Читать книгу Quilt of Dreams - Michael Ph.D Markey - Страница 5

The late afternoon of Christmas Eve, Kristen and her parents packed up the SUV and left for her grandparent’s farm in the hills of central Pennsylvania. Traveling by way of the turnpike it took about two hours to get there. Her dad pulled the car into the long driveway at the old brick farmhouse and the three of them jumped out as Grandma and Grandpa came to greet them. They unloaded quickly and went straight to the living room. It was all decorated with holly, red ribbons, and gingerbread people – the kind you could really eat. Over in the corner stood a nine-foot-high Christmas tree; the odor of fresh pine filled the room.

“So Kristen, I understand you are staying with us a few days,” her grandfather Reeves began as he placed a few more logs on the fire in the huge living room fireplace made of red brick.

“Yes, Grandpa.”

The fire made her feel all warm and cozy as she snuggled in beside him.

“Good, because I set up the trains and the Christmas village on a platform in the other room. We’ll have a lot of fun with that.”

“Dad, I hear we’ll be getting some snow by tomorrow evening,” said Kristen’s mother.

“Yep – could be a big one, Andrea,” he replied. “We’d love to have you stay longer but you might want to get back home before it hits.”

“That’s what Kevin thought, too.”

“Well you know your mother and I will take good care of Kristen while you’re gone. So you just go when you need to and take care of that business at home.”

“Thanks, Dad…I know you will. And everything is going to be fine.” Andrea Marsh took hold of her father’s hand for a moment and they gave each other a knowing smile that somehow made even Kristen understand. It made her feel very good inside…so safe and so happy.

“C’mon, kids. Grandma has hot cider and fresh Christmas cookies for you weary travelers. Dig in.”

Pat Reeves put down the tray and the family did exactly as Grandma said. The living room now looked like something from an old Christmas card, with contented folks relaxing around the toasty fire, munching away on their snacks. They did some catching up on what was going on the last few months and then the family settled in for bed. After all, it was Christmas Eve and they needed to be bright-eyed for the festive day ahead.

The girls headed upstairs while the men stayed behind to watch TV. At the top of the stairs Kristen gazed down the long hall at the doors on each side. At the far end there was a white door, the only one closed. She felt a chill as she looked at that door.

“It used to scare me when I was little,” Kristen said, pointing to that single door at the hall’s end.

Her mother looked to Grandma.

“But it just leads to the attic stairway, Kristen. It’s where we store a lot of old stuff we don’t use much. Your mother spent many a day in the winter playing house up there. Right, Andrea?”

“Why yes, I remember pushing big boxes around to make pretend rooms for my house of make-believe friends. Even then I was getting ideas for the people in the stories I wrote later on.”

“Maybe I could go up there and play too. Is that okay, Grandma?”

Grandma looked to Kristen’s mother again before answering, “Certainly you can, my dear – nothing there in the attic to harm you.”

“Nothing to harm you at all,” Kristen’s mother repeated. “I’m sure you could make a playhouse just as you want it, too. Come on now. Let’s get you to bed so we’re rested for Christmas morning – and the presents.”

As Kristen crawled into her soft warm pajamas there in her own special bedroom, her mom and Grandma came around to tuck her in.

“Did you know this was my room when I grew up here, Kristen?”

“Really?”

“Yes, but it looks like Grandma moved out a lot of my big girl stuff to make it a little girl’s room again.”

“Oh, I’m not that little, Mom… but I like it, Grandma. The green-and-yellow stripes make me think of my own room back home, all bright and cheery to make me feel happy.”

“Good… we wanted it that way for you. Sort of a home away from home.”

Kristen’s mother moved around the room, running her hand over the old dresser and nightstand of dark walnut, all polished nice and shiny. “Yes, I think of wonderful times here when I look at this room. This is where I decided to write books, you know.”

“Books for me?” Kristen asked.

“Not back then. That was before I even knew you, silly.” Her mom came over and gave her a little poke in the ribs, making them both laugh. “But I did decide then that I wanted to write and take these ideas in my head about things I wanted to say on paper.”

“That’s all it took to make you a writer?”

“Well, I practiced a lot. And after that I needed to go to college so I could learn how to do it better. And that’s where I met your father - which was a very good thing - for now we have you in our lives.”

“Gee, maybe when I get older I’ll think of stories to write, too.”

“If that’s what you truly want to happen it will become real for you, darling. Until then… you just grow up and think about all the things you can be.”

“Well, you two writers and dreamers talk all you want. But this old granny needs to get her beauty rest. She’s got a big turkey dinner tomorrow. Sleep tight, girls.”

“Your grandmother’s right. Time to get to bed so we can open presents bright and early. See you Christmas morning, Kristen.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

As her mother turned off the light and left, she rolled over to look out of the window, imagining her mom lying there years ago and thinking about what she will be when she got older. In the moonlight (a moon with a foggy ring around it, actually,) the vast meadow looked beautiful out behind the old farmhouse. Kristen could see the big red barn where Grandpa kept the tractor and that black Ford truck he loved so much. He also took great pride in the barn itself, to keep it so clean-looking by recently replacing the rotting wood siding with crimson steel panels. They had farm animals when Mom lived at home – cows, sheep, and such – but now a few chickens were the only ones left. Even before Mom, the Corson (her grandmother’s maiden name) family lived there and passed the property on from the Jacobs generation, and on to the Reeves generation. When Grandma and Grandpa Reeves can’t live there any more, though, probably Kristen’s parents would not be moving to the quiet farm in central Pennsylvania, though. In a way, she looked at that with sadness. What would become of the beautiful old farm then?

Down over the hill from the barn there was a huge pond where Grandpa said there were big old trout. Last summer, when Kristen and her parents visited in mid-July, he actually caught a few of them and Grandma made a big fish dinner for family and friends. It was fun to meet with their neighbors and hear them make a big fuss over the cooking skills of Pat Reeves. (And who would’ve thought Kristen’s dad would be the one to win the watermelon seed-spitting contest that day?) Looking out on that pond this night, Kristen thought about just how the meadow would look if it snowed tomorrow. In her mind she could see herself gliding down over the hill on a sled or toboggan, fluffy snow flying everywhere in the icy-blue winds.

Kristen drifted off to sleep, snuggled in her mother’s old bed. She dreamed about fun things at first, and how happy she was, having a loving family to take good care of her (even though she had wanted to be back with her school friends the day after Christmas). When she had these dreams, it became almost as if she was Andrea Reeves – her mother – now, running and playing out in those same fields she saw before going to sleep. Kristen could see it all from her mother’s young eyes.

And then she heard it, off in a fog…that screechy whiney voice…softly beckoning at first:

“Andrea…Andrea? You’re back after all these years. Well, it’s about time, young lady. Where in the world have you been?”

“No…I’m not who you think,” Kristen began to whisper back to that awful voice somewhere inside her dream.

In this dream she could see now – just barely - up ahead in the hazy mist. The voice was that of a small person, or a creature of some kind. (Oh dear! Was he green?) She could not quite tell yet, so she stepped a bit closer. The ground beneath her was soft and squishy, like cotton puffs. It felt very weird between her toes.

“But you must be Andrea, dear child. This is her space, you know.” And then as she drew near, Kristen heard it:

“You’re back, you’re back,

Sleepin’ in the sack.

I thought I’d see you sooner,

But we kinda lost track.”

Kristen was now as close to the little man as she wanted to be. Or, was he a little elf? A little green elf, right down to the tattered vest and shorts.

“Who are you? Is that you near the fence?” In this foggy mush of a dream, it was difficult to be certain.

“Of course, Andrea.”

“Don’t call me that!” she cried out. “Andrea is my mother, so you must be in the wrong dream.”

In the haze she could see him pull out an appointment book (green, of course) and he flipped it open to this morning’s date.

“Let’s see. December twenty-four…actually, it’s the twenty-fifth now…nope, this has got to be the right dream.” Then he looked to Kristen. “Your dream is on my schedule.” He looked at her more closely. “Hmm…brown hair to your shoulders, rosy cheeks, clear creamy skin, but for a freckle here and there. Even these old eyes can tell you are Andrea Reeves, smoky morning or not.”

This little man is really making me angry, but don’t let him know it.

“Please believe me. You are making a big mistake. My name is Kristen Marsh and Andrea is my mother.”

The little man moved in closer, staring in silence as he circled around her.

“I know,” she continued. “Everybody says I look just like my mother when she was ten. And from the pictures…”

“Suit yourself then,” he cut her off and sniffed and shuffled, which made his little green slippers jingle, a tinkling sound like somebody’s silly cell phone. After a pause:

“Headstrong little girl,

Headstrong as can be,

Call yourself Kristen,

But you’re Andrea to me.”

“And why do you rhyme like that? Don’t you know it’s annoying?”

“Of course I know that, little darling. It’s my destiny…to rhyme, and annoy.”

“But why?” she cried. The little man disturbed her peaceful night’s sleep, along with her beautiful dream of life at her grandparents’ farm. “Who are you, anyway?”

“A fair question. Call me Rappabee, Kristen…or whoever you call yourself.” He took a majestic bow as he said his name. He certainly is full of himself! “Therefore, with a name such as that I am destined to speak in rhyme. You can’t stop me, my friend.”

With a twinkle in his eye he continued, “Oh, and don’t forget my little hip movement. I do this with a bit of attitude in my step. You probably can’t see that in the dream mist, though… but it’s there. That’s the ‘Rap’ move in ‘Rappabee’.”

Kristen shook her head. “Oh please, somebody get me out of this dream. I don’t want any more of this.”

“Hey! You think this is easy being me? I go all over this world teaching little gremlins like you what it is you should know. So just give me a bit of respect for what I…” Rappabee took a closer look at the girl. “Good gracious, little lady! Who dressed you for bed tonight? An army of clowns?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Your pajamas…all those wretched stripes and circles…I’m feeling most ill just looking at you.”

“It’s what I like, Rappabee. Even Mom says it’s okay to wear what I choose, and to do as I choose, so long as it doesn’t hurt others.”

“Well, the sight of you is certainly hurting me. I must have a talk with your mother…and very soon, too. We have left some things get totally out of hand since I last met up with her.”

“You really do know Mom, don’t you?”

“It is a long story. We’ll talk of that another night.”

“Then I will see you again?”

“That, young lady, depends on you. It is all in the touch, quite honestly.” He took a step back. “But I have said too much already. You ready for another rhyme?”

“Not if I can stop it.”

“Very well, Miss Kristen – go…get out of my sight if you will have no more of me and my lovely rhymes.”

“Thank you,” she said with a sigh of relief. Then she thought about it a moment. “But it’s possible that…”

“You are not paying attention, girl. It’s always in the touch.” He reached out and grasped her hand in his. It was cold and damp, but not repulsive…a comfort, actually that calmed her fears. After all, foggy new places – dreams and all that - are not always most pleasant, and this one began to cloud over even more as it was apparent her little annoying friend was about to make his little annoying exit.

“You will know.”

“When they don’t understand,

People call for me,

They know I’ll lend a hand

When they ask for Rappabee.”

The little man dissolved into the smoky nothingness, and the dream became a passing fancy, something Kristen would barely remember by morning.

But why is this happening? Was it because I am sleeping in the same bed as my mother when she was my age?

No doubt about it. There would be no more Christmas cider for her before bedtime!