I wake up too tired to stretch, too tired even to turn onto my other side. Is this what being paraplegic feels like? I bend one knee, just because I can.
I feel as if I’ve been awake all night. I had the weirdest dreams. I can’t recall details, only the terrible feeling that I’ve been very, very bad.
Slowly, as I lie curled on my side, pieces of my dreams start coming back. At first, it’s just images: a checkerboard; a dish of ripe mango slices; my hand sweeping statues off a shelf at Saintly Souvenirs; a mouth, wide-open and hungry-looking. There’s a soundtrack too. The statues clattering to the ground; a crash of thunder; someone moaning. I try to push the memories away, but the images and sounds won’t go.
What were the matchy-match sisters doing in my dreams? They were outside Saintly Souvenirs, peering at the window display. Only the display was all wrong. The huge Jesus on the cross was laughing, and instead of the tiny Jesuses inside the snow globes, there were miniature me’s. And the miniature me’s were wearing hot pink short shorts and a bikini top.
“I need a few more vials of miracle oil,” one matchy-match sister said to the other.
In my dream, I tapped on her shoulder. So hard she stumbled. “You’re wasting your money. There’s no such thing as miracles,” I said.
She looked as if I’d slapped her. Remembering this makes me feel terrible. But in my dream, it was different. I was different. I didn’t care about that silly woman’s feelings. Imagine two old ladies dressed in matching clothes!
There was more. Now I see my dream self marching into Saintly Souvenirs. Colette was at the counter, setting up our old cardboard checkerboard. “You go first,” she said, smiling up at me. But instead of taking a turn, I hit the board with the side of my hand and sent the red and black discs flying.
Now I remember a smell. The sweet, heavy smell of ripe mangoes. Colette was laying the bright orange slices on a tray. “No, no,” she said, pushing me away when I reached for one, “they’re not for you, Ani. You’re allergic, remember?”
But I grabbed a fistful of mango slices and shoved them into my mouth. Their sticky juice dribbled down my chin, then down my neck. In my dream, I didn’t bother wiping it away.
“Oh no!” Colette said, covering her mouth.
But in the dream, I didn’t go into anaphylactic shock the way I would if I ate mango in real life. In the dream, there was hot black lava churning inside me; I was a volcano about to explode. “What do you know?” I shouted at Colette. “You’re a stupid slut!”
Colette’s eyes were all pupil.
I can’t believe I called her a slut, even if it was a dream.
Me—Saint Ani! But in the dream, I felt good. Free. Strong. As if I’d climbed to the top of Mount Everest and shouted at the top of my lungs. As if nothing could hold me back. Not having to be kind or responsible. Not having to be anything like my saintly namesake.
And now I see another piece of my dream. A shorter one. I was leaving the shop. As I left, I ran the side of my hand along the shelf of miniature porcelain statues of Jesus and Saint Anne.
The statues tumbled to the ground. I knew from the clattering sounds some were broken. There would be shards of porcelain on the floor. But I didn’t care. Let Colette vacuum up the mess.
I was tired of cleaning up after her.
I cover my eyes with my hands. What does it mean if the me in my dreams is so cold and cruel and angry? Can all those feelings be inside me too?
Oh no, there’s more. Maxim was in my dreams too! He was walking into Sweet Heaven.
I marched right up to him. I wasn’t going to skulk around the way I did in the sporting goods store. Skulking wasn’t my style. Not in last night’s dreams, anyhow! Maxim shoved his hands into his pockets. “What’s up?” he said, all Mr. Cool. “You look really good, today, Ani— like you’re on fire.”
I was on fire!
“You’re full of shit,” I told him.
His mouth fell open. Then he laughed. A big laugh that made his face twist up. “I can’t believe you said that. Colette says you never swear.”
This time I laughed. “I do now!” Then I stepped a little closer to him and I was glad when he stepped back. “Maybe Colette and other people fall for your bullshit, but I don’t. I know exactly what kind of ”—I stopped to choose my words—“selfish, phony asshole you are.”
I can’t believe I said those things. I don’t think I ever even thought them before.
Do other people say and do terrible things in their dreams? Or is it just me?
Maxim has vanished, and now more fragments are coming back. I want to make it stop, but I can’t. My mind wants me to remember—wants me to know how bad I really am.
I was on Avenue Royale. I was a giant and my legs were stilts. When I passed Saintly Souvenirs, the store seemed suddenly tiny and very far away, like I was seeing it through the wrong end of a telescope.
In the next snippet of dream, I was walking under the center arch of the basilica. I had a plan: I was going to make the walls and golden ceiling shake. I was going to make the statues cover their mouths and groan. Whoever said churches had to be quiet? Quiet and rules were for the old Ani; the dream Ani wanted noise and chaos.
I’m still curled up on my side, trying to make sense of all the pieces, when my body does something weird: it shudders. The shudder shoots down my spine like electricity, then spreads around my belly and between my thighs. The feeling was in my dreams too.
Someone’s hand was on my waist. It was a soft warm hand and it was reaching under my nightgown, grazing the tops of my breasts, moving over my belly and toward the band of skin just above the top of my underwear. I didn’t know who was touching me like that—and I didn’t care. All I knew was I didn’t want the feeling to stop. No one had ever touched me that way, made my skin feel like every inch of it was alive.
“Ani, you look like you’re on fire.”
Maxim’s mouth was open, and his teeth were very white, but he wasn’t laughing. I could hear a faint moaning sound in the distance.
Maxim was touching my waist, his fingers making small round flutters.
My thighs were hot and strangely heavy. I really was on fire.
“Kiss me,” I said, reaching up for the back of his head.
I remember what I was thinking: So this is what it feels like to want someone. It’s why Colette said yes even when Maxim didn’t want to use a condom.
The dream me ran my fingers through his hair. It was so thick and soft and dark. I can still see it, feel it even.
But that doesn’t make sense. Maxim’s hair’s not dark.
A wave of shame so big I’m sure I’ll drown washes over me.
And now I realize it’s my own hand under my nightgown, moving down my belly. I’m aching again. And that moaning sound is coming from me. I pull my hand out from under my nightgown and shake my head. I have to make the dreams—and the achy feeling—go away.
The pillow is damp near where my mouth is. My thighs still feel hot and heavy.
I might have been dreaming, but I know one thing for sure: the feelings—all of them—were real.
Outside, the bottom of the sky is beginning to turn pink. I pull the pillow out from behind me and throw it over my head. I need to sleep some more. Just sleep— not dream.