What Dreams May Come

“I’m sorry, she’s not here.” A wiry man ambled toward me wearing stained overalls and a flannel shirt, “I’m Mr. Ashbury to super here and this young lady disappeared a couple of days ago when the rent was due.” 

“Do you know where she went?” I asked, feeling suddenly lost and empty.

“Nope, can’t say I do.” He put his thumbs on the straps of his overalls and rocked back on his heels. “Are you looking for lost money or lost love?”

“Neither.” I said, shaking my head, “I found this with her name on it.”

“Sorry you wasted your time.” He stroked his stubbly chin with his hand, “What Dreams May Come…”

“It’s from Shakespeare…Hamlet…in his ‘to be or not to be’ soliloquy.” I smiled and blinked a few times. “It’s her writing journal when she was a student of mine at the university.  I’m Professor Towbright.” 

“Pleasure to meecha, prof, but Angela Thatcher left without paying her rent.  Happens a lot with the folks in this neighborhood.  Most of ‘em are on relief, ya know.” He scratched his balding head. 

“Shame.  I was really hoping to get this back to her.  She does have some writing talent.” I shrugged as I took the journal from his grubby hands. 

“You read this?” He squinted at me.

“Yes, it was for her grade in my class.” I put the journal in my coat pocket.

“What kind of nonsense did she put that thing?” He sniffed.  He seemed to be a little more nosy than I first figured, but he suddenly seemed to be very interested in snooping in on his tenants private affairs. 

“I don’t think that would be relevant at this time.” I raised one eyebrow.

“She owes me money.” He squawked, “I think it is my business.”

“Not unless you can tell me where she was headed.” I slowly shook my head.

“If you find her, tell her she owes Mr. Ashbury two weeks' rent.” He stomped off making quite a racket for a small man.  

Angela Thatcher had just graduated from high school when she walked into my classroom at the community college for a summer writing course.  Sitting in the front row, she removed her notebook from her backpack.

“Why did you enroll in this class?” I asked her.

“Because I want to be a writer.” She stated as if it should have been obvious to me.

“What do you write?” I began to write my name on the blackboard.

“About the things that have happened to me in my life.” She put her head into her open palm with her elbow propped up on her desk. 

“I encourage memoirs and writing based on our personal experience.” I finished writing my name on the board as more students wandered into the classroom.  It was a sultry day, but the air conditioning kept my classroom comfortable.

And the notebook was filled with stories of her past from an alcoholic father who molested her to a drug addicted mother who died of an overdose while she was still in elementary school.  The state had taken custody of her after her father was put in prison for various felonies including molestation of both her and her sister.  She hadn’t seen her younger sister Meaghan after the state worker came calling and both girls were placed in foster homes.  I had given explicit directions in class that no one should write in their journals about subjects that still pained them.

“Did you want me to read this?” I asked her once after class.

“That was the point, right?” She looked at me as if I had asked one of the most ridiculous questions of all times. 

“Sure, but there are things in here that are very private.” I shrugged.

“This is all stuff that’s in my file with the state.” She shook her head. “How private is that?”

“When you turn twenty one they put these records in cold storage.” I handed her her journal.

“And what would the point of that be?” She cocked her head as if to add a new perspective to the story of her life. “The things I have written about don’t hurt me anymore.  I won’t let them.  If I let them, I would start cutting myself again like my little sister.” 

“And where is she?” I asked.

“I don’t really know.  None of the workers at the state agency will tell me.” She shrugged again as if to show me that this was not a matter that concerned her anymore.  “I am beyond this.” 

She shook her journal in the air.

“Everyone who has hurt me, is gone from my life.” She laughed, “My father is in prison.  My mother is dead.  Most of the state workers are retired or will retire shortly.  I am a nobody in the eyes of this world.”

“No, you are a student in my writing class.” I coughed.

“Right and what do you want me to do?  Run away from who I am and who made me like I am?” I saw tears roll down her cheeks as she spoke.  “Professor Towbright, I came here because I am finding the courage to tell my story to anyone who will listen.”

“I am here.” My voice was low and humble.

“I know.  That’s why I’m here.” She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “And I want you to listen…don’t judge me…just listen.” 

“I shall.” I promised.

Writers are painters only instead of oils on canvas, writers use words.  Some words have motion.  Some words show emotion.  Some words sit there on the page waiting for someone to discover them.  We all have a story.  Human experience is never the same for any two people.  In our culture, the written word is valued while other cultures cherish the oral storytelling traditions since in the oral tradition, the story is always tailored to the audience.  There are times when I wonder if this oral tradition is not the better choice.  Sometimes we are judged by the words we have chosen to use and I fear, sometimes these words become the roots of our own undoing.  

“Can I help you?” I asked the woman standing outside my office door as I prepared for my next lesson.

“Yes, I am Bridget Epperson.” She was a stout woman who carried herself in a very professional manner judging by the apparel she had chosen.  

“What can I do for you, Miss Epperson?” I asked standing up to open the door wider inviting her into my tiny office.

“Missus.” Her cheeks flushed a bit. “I am here about one of your students.” 

“Oh, which one?” I gesturing to the only empty chair in my office.

“Angela Thatcher.” She put her briefcase on her knees.

“Ah yes, wonderful student.” I nodded.

“Is she?” Mrs. Epperson opened the clasps on her briefcase with a pronounced thwap.  Reaching into the briefcase, she withdrew a file and handed it to me. “These are some notes that have been made since she joined our placement.” 

“Ah, I’ve heard of Saving Dove.” I put the folder on my desk in front of me. 

“She is a very troubled young lady, as you know.” She took a deep breath after speaking.

“So she has written in her journal.” I nodded.

“Her case is extremely brutal.” She put her hand to her mouth to cough, “She is one of the most brutal cases we have at Saving Dove.” 

“Glad to hear that.  Her writing is very explicit on what she has experienced in her life.” I looked into Mrs. Epperson’s eyes, but all I saw were two mirrors reflecting my own concerned expression. “She is not to reveal any of her past with anyone. We have a court order.” 

“Mrs. Epperson, she has a right to share her story with whomever she wishes.” I was flabbergasted at the court order ruling. 

“She is still in danger.” Her face became red with a flush of anger, “Her father has hired some of his cronies to have her silenced.”

I sat there with my mouth agape.  As the shock of what was being told to me passed, I managed to say, “She told me that she was safe from all that.” 

“I wish it were so.” She shook her head, “Her sister Meaghan met with a most unfortunate accident recently.  Angela has no idea her sister is deceased.  At Saving Dove, we do not have the resources to prevent the same thing happening to Angela. I have hot lines for law enforcement, but by the time they reach us, it would be too late.”

“What do you want me to do?” 

“I want you to drop her from the class.” Mrs. Epperson stood up, “Now.” 

She left before I could raise an objection. 

Angela and I went for a walk around the campus.  Even in the early morning hours, the sun had warmed the air as a preview of what was to come on this summer day.  

“I love this pond.” She told me when we came to the pond we had dubbed Walden Pond.  Ducks swam effortlessly in the murky water surrounded by cattails growing out of the muddy soil around the pond. 

“It is very scenic, isn’t it?” I held my hands behind my back.

“Oh yes.  I often come here to write in my journal.” She pointed to a place where she most likely would have done that.  When she turned her head and I could see her angelic face that encapsulated her name like a portrait in an artist’s frame, her innocence besmirched by depravity and vile intention, still showed in her smile.  Then her musical voice asked, “What is it you wished to talk to me about?” 

Her beauty had struck me dumb and I stood there, mouth open unable to utter a single sound.  

“Your class has opened my mind again.” She plopped herself in the grass near the shore and put her arms around her knees as she stated at the rippling water.  “I can dream again.  Not the horrid nightmares of my past sneaking up on me like a ghost, but dreams of might be once again possible.” 

“It warms my heart to hear you say that.” I sat myself next to her, “Most of your peers…my students are self absorbed in matters of trivial importance.”

“None of them had to endure what I had to go through.  I envy them.  Their lives are normal and they will never know true evil.” She held her head back and closed her eyes to the sun. 

I could not tell her what Mrs. Epperson had asked me to do.  Her whole life had been a complete betrayal and I did not wish to be in their company.

“Beautiful day.” I managed to comment.

“It is, isn’t it?” She smiled and made me forget all about what Mrs. Epperson had said. 

“Never seen her.” The gas station attendant shook his head. “We get about a hundred customers a day.  After a while one face blurs to another.” 

“Well thank you for your time.” I tipped my hat as he put the cap on my gas tank.  Twilight had come and the last shimmering light was playing a game of tag with the breakers. 

“Summer crowd is coming.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “And there will be dozens of bikini clad girls that look just like her passing through.”

“It’s alright.” I sighed.  I drove down to the beach where some surfers were just wrapping up their day on the breakers.  It hurts to know I was once like them, carefree and loose with my time.  Life swallows you up like a wave and pulls you into the brime.  

“Where is Angela?” I asked after taking attendance for the class.

“Nobody has seen her, prof.” Cali shrugged.  Wearing puffy shorts and flip flops, Cali or Calbert was not one of my prize students.  His writing was labored and at the very least, boring.  His imagination went as far as his PlayStation which he seldom strayed far from. “She is cute, but I haven’t seen her.” 

“Alright.  Let’s begin class.” I opened my book and was about to talk about writing effective dialogue as a way to move the plot and develop character when I saw Mrs. Epperson standing in the back of the classroom. 

“I warned you.” She was angry.

“Please, I am teaching a class.” I held out my arms.

“I need to speak to you.  They can carry on while we have a conversation.” She waved her arm at the twenty or so students in the classroom with their notebooks open.

“It’s cool, prof.” Cali smiled as he made eyes at another female student. 

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked fairly certain of what it was.  

“You told me you were going to drop Angela from your class.” She pointed an accusatory finger at me as we went into the hallway. 

“She did not wish to leave.” I shook my head.

“It was not your choice or hers.  As a case manager and counselor, it is my duty to safeguard our children.” She was nearly spitting on every syllable. 

“She is an adult.” I pointed out.

“No, she’s not.” Mrs. Epperson shook her head violently.

“What?” 

“She was only seventeen.” She removed a kleenex from her sweater pocket and wiped her eyes. “She did not graduate high school like she told you.  She dropped out of school. The school notified the authorities and as a result, I got her.” 

“That’s not what she had told me.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I’m not surprised.  One thing she could do was lie.  It was a survival technique…her survival technique.” She said looking directly into my eyes. “She won’t be eighteen until next year.”

“We had a swimmer wash up on the shore a few days ago, but the victim was male about age fourteen.” Officer Jenkins told me after showing him the picture. 

“Are you sure?” I asked, pocketing the photograph of Angela Thatcher.

“We are connected to other small towns all up and down the coast.  I have put a request in for anybody who has heard about your daughter.” He waved to me as I walked out the door of the police station.

As the night sky was moonless, I could only hear the waves as they broke on the shore. 

I drove for another hour before I had to pull over and get some sleep.  The lullaby of the waves put me to sleep despite the less than comfortable accommodations of my front seat.  Having spent the past two days looking for Angela, I was exhausted beyond words.

What dreams may come.

What dreams may come, indeed.

With my stomach protesting the lack of food, I squatted on the sandy beach and stared out at the infinity of the ocean.  The sun reflecting off of the water nearly blinded me and I decided to go find a good roadside eatery and have some eggs and bacon. Still deciding what direction to go, a shadow fell over me.  When I blinked up at the person casting the shadow, I was speechless to see Angela Thatcher smiling down at me.

Barely able to speak, I managed to say, “Angela, is that really you?”

“Yes Professor Towbright, it’s me.” She sat next to me wearing a swimsuit and robe, “I come here every morning to enjoy the sunrise.”

“Why did you run away?” I asked.

“Everywhere I looked, I saw things that reminded me of my past. I found out my sister Meaghan was dead and after a couple of days crying myself to sleep, I decided she would want me to be happy somewhere I could be my own person.” 

“What about your father?” I asked, “Is he still looking for you?” 

“I don’t really care at this point.  People here know me as Wanda Wave Rider.  Juvenile, but it makes me happy.” She leaned back on her elbows in the soft sand, “And I dream real dreams.”

“I have your journal in my car.” I jerked my thumb toward my car parked in the parking lot. 

“You kept that?” She laughed.

“I wanted to give it to you. It’s yours.”  I stood up.

“Alright.” She nodded and followed me to the car where I handed her the notebook.  She opened it and smiled as she read a few snippets.  Then she turned on her unshod heels and dumped the notebook into the trash receptacle.  “That’s where it belongs.  Sorry you had to tote it all that way, but half of the joy I get is putting things where it belongs.  I escaped.  My poor sister did not, but I can hear her late at night when it’s quiet and I am all alone.  She tells me of what dreams may come and that’s what keeps me going.”

“What about Mrs. Epperson?” I ask, still peering at her notebook in the trash. 

“That Saving Dove place was dreadful.  I never want to go back.” She shook her head.

“Hey Wanda Wave Rider.” A boy called out from across the parking lot wearing shorts and carrying a surfboard.

“Hey Beau.” She waved back, “What dreams may come, Professor Towbright.”

I watched her jog to the boy she called Beau and together they walked to the shore.

What dreams may come, indeed.