There are times when I am convinced that I see someone from Canada who I know, walking on the streets of Manta, and I realize afterward that all those around me must be strangers. The notion of their assumed identity defies my sense of logic. Still, I have seen past patients and family members in the crowds, and friends from my childhood walking on the streets alone or staring back at me from a corner bar.
This is one of those moments when I believe I see someone I have thought about but have not seen in over a month. She is across the street, contemplating whether to purchase a sweatshirt, a sudadera. Something to keep warm in.
I think for a moment that perhaps I am mistaken, that this woman is Karen, until I look again.
I never expected to see her here. She never answered my letters asking her to come.
She looks the same, her hair drooping from her shoulders in flaxen, rolling waves, her body thin, and well-defined by the folds of her dress. Her face is refined with feline features—especially her eyes...those deep green, penetrating feline eyes...She has returned to allow me the opportunity to save Annabelle, before I have the chance to return to where I assumed they were.
Yelena! I shout. She looks around, and doesn’t see me. I walk toward her, smiling, ecstatic.
I know that this exact scene will melt into my dreams. I know it may become lucid because I am thinking about having this dream later. We have the power to create a lucid dream by thinking dream thoughts during the day. By thinking I can fly to her, or reach out to her with an enormous hand, or contact her through mind-thought, I can later dream this exact scene and know I am dreaming—thereby having control over it. It will become a waking dream.
She is cold, she says as I approach her. She did not expect to be cold here. She puts the sweater on over her dress. It is nearly nighttime, I say. I see the moon, she says, it’s larger than other moons I’ve seen. And redder. Look, it’s blood red. It’s a hook moon. And it’s sinking into the horizon. I’ve never seen that, either.
I notice, for the first time, that she is cradling a small baby in her arms, a baby with the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. This is Annabelle, she says. The baby’s eyes are closed.
This is the first time I’ve seen you in over a month, I say. And you haven’t written any letters lately.
Of course, you know where we’ve been, Yelena says. You ran away from us, not the other way around. You see me here, in your new home, and think maybe that you never left. A piece of your home, a part of your past has come back for you. How does that make you feel? Are you distraught by our presence? Are you upset, or pleased? I can’t tell by your expression. It could be either. I can see in your face that you are tired. You haven’t been sleeping. Wasn’t it you who told me how the mind cannot do well without dreams? Have you been dreaming, or have you been forsaking your dreams as you said you would?
Oh, you are preposterous with your dreams, you know you are. There is so much to say … I’m only here for a short time … how to begin … clichéd questions always end in clichéd answers … Have you learned any Spanish since you’ve been gone? Have you been to the mountains, to the rainforest? You have? To the mountains, but not the rainforest. I see. We can go to the rainforest together. I know of a place where you get a guide to take you through … I’ve heard about it before from other people who have been there ... we can see termite nests in the trees, swing from vine roots high above the forest floor … we can trek by the trails and eat fish straight from the Amazon … we can kayak and white water raft … you’ve thought about this too, have you? You have seen this in your dreams? You’re unforgivable, you know, leaving without even asking us to come with you. How could you not even ask? You and your silly dreams. You have an established career, your own practice, and who are your patients visiting now? Look at you. You’re dishevelled; not disgustingly so, but almost. You’ve turned into Gauguin in Tahiti, or into Van Gogh as a preacher, but without their gifts. Are you malnourished? You can’t be eating right, look at you. You’re too thin. You’re a beach dweller, a nomad. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. No, I’m sorry … I take that back. Maybe I should be ashamed of myself for saying that … but you’ve only been gone, what, a month, or a month and a half, and look at you. You should have some pride in yourself, if you’re going to be chasing after Ecuadorian women. Have you met anyone here? Are you searching for someone? What is your purpose here? Why are you staying here in Manta, because your father lived here before? What was he doing here for so long? Was it a woman? Why did he come here initially? You said before that he never truly acknowledged having had a family, and his escape was through being here in this place and through alcoholism, an extended vacation, one that in his case lasted decades—but why Manta? Was it a manta ray he saw in a dream, like one of those fish that swim above the bottom of the sea, and then he found this place on a map and somehow connected the two? Was he as preposterous as you? Remember, you’re the ridiculous one, not me. His wife, your mother, was she from here? No? He had little money, wanted to live a lifetime on it paying the Señora twenty or thirty dollars a month for rent and food, and found a school that needed English teachers in an obscure and isolated fishing village in an obscure and isolated part of the globe? I’m sorry, I’m rambling, I’ve been drinking a bit, I’m sorry if you don’t think that’s right in my condition, but did you really want to be here, away from all those you love? A place, after all, is only as good as the people who inhabit it. Why did you want to leave? Why do you stay away? How much longer will you remain? You said you would be away for a month, but you’ve already been gone that long and you haven’t returned. You’re going to, you say? Really? Or do you plan to stay here as long as your father did? Is this to become the ultimate egoistical endeavor of your life, your dreams amplified? Dreams are egoistic, you always liked to quote Freud. He said dreams were the ultimate form of egoism, did you know that? Of course, you must know that. You probably even told me that. I can’t tell you anything you don’t know about him. But listen, when were you truly planning on coming back to see us? And what are the demons that have chased you away? Your daughter, look she’s opened her eyes, and she’s looking at you now. She’s telling you that she needs you, look, I’ll unravel her tiny blanket so you can see her clubbed feet. She’s smelling you now. Babies are sensitive, even to the smells of their father.…
Are you really coming home?