seems bottomless and in my mind, like a looping sound track, I hear the words of Winston Churchill: “You ask, what is our aim? I can answer with one word: Victory—victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival.”
On Thursday morning I’m exhausted and my mother has to wake me up three times. On the third occasion she has a glass of orange juice with her and sits on the side of my bed watching me drink it to be sure I’m really getting up.
My stomach hurts with last night’s sadness but the intensity of feeling that the dream prompted in me is a mystery like so many other things are lately. I’m no longer heartsick, only tired and achy the way children get when they’re coming down from a tantrum or crying jag.
Downstairs, Olivia stares at me from behind a box of Cocoa Puffs. “They plowed the road already so we have to go to school after all,” she complains.
“That sucks,” I mumble, although I’d forgotten that last night my mother mentioned classes might be canceled.
In the light of day my rational side has grown marginallystronger, or maybe it’s only that I’m too sleepy to cling to thoughts of the green-eyed boy with the same tenacity that I did last night. If it was thoughts of him that made me dream the frighteningly vivid way I did, then I need to find a way to mentally put him aside.
I don’t want to land in that dark place again. The sense of loss was too much to take. It didn’t feel like a dream.
The blond boy was as familiar to me in my dreamworld as the green-eyed guy seemed to me downtown yesterday but what am I supposed to do with that kind of craziness? Is it the kind of break with reality that could’ve been caused by the shock of my father’s death? Or could a brain tumor be loosening my grip on the real world and dragging me into fantasy?
I swallow cold cereal and stare blearily at my sister who seems to be adjusting to life in Canada with much more ease than I am. I wait until my mother’s left the kitchen before asking, “Olivia, do you like it here?”
“It’s okay,” my sister replies with her mouth full. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. It feels different … strange.”
“Because we were away for so long,” Olivia says sensibly. She brushes her dark bangs off her face and picks up her cereal bowl to drink down the leftover milk. Since Olivia’s six years younger than me we’re not as close as we might have been otherwise but aside from my mother, she’s the only one who’s been through these changes along with me and I don’t want to worry my mom by bringing any of this up to her.
“I know,” I begin. “But it doesn’t feel as if it’s only because we’ve been living in other countries. Does it ever sort of seem like …” I search for the right words. “Like what’s happening now is more
authentic
than the way our lives used to be?”
Olivia sets down her bowl, her eyes sparking with confusion. “What do you mean?”
My toes jerk against the floor beneath my feet. “Say with Grandpa, right? We saw him on visits home and he came to see us in Auckland but when you think of that—your New Zealand memories of him—does he feel like the same person?”
Olivia gapes at me as if I’ve either lost my mind or she’s hopelessly misunderstood me but I’ve gone too far to back down. “And your friends in Auckland,” I continue, “the kids you went to school with there—do they seem as complicated and”—I flex the fingers of my right hand, grasping for an idea just beyond reach—“genuine as the kids you go to school with now?”
Olivia swats at her bangs again and pokes her tongue inside her cheek. “Canadian kids are just different,” she says slowly. “We’re not used to them yet.” She pushes her empty cereal bowl forward a couple of inches and then slides it back towards her. “But Grandpa is the same as he always was.
On Thursday morning I’m exhausted and my mother has to wake me up three times. On the third occasion she has a glass of orange juice with her and sits on the side of my bed watching me drink it to be sure I’m really getting up.
My stomach hurts with last night’s sadness but the intensity of feeling that the dream prompted in me is a mystery like so many other things are lately. I’m no longer heartsick, only tired and achy the way children get when they’re coming down from a tantrum or crying jag.
Downstairs, Olivia stares at me from behind a box of Cocoa Puffs. “They plowed the road already so we have to go to school after all,” she complains.
“That sucks,” I mumble, although I’d forgotten that last night my mother mentioned classes might be canceled.
In the light of day my rational side has grown marginallystronger, or maybe it’s only that I’m too sleepy to cling to thoughts of the green-eyed boy with the same tenacity that I did last night. If it was thoughts of him that made me dream the frighteningly vivid way I did, then I need to find a way to mentally put him aside.
I don’t want to land in that dark place again. The sense of loss was too much to take. It didn’t feel like a dream.
The blond boy was as familiar to me in my dreamworld as the green-eyed guy seemed to me downtown yesterday but what am I supposed to do with that kind of craziness? Is it the kind of break with reality that could’ve been caused by the shock of my father’s death? Or could a brain tumor be loosening my grip on the real world and dragging me into fantasy?
I swallow cold cereal and stare blearily at my sister who seems to be adjusting to life in Canada with much more ease than I am. I wait until my mother’s left the kitchen before asking, “Olivia, do you like it here?”
“It’s okay,” my sister replies with her mouth full. “Do you like it?”
“I don’t know. It feels different … strange.”
“Because we were away for so long,” Olivia says sensibly. She brushes her dark bangs off her face and picks up her cereal bowl to drink down the leftover milk. Since Olivia’s six years younger than me we’re not as close as we might have been otherwise but aside from my mother, she’s the only one who’s been through these changes along with me and I don’t want to worry my mom by bringing any of this up to her.
“I know,” I begin. “But it doesn’t feel as if it’s only because we’ve been living in other countries. Does it ever sort of seem like …” I search for the right words. “Like what’s happening now is more
authentic
than the way our lives used to be?”
Olivia sets down her bowl, her eyes sparking with confusion. “What do you mean?”
My toes jerk against the floor beneath my feet. “Say with Grandpa, right? We saw him on visits home and he came to see us in Auckland but when you think of that—your New Zealand memories of him—does he feel like the same person?”
Olivia gapes at me as if I’ve either lost my mind or she’s hopelessly misunderstood me but I’ve gone too far to back down. “And your friends in Auckland,” I continue, “the kids you went to school with there—do they seem as complicated and”—I flex the fingers of my right hand, grasping for an idea just beyond reach—“genuine as the kids you go to school with now?”
Olivia swats at her bangs again and pokes her tongue inside her cheek. “Canadian kids are just different,” she says slowly. “We’re not used to them yet.” She pushes her empty cereal bowl forward a couple of inches and then slides it back towards her. “But Grandpa is the same as he always was.
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