Life Is but a Dream (9 page)

When I lift my head, Alec isn’t staring at me like all the other people I’ve ever told. His eyes light up with curiosity. There’s an excitement in his voice when he speaks. —
Changes how?
—

—
Like everything, I don’t know
— I say. —
It’s like all of this … this room and these chairs and whatever … they all disappear. Then something more beautiful takes their place.
—

I watch his fingers gently circling over my skin—his thumb slowly petting my birthmark. It’s his way of telling me that he loves all things that make me special—all the things others say make me broken. A sleeping star inside me is suddenly shining and I begin to glow.

—
You know something? You have to be the most amazing girl I’ve ever met
— he says, and I feel my cheeks flush.

At that moment, I wish more than anything that he and I could walk off into our own world and leave everybody else behind. We could live in the place from my dream that I haven’t told him about yet. The dream where the sunlight was so bright that I never quite saw his face but knew who it was the moment I saw him in the hospital. There we’d be able to escape all that is terrible in the world.

It all seems less possible sitting in the cafeteria.

Suddenly it feels—more like a dream.

—
But what if they’re right?
— I ask. —
What if I’m wrong about it? What then?
—

—
That’s crap
— he says. —
If you said you saw Jesus or something, they wouldn’t even think of calling you delusional. They’d put you on the evening news and morning talk shows, and some poor village in Peru would probably make a statue of you out of twigs and mud. Don’t you see, all they really care about is conformity and making sure you see things exactly how they do. If you ask me, I’d say you’re lucky. You get to see past all the things that are fake and ugly. The problem is that most people look at the world and see a bunch of strip malls. You actually see something worth seeing and they don’t think that’s fair.
—

—
Do you really think so?
— I ask.

—
Definitely.
—

—
But what am I supposed to do then? I don’t see those things anymore
— I tell him. —
I feel like that part of me is going away.
—

Alec lowers his eyes and shakes his head. —
Soma
— he says quietly.

—
What’s that?
— I ask.

—
It’s the so-called medicine they’re giving you
— he says. —
It’s what they’re giving all of us.
—

—
Soma? That’s not what it’s called
— I tell him, trying to remember the complicated names of the pills I have to take. —
It’s something like chlor zine and something dol. I can’t remember exactly.
—

—
It doesn’t matter what the names are on the labels, it’s all the same. They all have the same purpose
— he says, growing more animated. Sitting up straighter, his eyes glow brightly as he glares at the nurse across the room as if she is our enemy. —
Those pills are just to keep us from thinking. In this book I read about the future, everyone is on this pill called Soma that makes them easy to control. That’s what this place is all about. They stick us in places like this so they can drug us. Then presto … suddenly we’re robots like everybody else.
—

—
But there’s nothing we can do about the medicine
— I say.

—
Sure there is
— Alec says. —
Stop taking it. Don’t let them brainwash us anymore. I haven’t taken anything they’ve given me since I got here.
—

—
You haven’t?
— It surprises me and my voice goes higher. I’m given pills twice a day. Four pills each time. It seems dangerous to miss that much medicine. —
Doesn’t it make you sick?
—

—
No. It’s those pills that make you sick. They turn your head into plastic. Look, there’s nothing wrong with us. There’s nothing to cure.
—

The idea scares me and I begin to suck on my sleeve. It’s not that I don’t believe him—part of me has always felt the same way, but it still frightens me.

—
But isn’t medicine supposed to make you better?
—

—
Medicine? Give me a break. It’s just a drug like any other
— Alec says. —
They always tell us how bad drugs are, but here they try to give us tons of them? And it’s not just us. Everyone I know has parents on pills. Every bathroom cabinet in America is filled with little brown bottles with long names that all mean the same thing. Soma. Mind control. I’m telling you, if we let them, they’ll change us to the point where we won’t ever be able to remember who we used to be.
—

—
I don’t want that
— I tell him—my voice muffled by my sleeve.

—
So you’re with me then? You’ll stop taking them?
—

I nod—slowly at first but more decisive once he squeezes my hand. —
Okay
— I say. —
But what if they find out?
—

Alec reaches for the hand near my mouth so that both of my hands are now wrapped up in his. —
Don’t worry about them
— he says. —
All that matters is you and me.
—

CHAPTER

SEVEN

I have to be careful not to use too much glue. The magazine paper is so thin that if I use the slightest bit more than a dab, the glue bubbles up and shows through to the picture on the other side. But even being careful, holding the picture flat on the table and measuring the drop with a squinted eye as it seeps from the orange cap, I manage to get too much on the paper. I have to smear it flat with my finger in a spiral pattern until it’s thin enough for me to press the picture on the collage paper without wrinkling.

—
This is so dumb
— Alec groans beside me. He’s been complaining the entire twenty minutes we’ve been in the art room. I don’t mind though because he’s cute when he’s grumpy and I’m pretty sure he’s mostly doing it to make me laugh.

—
I don’t mind. I like it actually
— I tell him for the tenth time.

—
Art collages?
— he sneers. —
What are we, in first grade?
—

—
It’s supposed to help us express our feelings
— I say, doing my best imitation of Mrs. Weaver, the therapist in charge of instructing us in this activity. She says sometimes words aren’t the best way to describe our emotions and that making collages might help us get in touch with our inner selves. Today, she wants us to make a piece about our relationship with our parents. For some reason, it bothers Alec more than the others we’ve had to do. —
Try to have some fun with it
— I tell him. Then I reach over and press my gluey finger on his nose. Before he can wipe at it, I stick a red piece of paper on him that I’ve cut into a circle and now he has a clown’s nose.

He smiles for the first time since we started working on our projects. Looking at himself in the reflection of the windows behind us, he laughs. —
Can this be my project?
— he jokes. —
This says everything about the way I feel toward my dad.
—

—
I’m pretty sure Mrs. Weaver had something else in mind
— I tease him, pulling the paper off his face.

I’ve been in a good mood all day. Last night before bed, I hid the medicine under my tongue until the nurse left. As soon as the door clicked closed, I got up and spit the pills out in the toilet. This morning, I did the same thing. Nurse Abrams was more distracted than usual and I had no problem getting away with it.

Already, I’m noticing the changes.

I don’t feel so on edge today. It’s the same kind of feeling I get after taking a big test in school and can let go of all the memorized information stored in my brain—instantly I’m lighter once it’s been emptied. This morning has been just like that. I’ve been floating all day.

Mrs. Weaver is strolling around the room. The tables in the art room are pushed together into a giant horseshoe. Inside the opening, she wanders from patient to patient, pausing to look at everyone’s work and asking us a couple of questions apiece.

The tapping of her heeled shoes stops inches away and I know she’s examining mine. —
That’s very pretty, Sabrina
— she says, and I glance up at her with a smile on my face.

—
Thanks
.—

In the center of my collage is a black-and-white photograph of a mother and young daughter hugging in the snow at night. They are wearing heavy winter coats and ribbons in their hair because the picture is supposed to be of a scene in the 1800s and that was the way most girls and women wore their hair, I suppose. Around the photograph, I glued pictures of flowers I’d cut from the stacks of magazines Mrs. Weaver set out for us to use. The flowers are bright and colorful against the black-and-white snow. I painted the sky with watercolors. I used dark purples and blues and painted them really wet so that the colors ran together in interesting shapes. I used a little bit of pink paint on the girl’s cheeks.

—
Can you tell me something about the images you chose?
— Mrs. Weaver asks.

—
Sure
— I say. I love talking about my pictures and I’m smiling like crazy. Even Alec can’t help but grin when he sees me so happy. —
Well, obviously this is me and that’s my mom.
—

—
I can see that
— Mrs. Weaver says. She allows a quick smile to flash across her mouth before it turns into a grimace and fades completely. Her features scrunch together then. With a quizzical look, she taps on the image of the girl who symbolizes me. —
But why are your cheeks pink in the picture? Are you cold? Is your mother hugging you to keep you warm?
—

I shake my head. —
No. I’m not cold at all.
—

—
Oh. Okay, then why? Did you have a reason, or did you just like the way it looked?
— she asks.

—
Not exactly. My cheeks are painted because I belong with the flowers and the sky. They are colorful and that’s where I’m going.
— I tell her. Right away I wonder if I shouldn’t have said that about going someplace else. It’s probably the wrong answer but then again, I’m not sure I care. Alec says I shouldn’t hide what I see and I trust him.

—
What about your mother?
— Mrs. Weaver asks.

—
She’s trying to keep me with her. In this place …—
I say, drawing an imaginary circle around the black-and-white scenery with my finger. —…
this place with all the snow. Because that’s where she belongs.
—

—
Why don’t you feel you belong in the same place as her?
— she asks me, and I shrug.

—
I don’t know
— I say. —
I just … don’t.
—

—
Hmmmm
— Mrs. Weaver says, twisting up the corner of her mouth. There’s a look of concern on her face that makes my stomach drop. —
What about your father? Where is he in this picture?
—

—
Somewhere nearby
— I say, thinking of him running toward us. —
He’s coming to help her. They both want me to stay.
—

There’s a brief moment that passes where neither of us makes a sound. She stares at my collage and I keep my eyes fixed on her. There’s something about the way her eyes focus on the image that makes me wish I’d never told her. I could have just said I liked the way it looked and she would have moved on the way she always does.

—
I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind me showing this to your doctor once you’re done?
— she asks.

—
I guess not
— I whisper nervously. She’s never asked that before—not of me or any other patient as far as I know.

Alec hears my voice crack. He notices my hand dive into my pocket where he knows I keep at least one stone at all times. Once he sees my fingers moving like insects inside the fabric, working over the rough edges, he looks in Mrs. Weaver’s direction and sighs. —
Something wrong, Alec?
— she asks, turning toward him.

—
Yeah
— he says. —
Why do you have to interrogate her?
—

—
I’m sorry if you feel I’m interrogating anyone
— she says, straining to remain calm. —
My job is to try and help you all explore feelings you may not even know you have.
—

—
What a load of crap
— Alec says under his breath—just loud enough for her to hear and quiet enough so that she can pretend to ignore it. She takes a step over to stand in front of him.

—
Mind if I look at yours?
— she asks.

—
No problem
.— Alec pushes his paper across the table so that it takes flight just above the table’s surfaces and slides nearly onto the floor.

Mrs. Weaver catches it before it falls and holds it in her hand. She examines it for a few seconds before turning it around. It is a picture of a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase. Next to him is a woman in a suit, carrying a briefcase. Alec has used the red paper nose I gave him and made an identical one. He’s glued both on the foreheads of the two figures with squiggly red lines running down from them.

—
In this picture … who do you imagine is the shooter?
— Mrs. Weaver asks. —
Is it you?
—

—
No
— Alec says. —
It’s nobody … because it’s just a stupid picture. There is no shooter because nobody got shot.
—

—
Yes, I understand that. But what would you say this means?
—

—
They’re photos from a magazine!
— he shouts, pushing against the table with both hands so that the legs squeal across the floor. The violence of it startles Mrs. Weaver but not me. I know how much he doesn’t like her. —
It doesn’t mean anything … none of these mean anything, so why don’t you just leave us alone!
—