In her dream Fern was gardening, hoeing freshly sprouted weeds from the perennial garden. The sun was shining, robins were singing, the colors of the grass, flowers, and sky so vibrant they glowed. Also, she could smell in this dream, the sweet, intoxicating scent of dianthus. She reached out with one hand and swore she could feel the velvety softness of one of the petals.
It felt too real to be a dream.
A light breeze ruffled her hair and she imagined she could hear voices. The perennials were talking to her. Thank you for the water and the fertilizer. Thank you for getting rid of all those weeds. Thank you for giving us this new, beautiful life.
Fern couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy before. Her garden was prospering. And she was falling in love. Never before had her future seemed so hopeful.
And then a cloud shifted, covering the sun. In a flash the sky darkened, the air cooled, and suddenly she was no longer in her garden, she was inside the Maison des Quatre Saisons, in a dull room with so many beds, all of them full.
The living were crying. I’m thirsty, I’m starving, I’ve soiled myself, I can’t stop coughing, I’m having trouble breathing, help me, help me, help me…
She spun from one poor soul to another, but she had nothing to give. She flung open drawers and cupboard doors, but there were no supplies, no food or water. She noticed one of the residents was too weak to even talk, so she went to his side. Black flies buzzed around his face, walking over the glassy orbs of his eyes which could no longer see.
The stench hit her, and she knew she was going to vomit. She went to her knees, searching for a bed pan. But there was another body down here, long dead, giving her a skeletal smile.
“No!” Fern gasped as she awoke. The room was dark, it took a few moments to remember where she was. She clutched the edge of her thin blanket. The night air coming in from her open window was cool, but her body felt damp from sweat. She reached for the bedside lamp and looked around with relief at the familiar, everyday sight of the pale-pink walls, the white, painted dresser with the framed Peter Rabbit print hanging on the wall above it.
The Singletons had had a daughter, and this had been her room.
My room.
Fern wished she could remember something. Anything. The color on the walls. The Peter Rabbit picture she’d found tucked in a corner of the sewing room. Being hugged by her mother.
She waited for her breathing and pulse to return to normal, then she got up to make some cocoa.
More nights than not, she was awakened by bad dreams like this one. They weren’t all the same. Her subconscious always found innovative ways to torture her. She was beginning to think she would never be free of them. Even the happy things that had started happening in her life weren’t enough to push the demons out of her mind.
She put a small pan of milk on the stove to heat. She wished it was Friday tomorrow so she could look forward to seeing George. The prospect of spending the upcoming day alone was depressing.
She’d already planned what she would serve George for dinner. Eggplant Parmesan and green salad with chocolate chip cookies for dessert. It was after dinner that her plans got fuzzy.
She thought George was romantically interested in her, but what if he wasn’t? He was quite a bit younger after all. She didn’t want to look like a fool by assuming something that wasn’t even possible. Besides she kept running up against the problem of her past, the problem of her nightmares, the problem of the question that plagued her day and night.
Had her father been telling her the truth the night he died? Or spinning an evil web of lies to choke her once he was gone?
Fern whisked cocoa and sugar into a small amount of milk, then added the paste to the pan. As the mixture heated, she played music from her favorite radio station in Quebec: Watercolors. The smooth jazz soothed her, chased away the horrors of the nightmare.
When her cocoa was ready, she settled into an armchair in the living room by an east-facing window where she could watch the sun come up. Already the sky was brightening. Through the open windows she could hear the jubilant chorus of the early-rising songbirds.
As the fear and panic from her nightmare subsided, she was able to see the situation more rationally.
If things progressed with George, if they ended up sleeping together, if she had a nightmare, she would tell him about the general state of affairs at the Maison de Quatre Saisons and that would be enough. There was no need to go into specifics.
The rest must stay buried in the past. She had to resist the urge to blab, to unload her guilt, to expose her family’s ugly secrets. George would never love her if he knew.
So he must never find out.