manâthe good man, the kind one, who loves me with everything in his heartâis lying inside. I am broken and unloved, the brat once again with no one to stand between me and my father's hate. But then his eyes open and look up at me, so tender, so wise.
"Nobody can undo my love, Mia Mine," he whispers. "Not even death."
I thought I woke up and corked the bottle then, but before I knew it I was back in my own nightmare. It seeped under the door of my father's room and wrapped its fingers around my heart. I squirmed against its hold, but it wouldn't let me go. Again I watched Will's truck explode, with him inside it. Again the scene morphed, body parts and blood showering down on top of me, so that I was drenched from head to toe.
When a great white shark materialized in the middle of the air, jaws wide open and obviously hungry, the absurdity bumped me into waking. Of course my cell phone was ringing its Jaws theme, and I had about two breaths to be grateful the dream was over before the Merchant yanked me into transition, without so much as a by-your-leave or even a warning. The bottle of Mia's dream came with me.
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T he room I found myself inâwalls, floor, and ceilingâwas covered in a hodgepodge of mirrors in varying sizes and shapes, all showing people of every possible nationality and social status. Most of them were in motion: making love, dying, fighting, killing, sleeping, playing. I thought I caught a glimpse of the president but it vanished the minute I looked at it directly.
Not one of those mirrors reflected either the Merchant or me, or the strange room in which we stood.
My stomach rebelled against the constant play of light and color, the kaleidoscope of humanity that was an onslaught to my senses. I put a hand over my mouth and swallowed hard, afraid I was going to puke right onto one of the mirrors.
"Close your eyes, child," the Merchant said, and all at once I remembered my firstâand lastâvisit to this place, and that my reaction had been the same. Funny how the memory had been a vacant spot in my brain until just this minute, but I didn't have the luxury to focus on that for very long.
Fear of the unknown was rising to panic so I risked a glimpse. The Merchant had the bottle in her hands. Removing the stopper, she sniffed at it, then touched it with her tongue.
"Tell me," she said. That was all. There was nothing dangerous in her tone. No anger. But that didn't mean I wasn't in a boatload of trouble.
Trying to explain about the Merchant is like talking color with a blind person, or describing snow to somebody who has never seen it. When I'm with her I see her clearly and feel her impact, and when I'm not, the memory slides away from me like water. She's the opposite of dreaming. In her presence I feel sort of wide-awake and solid; real, I guess, in the way the Velveteen Rabbit and Pinocchio were seeking. And when I leave her, I slide back into something ⦠less. Whether she is old or young, I can't say. It's possible she dwells outside of time. Maybe she's not even a woman, because although I definitely remember her as female, I met another dream runner once who swore the Merchant was a man.
I was plenty scared, but there was no point lying, so I told her everything. It felt good to spew it all outâthe grief and the anger and the hate, everything that led to the shattering of my own dream and the stupidity of opening Mia's. I kept my eyes closed, so as not to watch her face or the mirrors; it was easier that way.
When I was done there was a small silence.
"Well, that explains things," she said. I heard two metallic clicks and braced myself for whatever supernatural retaliation was about to come my way.
"Here you go."
I opened my eyes to see that she was holding out my briefcase, as though nothing had happened, as though I hadn't just confessed to dream addiction and moral bankruptcy and complete ineptitude.
"No."
It wasn't a thing you could say to
"Nobody can undo my love, Mia Mine," he whispers. "Not even death."
I thought I woke up and corked the bottle then, but before I knew it I was back in my own nightmare. It seeped under the door of my father's room and wrapped its fingers around my heart. I squirmed against its hold, but it wouldn't let me go. Again I watched Will's truck explode, with him inside it. Again the scene morphed, body parts and blood showering down on top of me, so that I was drenched from head to toe.
When a great white shark materialized in the middle of the air, jaws wide open and obviously hungry, the absurdity bumped me into waking. Of course my cell phone was ringing its Jaws theme, and I had about two breaths to be grateful the dream was over before the Merchant yanked me into transition, without so much as a by-your-leave or even a warning. The bottle of Mia's dream came with me.
Â
Â
T he room I found myself inâwalls, floor, and ceilingâwas covered in a hodgepodge of mirrors in varying sizes and shapes, all showing people of every possible nationality and social status. Most of them were in motion: making love, dying, fighting, killing, sleeping, playing. I thought I caught a glimpse of the president but it vanished the minute I looked at it directly.
Not one of those mirrors reflected either the Merchant or me, or the strange room in which we stood.
My stomach rebelled against the constant play of light and color, the kaleidoscope of humanity that was an onslaught to my senses. I put a hand over my mouth and swallowed hard, afraid I was going to puke right onto one of the mirrors.
"Close your eyes, child," the Merchant said, and all at once I remembered my firstâand lastâvisit to this place, and that my reaction had been the same. Funny how the memory had been a vacant spot in my brain until just this minute, but I didn't have the luxury to focus on that for very long.
Fear of the unknown was rising to panic so I risked a glimpse. The Merchant had the bottle in her hands. Removing the stopper, she sniffed at it, then touched it with her tongue.
"Tell me," she said. That was all. There was nothing dangerous in her tone. No anger. But that didn't mean I wasn't in a boatload of trouble.
Trying to explain about the Merchant is like talking color with a blind person, or describing snow to somebody who has never seen it. When I'm with her I see her clearly and feel her impact, and when I'm not, the memory slides away from me like water. She's the opposite of dreaming. In her presence I feel sort of wide-awake and solid; real, I guess, in the way the Velveteen Rabbit and Pinocchio were seeking. And when I leave her, I slide back into something ⦠less. Whether she is old or young, I can't say. It's possible she dwells outside of time. Maybe she's not even a woman, because although I definitely remember her as female, I met another dream runner once who swore the Merchant was a man.
I was plenty scared, but there was no point lying, so I told her everything. It felt good to spew it all outâthe grief and the anger and the hate, everything that led to the shattering of my own dream and the stupidity of opening Mia's. I kept my eyes closed, so as not to watch her face or the mirrors; it was easier that way.
When I was done there was a small silence.
"Well, that explains things," she said. I heard two metallic clicks and braced myself for whatever supernatural retaliation was about to come my way.
"Here you go."
I opened my eyes to see that she was holding out my briefcase, as though nothing had happened, as though I hadn't just confessed to dream addiction and moral bankruptcy and complete ineptitude.
"No."
It wasn't a thing you could say to
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