I curl my toes into the soft sheepskin that hugs the floor by my bed, and put myself through a quick series of stretches. Working to release the crick in my neck that always comes from sleeping in the face-plant position, before moving about my new room, exploring it in a way I didn’t get to do last night, since whatever Paloma gave me knocked me out good and fast.
There’s an old wooden desk and matching chair by the window with my father’s initials carved into the grain in the upper-right corner. The D S so hard-edged and angular it looks almost Greek. And though I try to picture him sitting there—talking on the phone, doing homework, even plotting his eventual escape to L.A.—it’s no use. It’s impossible to make the transition from a smiling black-and-white photo to a real flesh-and-blood person—Paloma’s only child who felt so suffocated right here in this town, right here in this house, he couldn’t wait to get away.
Even when I spot his framed photo on the dresser, it’s still hard to place. Though despite his neat appearance, the photo definitely hints at his unhappiness.
His shirt is clean and pressed, his dark hair freshly trimmed, and while his smile is pleasant enough, if you look closely, you can see more than a hint of restlessness in his gaze. And I can’t help but wonder if Paloma was aware of it too—or if she’s just like every other parent, allowing her eyes to skip past all the things that are too unpleasant to see.
“He was sixteen in that photo.” Paloma pokes her head around the now-opened door, her voice so unexpected I can’t help but jump in response. “Same age as you,” she adds, but all I can do is stare, one hand clutched to my chest, aware of my heart pumping madly against it, the other returning the photo, feeling oddly guilty for studying it.
“I heard you get up.” She moves toward me, lifts the photo from my fingers and holds it in hers.
I don’t say a word. I’m not sure what to say. I’m pretty sure my muffled scream hadn’t carried all the way to the kitchen—so does that mean she was camped outside my door, waiting for just the right moment to barge in?
“Oh, I suppose I didn’t so much hear you, as sense you.” She smiles, glancing between the photo and me. “He left not long after this picture was taken. He called on occasion, sent a few postcards, but once he was gone, I never saw him again.”
She replaces the photo, taking great care to set it precisely where I’d found it, before moving toward the window where she pushes the soft cotton curtains aside, allowing a single slant of pale light to stream in.
Her gaze following mine when she says, “It’s a dream catcher.”
I reach toward the delicate weaving hanging just over the sill. Its round, webbed center woven with yarn and beads, with a deliberate hole left smack in its center—while soft buckskin fringe and an array of light feathers dangle from the ends.
“Do you know the story of the dream catcher?” she asks, her f
lashing dark eyes reminding me of the color of earth after a night of hard rain.
I shake my head and scratch my arm even though it doesn’t really itch—a nervous habit that’s been with me for years. My own horrible dream lurking just under the surface, leaving me to wonder if I should maybe confide in her—an impulsive idea I’m quick to dismiss.
“Like people, each one is different—and yet, they share common traits. This particular dream catcher is Navajo in origin, made by a friend. It is said that dreams come from someplace outside ourselves—and so the dream catcher is hung over the bed or the window, acting as a web that catches the good dreams that ease us through the day, while allowing the bad dreams to pass through the hole you see in the center, so that it can be burned up by the rays of the sun. And those feathers at the bottom—” She motions toward the feathers I’ve been flicking with my fingers without even realizing it. “They’re meant to symbolize the breath of all living things.”
She turns to me, her gaze lightly probing as though she’s waiting for me to reveal something big. And though I’m tempted to tell her that her dream catcher doesn’t work—that while it’s a nice little piece of hand-crafted art, as far as functionality goes, it’s a total fail, doesn’t work worth a crap at keeping the bad dreams away—her eyes are too kind, too hopeful, so I swallow the words and follow her into the kitchen for breakfast instead.
* * *
“You know there’s a rock jutting out of the wall, right?” I drain my juice and carry the glass to the sink where Paloma stands, elbow deep in suds, since there’s no sign of a dishwasher from what I can see. Not meaning for the words to sound as abrupt and rude as they did, though I do find it strange that we just got through an entire brunch (little did I realize, but I’d slept well past breakfast, and even past lunch as it were), including a huge, heaping plate of delicious blue-corn pancakes topped with warm maple syrup, a side of assorted organic berries plucked straight from her garden, fresh squeezed juice, and a nice warm mug of piñon coffee so aromatic I can still smell traces of it clinging to the room—with absolutely no mention of the boulder ’til I just now brought it up.
Paloma’s lips curve, granting a small smile as she says, “We should not disturb nature. We should never demand it conform to our ways. Rather we must learn to live in harmony with it, for it offers many gifts.”
Oh boy.
I’ve heard that sort of talk before. Usually coming from some crazy-eyed starlet who just returned from a life-changing yoga session. The newfound enlightenment lasting a few weeks at most—until the next fitness craze hit and the starlet moved on.
But Paloma’s no starlet. Though I’ve no doubt she could’ve been—back in the day. If my math is correct, she’s got to be somewhere in her early fifties, though she’s still really pretty in a no-fuss, organic sort of way, with her long, dark braid that trails to her waist, clear brown eyes, tiny frame, thin cotton shift dress that reminds me an awful lot of the one I wore in my dream, and bare feet.
I trace my fingers over the rock, amazed by the way it just butts right into the room, solid and insistent, demanding everything else find a way to exist around it.
The house looks different this morning, and not just because of the rock I failed to notice before. Last night the house seemed so warm and glowy with the fireplace blazing and the assortment of table lamps lit. But now it seems simple, almost plain. Bearing a handful of Navajo rugs, simple wood furniture, jam jars crammed with small clusters of yellow and purple wildflowers, and these odd little nooks that punctuate the walls, each of them filled with hand-rendered carvings of various saints.
Still, as monastic as it is, it offers an undeniable sense of comfort I can’t quite place. Though that might have something to do with its size. It’s small, cozy, impossible to get lost in. Consisting of this big open space that hosts the kitchen and den, two bedrooms—one for me, one for Paloma (and I’m guessing two bathrooms as well, since I don’t remember her using mine)—and another room at the far end that’s clearly a recent addition. The short brick ramp that leads up to it ending in an arched doorway that frames an entire wall of shelves filled with bunches of drying herbs, jars filled with weird-looking liquids, and all kinds of other miscellaneous stuff, for lack of a better word.
“What’s that?” I motion toward the strange room.
“That’s where I work with my clients; think of it as my office, if you will.” Paloma pulls the stopper from the sink, allowing the water to gurgle down the drain as she dries her hands on a blue embroidered towel. “But not to worry, I’ve cleared the day to spend with you, so that we can talk and get to know each other better, without interruption.”
I glance between the room and her, saying, “Well, maybe we should start in there. After all, I’m the crazy one who was sent here to be cured.”
She gives me a look I can’t read—is it compassion, sadness, regret? It’s impossible to tell.
“You are not crazy.” She leans against a counter crafted from colorful Spanish tiles, her head cocked in study. “And I’m afraid there is nothing I can do to cure you, as you say.”