Only then do I let myself walk over to the window closest to the bathroom and sit slowly in the armchair I’ve dragged up to it.
I note two Red Bull cans on the floor against the baseboard. I don’t remember leaving them, but that’s not too surprising these days. I crunch them both and set them on the nightstand, in the blank space where the lamp sat. Then I lift my scope and bring it to my left eye.
Habit.
I tilt it down toward the trees and blink, trying to see the limbs and tree trunks, the pine needles, and the green rectangle my right eye sees so clearly, plain sight. My left eye sees nothing—a sheet of brown only a little lighter than the black I’d see if the eye was shut.
My fingers tighten on the scope. Dizziness peels through my head. I breathe. I move the scope to my right eye and peer down through the trees at her green roof. I can see half-squares of light through two of the windows, which are the size of Saltine crackers from the third story of this house.
My pulse quickens at the sight. I haven’t looked at my phone—knowing the time makes it pass more slowly—but with my pedigree, it’s almost impossible not to gauge the time from the sky. I’d put it at about 4:45. Maybe 5 a.m.
This is early for her.
I watch the patches of light bleeding through her windows. I watch the home’s front door until it opens. I watch her until the trees
and morning fog engulf her. Then I rest my head against the window pane.
FIVE
Gwenna
In the dream, I’m in the bag room: this enormous room of Birkin bags, hundreds of $80,000 bags on shelves from floor to ceiling.
Unlike real life, I dream of being there alone - my body thin and taut, my hipbones sharp under my sheath dress, my coppery hair straight, chopped short to my chin. I’ve spent my hours with the hair and makeup team, and I’m aware, despite the absence of a mirror, that I look better than I have in all my life. Gone the pudgy little red-haired girl with big front teeth. Gone the awkward girl who curved her shoulders in and wished for winter all year ’round so she could cover up her moon white limbs.
I look like a bombshell, and I know it. It feels fucking good.
So now I need to choose a bag: my takeaway from the job, my gift for gracing Hermes with my face. I stand there, looking up at all the endless shelves, and giggle at the thought. I’m a model. How ridiculous - and how amazing.
Up, up, up the shelves rise. All around me. The shelves twist and separate until they’re more like giant stacks of cards. I still see the bags, the Birkin bags in all the colors.
“Pick a bag,” my own voice says.
I see the green, the color I DID pick, but I don’t reach for it. There are so many other colors. Whites, purples, browns and blacks. I could choose any bag, any bag of all these, and I don’t know which one to pick. I’m standing there, my legs cold in the chilly air blowing from the air vents done in bamboo like the smooth, slick floor. My dress flutters against my thighs. I smell the fresh, delicious scent of oiled, crocodile-skin bags.
I can see the snow. Not see it…sense it. I can feel the snow, the cold, cold snow. I choose a white bag and it disappears as soon as I start pulling it toward me.
I whirl around. What’s going on here? Am I dreaming?
I go for a purple bag with shaking fingers. Get it now and GO. Time is running out!
I grab the bag and hug it to my chest and then it’s gone. Black, brown, green: I grab them all and feel them slip away like ghosts. I try grabbing the green one two more times, aware that it’s the right bag, it’s the one I really chose. But I can’t hold onto it.
The shelves tremble and a bag falls by my feet. And I know, I know right then, I have to run. I can’t take a bag, but I can save myself.
I wake up soaked with sweat, feeling both triumphant and bereft...
With my damp, stiff hand, I shut the spiral notebook, set it back on my nightstand. My heart feels tight and heavy. My head aches from clenching my jaw while I was dreaming. I could grab my phone and check the time, but everyone knows that’s a losing proposition. Time crawls by when I know exactly how early it is. I can tell by the absence of light through my curtains that it’s sometime in the wee hours.
I want to get up and make some hot chocolate or tea, but first I fold my legs into a meditative pose, straighten my back, relax my muscles, and rest my hands on my knees. I shut my eyes and do a thing I learned in therapy.
Shut your eyes. Inhale. Smile inwardly. Exhale.
Smiling inwardly is a weird concept—you just imagine yourself smiling—but the exercise works almost freakishly well. I do that twice, and when I feel more peaceful, I pick the notebook back up, flip to a blank page, and attempt to draft a more favorable version of the nightmare.
I go into the bag room and I get a bag. I do the shoot, and during it, I let myself feel beautiful, not just on the outside, but also inside. I try to treat everyone with respect and love, try even harder than normal. I enjoy the way that heavy necklace feels around my neck and when I close my eyes so they can refresh my makeup, I inhale and try to bottle up the smells inside my brain so I can remember this. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one I can always remember fondly. I try to feel peaceful and good during the shoot, and when I leave, I go home, put my Birkin bag inside a plastic bag, and list it for sale online. I put the money in a savings account marked “Bear Hugs Inc.”
(It’s my daydream. I know what’s coming and I’m ready for it. So there).