Vernazza

My person, Claire, is 89. She moves slower these days, struggling a little more to get out of bed every morning. Even though she’s my first person as a dream weaver, I know she’ll always be my favorite. She’s talented and passionate, but it shows up more in her words than her body now. She’s a writer, an incredibly gifted one, too. I’ve tried to use my limited conversations with her to convince her to publish something, but she always just smiles sadly and says no. A few times, she’s told the different versions of me that her stories were for her son and daughter, and no one else. Once, she even told the form I took that day about her late son’s favorite story. She wasn’t sure why she told me, she said. I just felt familiar to her.

Today is March 18th, the anniversary of the first trip she ever took with her children. It was Vernazza, Italy. She loved it almost as much as I did. The anniversary means she’ll leave for the same place.

Claire begins her usual routine after pulling herself out of bed with excruciating effort. I curse myself every day for not being able to help. But as a dream-weaver, the worst thing in the world would be to let her know I’m here, that I exist. I’m to be nothing but a ghost to her, and that’s why it must stay as it is.

The second she steps into the kitchen; she turns music on. It’s a gentle classical song I don’t recognize, she must have put on something new. I watch her prepare her breakfast. Two eggs, and a piece of toast. her staple on this particular trip day.

I sit quietly on the windowsill in the kitchen, the one she always keeps open. Sometimes she glances over when I shift, and it always makes me freeze though I know she can’t see anything. There’s always that shock of hope that she might actually know I’m here.

She keeps bustling about, taking care of the last few things. It’s the 60th time she’s taken this trip. That means she’ll buy a book in Vernazza. Every 5th year of any tradition, she buys a book. She has a house brimming full already, she’s on the 80th year anniversary of some things. And everything else she’s bought of course, but there’s something special about the tradition novels. She has a shelf reserved just for those ones. The most notable additions are “The Giver” quartet by Lois Lowry, her favorite author. I used to hate her books when I was living, but in death, they speak to me a little more.

The phone rings, startling poor Claire so severely she drops the lone shoe she was trying to shove into a suitcase. I can’t help but smile when I watch her bustle across the kitchen to the landline. I can’t count how many times Mia has attempted to give her a cell, but she insists on her “reliable” technology.

She has to bang the receiver with her fist a time or two to clear the static she always hears from it before putting it to her ear.

“Hello?” Claire’s voice is frail from disuse, and quiet as quiet can be.

“Hi doll, it’s Bethy!”

Bethy, Claire’s best friend. They haven’t seen each other in person in over 10 years, but I hear dear old Bethy’s voice at least 3 times a week. I adore her.

“Oh, Bethy, I’m so glad you called,” Claire exclaims, “I’m just about out the door!”

“I know, dear,” I can hear her chuckle, sounding tinny through the receiver. “It’s nearly 10 AM. Your train leaves at 11 every year.”

Claire laughs sheepishly, “and here I am, late like every year.”

“My Claire is nothing if not consistent!”

After the gentle teasing, Bethy grows somber.

“How are you feeling this time? Being fifty-five years with Aaron gone?”

Claire twisted the coiled phone cord around her index finger, around, around, and then releasing and starting over. her shoulders droop and she leans heavily against the counter.

“About as well as I can be,” she responds heavily, “I just try to remember how much he loved it. More than me, if that’s even possible.”

“I know he’s watching out for you, and he loves seeing you go every year,” Bethy says gently, “but maybe he’d like to see more of Vernazza this time.”

“Your Claire is nothing if not consistent!” Claire echoes Bethy’s earlier words. She smiles wide, and to my relief, it’s a little genuine.

“How could I forget,” Bethy says, “consistently late. You need to get going.”

Claire huffs when she looks at the clock.

“You’re right, love you, Bethy.”

“Love you too, doll.”

Claire hangs up and sighs. She brushes off her coat with two harsh pats and grabs the suitcase. We’re off.

On the way to the station, I watch carefully to see if Claire makes any kind of connection with the people she’s walking by, something I can use. Nothing. She keeps her head down and does her best to stay secluded. As for me, I’m having a hard time dodging passers-by. It’s not as if we could bump into each other, but it’s disconcerting to feel someone walk through you.

Finally, after quite a bit of walking and still nothing to use to create Claire’s dream tonight, we board the train. Soon I’ll be able to have a conversation with her, and I’m hoping it will be enough for a dream. It’s difficult to get her to open up, but after being with her for fifty-plus years, I know all sorts of tricks.

She reaches her seat, the same one she always sits in. The fifth row in the fifth car, next to the left window. For a moment, it looked like an older man was going to take it, causing poor Claire to nearly faint, but he moved on. I watch as she settles in, making sure she’ll stay put for a while. When I’m certain she won’t be moving, I make my way to the back car where no one is seated. It takes me a moment to decide what form I want to take. Every single time, it gets more and more tempting to just take my own. Be seen as who I really am. But, I know all too well I can’t. It takes me a moment to pick one I can take; it must be something Claire hasn’t seen in a while. Unfortunately for my creativity and I, Claire has an excellent memory. Especially for those she finds interesting. She usually finds the forms I take interesting; I know her well. Perhaps I should give a dull form a try. But, that’s so...dull.

I finally settle on the form of a young man, with rather long blonde hair and a strong gaze. It’s a little simpler than what I’ve been creating lately, no woman from Vermont who happens to remind Claire of the goddess Hera, no old man who just returned from a trip to New Zealand. But it will do. I start making my way to the car Claire is in, and I must admit; feeling the eyes of living people on me again is so refreshing. Going unseen for eternity can be very lonely.

When I reach Claire, the train is moving and she’s already entranced by the sights outside. I take a seat beside her, reveling in the feel of the faded green fabric giving way beneath me. But she doesn’t notice I’m here. I wait patiently. Sure enough, she soon sees something that wasn’t there last year. She pulls out the notebook she keeps for new things and jots something down that I don’t quite catch. This is my chance.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what are you writing?” I ask in an unexpectedly soft voice. I can’t always predict exactly what a form will sound like.

Claire looks up, eyes wide, startled. She glances from me to the notebook, and then back to me before she smiles. “Oh, I’m noting something new I saw.”

“What was it?”

“Only a tree that wasn’t there before.”

I look out the window at the passing countryside. I just missed the new tree, but it would be hard for me to identify it either way with the multiple already planted along the train tracks. The midday sun glares through the leaves and paints the ground in a beautiful gold that almost sparkles with how fast we’re moving.

Before I can try to carry the conversation further, Claire bends over her notebook and turns away from me. I sat with her a little while longer, breathing in the feeling of being tangible. This is my favorite part of every day.

I eventually stand, giving Claire a slight smile before I head back to the last car. I have enough now to create a dream, even if it will be simple. Maybe I’ll build her a dream about a magical tree. Maybe I’ll have her meet an elf living in that tree. Something along those lines.

I hesitate a moment in the back car before releasing myself from this form. I step out, and just like that, the quiet young man dissolves. I turn to stare at where my reflection should be in the window, and I already miss being real.

After another 4 hours of travel, the train finally pulls up to the old station in Vernazza. Claire steps onto the platform as carefully as possible, but the slightly rotting wood trips her. My heart stops, but a kind stranger catches her arm and helps her safely onto the platform.

Walking out into the sun, Claire makes a beeline for the coffee shop she always visits first. I begin to think I’ll have to run to catch up, but she slows down. It doesn’t take me long to find out why when my eyes follow hers.

So many things she used to love are missing. A little bookshop has been closed down, replaced by an electronics store. A small park, filled with swing sets and benches has become nothing but hard pavement. Even a little boutique, an essential part of her yearly routine, is gone. I thought it would never leave, and I know Claire didn’t either.

I dodge the shoulders of a few people engrossed in their phones to join Claire, who has completely stopped. Her chest is rising and falling too fast, her eyes are watering, her right hand twisting the faded wedding band on her left. The change has come faster than it has before. I fear what this means for her.

I don’t know what to do. I want to help her so badly. I wish I could take her shaking hands, stop them from rubbing at her collarbone, her jaw, the back of her neck. her skin has been too fragile for quite a while to be doing that to herself. Why can’t I help?

She starts crying.

I ignore everything my mind is telling me. I ignore all the rules, all the consequences I’ll face for revealing my true form to her. I slowly appear beside her, but she is too deep in her panic to notice me. When I finally place my hand on her shoulder, she starts and drops her purse. She looks up and wipes her eyes. When she meets mine, her mouth opens slightly, and she frowns.

“Aaron?” She whispers, and the sound of my name being spoken directly to me washes over me like the most intense relief.

“I know I don’t look the same,” I respond as gently as I can, “but I’m here to help. Just breathe deeply, ok?”

I take her hand and start to lead her to another coffee shop nearby. It looks similar enough to the one she’s lost. She’s still gazing at me, seeming half lost in her thoughts and shock. I sit her down and take a shaking breath before speaking again.

“It’s going to be alright, Mom. You just need to make a few adjustments, that’s all.”

I had to leave her quickly, before she started to put together too many pieces. A quick three-minute encounter can be written off as grief manifesting, any longer and it could easily distress her. I left her in the coffee shop, waiting for her to glance away for just a second so I can dissolve back into nothing. It hurt so badly. Like dying all over again.

That night, I try my best to come up with the happiest, most calm dream I can think of. Since we spoke again, I have more material I can use. I give her a dream about the past. About the first day we went to Italy, all together. The very first day we visited the coffee shop, the boutique, the day she started a story based on our little family. I let her watch Mia and I run across the park, but I can’t let her see too much. I start including little details from today, like the new coffee shop I took her to and the bridge she saw after I left. I pray this will help her adjust.

After I make sure everything is right, I give it to her. I press my hands gently to her forehead and feel the strange tickle of thoughts leaving me and entering her. She sighs, and it’s my cue that she’s received it.

Now, it’s time to leave.

She’s seen me as I am. It will be easier for her to sense my presence now, and above all, a dream-weaver’s person can’t sense them. I wish I knew why, maybe I would be able to argue against the rules if I knew why they were there. Maybe I wouldn’t have to leave.

I hover in the door, taking in the room. I’ve been here so long. It’s my childhood home. Mia left right at 18, I never got the chance to choose if I would or not. Claire stayed here, so I stayed with her. I don’t know how I’m supposed to leave.

The long and short, I have to. I force myself to walk away. Every step towards the outside door is a step slower. Everything I know is here.

But maybe Mom doesn’t need me anymore. She’s grown since I died, and technically, I shouldn’t have been her dream-weaver at all. I was an exception. It was hard for them to separate a ten-year-old from his mother.

Maybe, I can convince them to let me trade with my Mia’s dream-weaver. Then, maybe, I can see Mom when Mia comes to visit.

It’s worth an attempt, at least.

I pull the door shut with my own hand, my own physical form. I’ve already broken so many rules, why not this one? For just a moment.

One last look.

“I love you, Mom. I’ll keep an eye on Mia for you.”