do you actually think
it would work?” she asked.

Rosie shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea,” she replied.
“But you’ve already done the lucid dreaming and it worked. So you probably have
more control over your dreams than most of us. Besides, it can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Mary said. “It can’t hurt.”

“Are you sure this can’t hurt you?” Bradley asked as he lay
in bed propped up on his arm, looking down at Mary.

“It’s a dream,” she said. “And, if I do it right, I’ll be in
total control.”

“And if you don’t do it right?” he asked.

“Then it will be a dream just like any other dream I’ve had
throughout my whole life,” she replied. Reaching up, she stroked his face, enjoying
the feel of the rough stubble against her hand. “But it’s really sweet of you
to be worried about me.”

He leaned down, their faces only inches apart. “You are the
major worry in my life,” he said. “When I start getting gray hairs, they will
all have your name on them.”

She slipped her hand from his cheek to his hair, combing her
fingers through the thick, soft strands. “You’ll look sexy with gray hair,” she
whispered. “So, I don’t mind causing them at all.”

“I’ll look old,” he whispered, leaning down and softly
kissing her lips.

“You’ll look distinguished,” she replied, returning the
kiss.

He pulled back and looked down at her. “Distinguished?” he
asked. “That’s a code word for old.”

She chuckled softly, pulled him closer and increased the
intensity of the next kiss. “Have I ever mentioned how attracted I’ve always
been to older police officers?” she asked, sliding her lips to his neck and
nibbling on his jaw.

“No, you never mentioned that,” he murmured before moving
his head, capturing her lips once again and causing her blood to simmer.
 
He lifted his head and smiled down into her
passion glazed eyes. “Should I be worried?”

Shaking her head, she sighed. “Oh, no, you don’t ever have
to be worried.”

He slid down next to her on the bed and pulled her into his
arms. “Good answer, Mrs. Alden,” he whispered into her ear as his hands slowly
caressed her body.
“Very good answer.”

Later that night, relaxed and nestled in Bradley’s embrace,
Mary smiled to herself as she listened to the light snoring coming from the man
beside her.
 
She lifted her head and
placed a soft kiss on his chin. “I love you,” she whispered.

He grumbled a sleepy response and pulled her closer.
 
Safe in his arms, she purposely brought the
halls in her nightmare to mind and pictured herself wandering around in the
maze.
 
She imagined meeting Alison in
front of the door that held access to her daughter. Over and over again, she
replayed the scene, walking through the halls, calling out Alison’s name and
finally meeting her in front of the door.
 
She didn’t go past that point, didn’t want to think about what she was
going to have to tell the ghost once they finally met.
 

Finally, her breathing slowed, her body relaxed and she was
asleep.

“I’m in,” she said
triumphantly as she looked around her dream and realized she was actually in
the hallways of her former nightmare.
 
She walked to a window and looked out and was not surprised to see the
grounds around the convent.
 
She could
see the gardens, the walkways and even the cemetery from her vantage point.

“Alison,” she called
softly. “Alison I need to speak with you.”

Mary waited for an
answer for a moment and, hearing nothing, continued down the hall toward the
door that had barred both she and Alison from the baby.
 
The passageway turned and twisted, but this
was familiar ground by now and Mary easily found her way to the door.

“Alison,” she called
again. “It’s Mary. I need to speak with you.”

Looking around, Mary
was disappointed that Alison had not appeared.

“Well, maybe she’s
already in the room,” she reasoned.

Mary opened the door
and was surprised to find
herself
stepping out onto
the grassy hilltop of the cemetery. She paused in the door, not quite ready to
leave the safety of familiar surroundings, when she saw a young woman standing
in the midst of the graves on the far side of the cemetery.
 
Wearing a smock dress with her hair pulled
back in a ponytail, she was a petite, young woman with strawberry blonde hair
and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
 
Looking around, the young woman spied Mary in
the doorway.

“Can you please help
me?” she called.

Mary hesitated. She
really needed to find Alison.

“Please,” the girl
begged as tears coursed down her cheeks.

“Well, crap,” Mary
thought. She could never turn away from someone crying.
 
With a resigned sigh, Mary stepped forward
and quickly moved across the ground that separated her from the girl.

“How can I help you?”
Mary asked, standing next to her amongst the collection of small graves and
markers.

“I’ve lost someone and
I can’t find her,” she said, turning back and forth in confused urgency.

“Who did you lose?”
Mary asked.

“My baby,” the girl
sobbed, her voice becoming more agitated and urgent. “My baby, she’s
missing.
 
She’s not here.”

Mary felt her heart break
for the young mother. “Are you sure she’s here?” Mary asked.

The girl looked up at
her, her eyes filled with tears, and nodded. “Yes, she’s here. She has to be
here,” she said. “I watched them lay her in the ground, and now I can’t find
her.”

“Tell me her name,”
Mary said. “And I’ll help you look. I’m sure she’s here.”

“Bernadette,” the girl
replied. “I named her after my sister.”

Mary stopped and
looked at the girl.
 
It was difficult to initially
see because she was so young, but there was a definite resemblance to the
elderly nun.
 
“Sister Bernadette?” Mary
asked. “Was she your sister?”

The girl nodded and
covered her face with her hands, slowly lowering herself to the ground. “I
could never be like her,” she cried. “She was so good.
 
She followed all the rules. My parents were
so proud of her.
 
But, I wanted…”
 
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “But I
wanted my daughter to be like her, even though I couldn’t be.”

“She’s not here.”

Mary turned quickly at
the sound of the voice behind her.
 
Sister Bernadette stood on the sidewalk near them, her hands hidden in
the front panel of her habit, and shook her head.

“Where is she?” the
young woman begged. “What did you do with her?”

A single tear formed
in the corner of the old nun’s eye and traveled down the crevices of her
wrinkled face. “I took her home,” she whispered gently. “I took you both
home
.”

“Home?”

“You and your sweet baby
are buried in the cemetery back home,” Sister Bernadette explained. “I couldn’t
leave you here.”

Still not sure of her
welcome, the young woman hesitated. “Thank you, Bernie,” she said. “I’m so
sorry…”

“You have nothing to
apologize for, Anna,” Sister Bernadette interrupted. “You were a kind, loving
and compassionate person, and had we all just realized how wonderful you were,
you wouldn’t have been lost to us. I’m so sorry.”

It took no more than
those words to qualm any hesitation. Anna rose and threw herself into her
sister’s arms.
 
“I love you, Bernie,” she
sobbed.

“I love you too,
Anna,” her sister replied, her voice thick with tears. “And I’ve been searching
for you. I wanted to bring you home for such a long time.”

“I’m ready,” Anna said
eagerly. “I’m ready to go home.”

Sister Bernadette
glanced over at Mary and smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered and then she and
her sister faded away.