Crossing Over to Distant Shores (Part Ten in a Series)

Part X -- Paris Stories -- Sleep

[Interlude:  the human body shuts its systems down with amazing efficiency preparing for the transformation of sleep. The brain curates thoughts and memories like a director of a vast art museum; but when awake, stimuli evoke obvious reactions, whether provoking, eliciting, or sensory. Closely observing the response to a difficult question, like the one proposed by Gabriel to Charlotte about America, was curious.]

Charlotte looked at Gabriel and flinched, "What?" She seemed wide-eyed, caught.

"What do you mean: What?" said Gabriel. 
He watched her intently; locked stare, beating heart.

She was classically trained as a lawyer in school, but hadn't practiced as an attorney enough to learn how to lie very well.

"You... you mean what I said about crossing over, I mean jumping in?" She knew exactly what he was asking, and that Gabriel was smart enough to interpret her inner-turmoil, illustrated so well verbally by describing plunging into the cold water, swimming across. [See Part IX, previously posted]

This rare awkward moment between them now turned on how fixed their relationship was; and whether Charlotte's life-plan centered on French art, or U.S. law?

Gabriel softly probed this line of inquiry, once he saw Charlotte's flustered response to his stimulative question about the other shore (America): "I thought the way you described your dilemma was fascinating, since you mentioned it involved a destination?"

Strangely uncomfortable, Charlotte realized what she said about a distant shore came from a deep, subconscious place. She said, "To get to the other shore, I have to go across." But was this journey pre-ordained? Was it required? Did it seem unpleasant, and why?

They didn't discuss the future, nor did she know much about her own plans, at least in a cognizant, logistical way. However, her analytical mind worked constantly in the background, especially during the sacred hours of sleep.

"Maybe we should talk more about what you're thinking after your study term ends here in Paris?" Gabriel asked, in a classic flanking maneuver.

Charlotte grew up in a family where the dangerous currency of emotion was used or flashed only in extreme circumstances. Less mature emotionally as she appeared, for her crying was a weakness, in her unfledged opinion of herself. But here, with Gabriel, the floodgates opened, and she wished they were anyplace but in bed, where right now she felt vulnerable and weak. 

But she pulled him in like the moon created the tides, and as her emotions swelled, he felt fiercely protective and watchful over Charlotte. Gracious Gabriel held her close and they each thought about their own hidden interpretation of this "crossroads" meeting, like an evolving mystery. Charlotte was a long way from her home soil, confused and exposed. Gabriel was on the precipice of artistic discovery, and yet at the same time, in love with this fragile girl.

Youthful naiveté prevented them from forming future plans using as much skepticism as angst; but who knows the future, or can guess which path is the best? Life plays out like a book, with each year, and then each decade, reflecting a distinct chapter in our history. Sometimes chapters weave together as part of a larger storyline, but often one chapter abruptly closes the interplay of that particular representation of our lives, not necessarily influencing its outcome. 

Gabriel could not fathom what life would be like without Charlotte, but did he really know if this relationship was best for him right now? For a Frenchman he still was "conservative" with a lower-case "c" - even though he wasn't in the "elite" upper class, nor was he very religious; in his heart he envisioned having a traditional family, including marriage and children. If both lovers moved on, would they always look back to this fortnight in Paris as the highest form of a partnership they’d experienced? If what’s past is prologue, meaning the past has set the stage for the next act, as a prologue does in a play; how would the rest of their lives be changed by the decision today of whether Charlotte would return to America without Gabriel?

Silence enveloped the moment. Quietly, her sobs pierced the reticence either had to speak again. Enough had been said already; and they were together now, sitting at the edge of the water to which Charlotte referred, feared, but knew she had to confront.

to be continued...............

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Fiction 2018©Mark Pillsbury

August National Geographic Magazine Cover Story on Sleep:
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/magazine/2018/08/

Part IV: The Dreamer

No one has fully grasped what the dreaming mind is doing.

It doesn’t turn off during sleep: brain cells fire, the mind spins; current or past circumstances play out like a movie. Gerri never dreamed, usually knocked out by drugs and vodka; however, since the funeral, images, motifs, and drama haunted his sleeping hours.

Surely these apparitions inform Gerri in some way about his grief. He hoped to understand this condition, then healing could begin and balance restored to his waking life. But his latest dream, unlike any other, drove him deeper into depression.

In the dream Shelby walked up to Gerri in a crowded place, as if they happened upon each other by chance, along the boardwalk in Venice Beach. Stunning, alluring, and radiant in her youth; she seemed just as he remembered her twenty years ago when they fell in love.

As she stood there, the morning light beaming from behind, Gerri could almost see through her; but the colors weren’t faded, on the contrary, everything about this dream popped.

Gerri believed God allowed him to interact with Shelby to lighten the immense guilt burdening his daily life since her death. The relationship between the significant and the fortuitous existed in God’s realm; he did not question the dreams, they were in a reality over which he had no control, indeed he was grateful for the Shelby’s appearance.

“Baby, do you realize how much I miss you?” Gerri asked her. “If I could go back to 1992 and marry you again, I’d do it, but I’d act differently this time!” Unlike Gerri who was plaintive and serious in these conversations, Shelby acted ethereal and joyous.

“Stop, that G.” Shelby said with a wry smile. “We can’t be going back there anyway.” “Let’s talk about right now,” she insisted. Shelby looked around, with her head on a swivel, making sure no one bumped into her on the busy boulevard.

“My love, I can’t stay long!” Shelby urged Gerri when he got distracted. Shelby held a Bible in her hand which looked like the old one from her childhood that sat on their home bookshelf, untouched. No white robes or halos over Shelby Austin, just comfortable jeans and flats with a colorful top, her hair pulled back in a girlish ponytail. Desultory, he was self-conscious for being heavier and much older than Shelby in this dream.

“What do you see of us down here?” Gerri questioned. She grinned, knowing his curiosity, adding seriously, “I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you very much at all.”

As the conversation wound down, a strong breeze blew across the boardwalk and on the horizon a storm gathered with dark, foreboding clouds. The crowd thinned out, flags swirled and snapped in the breeze, and big fat raindrops smacked the pavement, reminding Gerri of tears he shed during the day. [Never did a drop hit Shelby, which appeared very strange to the dreamer].

“My expectations were wrong when we got married, sugar.”

“Marriage was on my checklist. I did not take it seriously; I should have tried to understand what you were going through, instead of helping you with your self-image issues, we medicated our pain away,” Gerri continued, “once we got on that stuff, you never really came back to reality.” So filled with regret, the tears literally oozed from his eyes as he spoke, spilling down his cheeks in streams.

Shelby reached out to him, just beyond their touch. She searched his eyes and lovingly assured him through her tone and pitch, once again using her angelic voice, “Gerri, listen to me baby; none of us do what’s right, most of the time we only think of ourselves, even in marriage.”

“God showed me mercy, taking me from this world,” she looked around the scene, “I was a bad influence on Bobbi Kristina!” Now Shelby seemed remorseful, “Can you believe that I exposed my only daughter to the things that took me down?” “What role model is that?”

“I behaved badly; there were natural consequences for that down here, although it was all forgiven when I got home,” Shelby looked off toward the roiling surf. “It was like the prodigal’s feast.”

“And I can sing clearly again where I am Gerri,” she beamed, looking him directly in the eyes, unashamed; “Heaven is a good place. Your job is to take care of her now, your second chance is with your daughter; I will know how grown-up you are by what you do with her, Gerri.” That was all for now, then she turned and walked north back up the avenue.

 Stunned, Gerri just stood there fixed to the concrete. In just a moment looking down, Shelby blended in with the crowds and disappeared. He jogged toward where she had walked but she vanished as if a ghost.

Would Gerri say this correctly describes the dream: A ghost story? Or a love story?

©Mark H. Pillsbury

[fiction composed Feb. 19, 2012]