later.”
“What are our options, really? He’s here now. We pass him up, and hope to run into somebody later on who is just as perfect? What are the chances of that? Besides…
“Besides, what?”
“Well, if we pass on him now, that means moving again, right away…. I’m really getting tired of moving.”
“As am I.”
The conversation continued, but I was growing too groggy to follow it. What I had heard sounded as hollow as words spoken in a dream, their meaning half lost and the reasoning behind them veiled in fog.
The next time I woke, I could have sworn it had all been a dream. That was the way I remembered it all. Even my memory of Eliza driving me out to the country lacked any sense of reality. The last thing I remembered that seemed real was she and I sitting on her front porch and talking after I’d helped her with the lawn.
I found myself lying on the sofa in her living room. I felt pretty good, but disoriented. I sat up and checked out my shirt and side; there was no blood on my shirt, and my side was not injured at all. If it all had been a dream, then what had actually happened? Had I had heatstroke and passed out, or what? Ohmigod, I fainted in front of her! How embarrassing. But wait-- I had never fainted in my life. I had scarcely ever been sick; I recalled once, when I’d been in first grade, having a cold for a couple days, but that was about all. So what had happened?
“Hello,” I called out, but no one answered. My voice echoed through the barely furnished house.
I stood and walked to the front window. When I pulled back the draperies, I saw that it was still light out, though the sun was very low in the west and the world was slipping into twilight. The beat-up old station wagon wasn’t parked in front of my house, which meant my mother had already left for her Wednesday night out bowling with her friends. Later I would be sure to find a note on the kitchen table telling me my dinner, whatever it was, was in the fridge and needed only be put in the microwave for a minute or two. She would not return until the wee hours of the morning, when, if I happened to wake, I would be able to hear her, a little tipsy, tripping over furniture downstairs until she found the lounge chair, sat down, smoked a couple cigarettes, and finally fell asleep. This was a typical Wednesday night for her, whenever my father was on a sales trip, which was most of the time.
I let the draperies slip shut. When I turned round, I saw Eliza standing there, in the middle of the living room. Either she hadn’t made a sound as she entered the room, or I’d been too absorbed to hear her as I wondered whether my life was even close to being normal.
“You slept a long time,” she said. “Someone will be looking for you?”
“Not really,” I said.
I walked across the tiled floor, and stopped in front of her. She remained quiet as I studied her a moment. Her hands were clasped behind her back. When her eyes met mine, they were free of distrust and deception. She just stood there and looked at me almost as if inviting me to examine her and convince myself that she was harmless.
I reached up to her face, and brushed aside her bangs, which were long and reached down to her eyebrows. The skin of her forehead was pale and smooth and showed no signs of ever having been cut or gashed.
“Uh-huh,” I murmured. “I guess we’re at the part when you tell me it was all a bad dream. Of course, I’ll refuse to believe it, and then you’ll take me outside to show me your car is parked in the driveway, and there won’t be a scratch on it.”
She managed a weak smile. “I didn’t go through all this to end up
“What are our options, really? He’s here now. We pass him up, and hope to run into somebody later on who is just as perfect? What are the chances of that? Besides…
“Besides, what?”
“Well, if we pass on him now, that means moving again, right away…. I’m really getting tired of moving.”
“As am I.”
The conversation continued, but I was growing too groggy to follow it. What I had heard sounded as hollow as words spoken in a dream, their meaning half lost and the reasoning behind them veiled in fog.
The next time I woke, I could have sworn it had all been a dream. That was the way I remembered it all. Even my memory of Eliza driving me out to the country lacked any sense of reality. The last thing I remembered that seemed real was she and I sitting on her front porch and talking after I’d helped her with the lawn.
I found myself lying on the sofa in her living room. I felt pretty good, but disoriented. I sat up and checked out my shirt and side; there was no blood on my shirt, and my side was not injured at all. If it all had been a dream, then what had actually happened? Had I had heatstroke and passed out, or what? Ohmigod, I fainted in front of her! How embarrassing. But wait-- I had never fainted in my life. I had scarcely ever been sick; I recalled once, when I’d been in first grade, having a cold for a couple days, but that was about all. So what had happened?
“Hello,” I called out, but no one answered. My voice echoed through the barely furnished house.
I stood and walked to the front window. When I pulled back the draperies, I saw that it was still light out, though the sun was very low in the west and the world was slipping into twilight. The beat-up old station wagon wasn’t parked in front of my house, which meant my mother had already left for her Wednesday night out bowling with her friends. Later I would be sure to find a note on the kitchen table telling me my dinner, whatever it was, was in the fridge and needed only be put in the microwave for a minute or two. She would not return until the wee hours of the morning, when, if I happened to wake, I would be able to hear her, a little tipsy, tripping over furniture downstairs until she found the lounge chair, sat down, smoked a couple cigarettes, and finally fell asleep. This was a typical Wednesday night for her, whenever my father was on a sales trip, which was most of the time.
I let the draperies slip shut. When I turned round, I saw Eliza standing there, in the middle of the living room. Either she hadn’t made a sound as she entered the room, or I’d been too absorbed to hear her as I wondered whether my life was even close to being normal.
“You slept a long time,” she said. “Someone will be looking for you?”
“Not really,” I said.
I walked across the tiled floor, and stopped in front of her. She remained quiet as I studied her a moment. Her hands were clasped behind her back. When her eyes met mine, they were free of distrust and deception. She just stood there and looked at me almost as if inviting me to examine her and convince myself that she was harmless.
I reached up to her face, and brushed aside her bangs, which were long and reached down to her eyebrows. The skin of her forehead was pale and smooth and showed no signs of ever having been cut or gashed.
“Uh-huh,” I murmured. “I guess we’re at the part when you tell me it was all a bad dream. Of course, I’ll refuse to believe it, and then you’ll take me outside to show me your car is parked in the driveway, and there won’t be a scratch on it.”
She managed a weak smile. “I didn’t go through all this to end up
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