Send Me The Pillow That You Dream On

This is a very short story I wrote for a Christmas anthology about ten or so years ago, when I wrote for a small e-book publishing company. Hope you enjoy it!

My heart pounded as I drove into the familiar driveway, but the memory of growing up here was not all wonderful. The pain of losing my mother last year to cancer, and the fact that I’ll be seeing Dean again, the one man who drove me absolutely insane with lust. My father called before I left my undisturbed home in Chicago that he was in town and that he wanted to see me.

Decorations-snowmen, Santa, and his reindeer were already set out; the lights tapered carefully around the house. No doubt father did it all by himself, even after I scolded him for doing so.

Christmas…it was the only time I came to visit anymore. I knew I disappointed my father at times, but to have to see the pain in his eyes face-to-face was practically unbearable. He never approved of my work habits and constantly talked about a family that I was missing out on. But to me, my work was my family. I didn’t need some things that other women seemed to search their lives for. I wanted to achieve goals, not a gold-digging husband and ungrateful children. I’d heard the names people sometimes called me around this time of year-Scrooge, and others that I’d rather not repeat.

This year would be extra hard to get through; my mother always stood up for me when my father reminded me of things that I was missing out on. And now I had to think about seeing Dean again, my childhood sweetheart, crush, and first love. Not only did I love a boy who never returned my feelings, but I craved a man who toured all around the world with his band of followers. Being a big band musician, he was bringing back the soulful music of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis.

Climbing out of my rental Escalade, I took a look around at the snow-covered ground. Closing my eyes, I could see myself playing as a child in this very yard, my mother making snow angels with me. Dean came to my rescue when the neighborhood kids destroyed my snowman that I had worked for hours making. Making sure each rounded part of the body was perfect and the right size.

As a child, this was my favorite time of year. Like all children, I waited impatiently for the night that Santa would arrive, bringing gifts beyond belief. But that was then, and this is now, no more childish imaginings that would never happen.

“Lizzie.” Cringing from the nickname my father often used, I looked up to see him coming out of the house. Kenneth Xavier had always been a man to love, with his golden heart and warm smile-but the years were not kind to him, especially after my mother died.

“Papa.” Relaxing into his warm embrace, I fought the urge to run while I still could. With a kiss to my cheek, he led me up the cobblestone driveway and into the house. The living room was decked out in Christmas décor, the tree was lit, and standing high and mighty as always. Soft sounds of Dean’s Christmas album played in the background as the fire came to life, bringing warmth.

“I’m so pleased you made it. How was the drive down?” Looking around the familiar but not so much living room, I turned to look at my father.

“It was fine; the roads are getting bad, though.”

Nodding his head, “Yeah, that’s what the forecast is showing, more snow.” My father- a man of few words. The once vibrant golden blond hair of my father’s had now turned silver, wrinkles outlined his time withered face-drawing a more serious tone to his features.

“So how is everything going, Papa?” We talked as he led me to the couch, where we sat at a comfortable distance.

“Great.” His hard features turned softer, “Dean, is looking forward to seeing you at the dinner tomorrow night.” He looked almost nervous about what my reaction might be to seeing him again.

“Well, that’s nice. How is he?”

His eyes came alive, and he smiled so genuinely that it almost broke my heart that I was asking only to satisfy him. “He’s wonderful; his band is doing monumental things with their music. I was hoping that you would come tonight with me; they are playing at The Piano Bar.”

I knew I wasn’t ready to see him yet. I had hoped to compose myself before tomorrow night. But one look into my father’s pleading eyes, and I couldn’t tell him no. “Okay, do I have time for a small nap and a shower?”

“Of course, honey. The show starts at seven, so you have a couple of hours to rest.” He patted my shoulder as I stood and turned for the stairs. “I’ll have Mimi bring your things up.”

“Thank you, papa.”

Lying down on the soft mattress of my childhood room only brought unwanted memories to the forefront of my mind.

“Dean, you slime, why did you do that?” Dean’s pouty lips always had me smiling and wishing just once he would use those lips on me instead of Carly Kingman.

“Lizzie Fizzie, what is wrong with you now?” Dean gave me that innocent smile, only I knew what that particular smile meant. He appeared to be as innocent as the day he was born, but underneath, he was anything but.

“I know you are the one who took my bike. I wanted to go see Mike.” I knew Dean and Mike didn’t get along, more so Dean than Mike, though. Mike only reacted to Dean’s hostile behavior.

“Oh, come on, Lizzie, what do you want with that loser?” Pulling at my ponytail, he circled me as he taunted me with the knowledge of the whereabouts of my bike.

Studying him closely, even at the age of fifteen, I knew that one day Dean Swayze would be something to reckon with. He was beautiful and had the charm and swagger of one of the greatest crooners of all time…Dean Martin. If you ask me, I think that his mother had a thing for Dean Martin, hence the name.

Dean grew up listening to and studying the singer, mocking him from the way he sang down to his walk. He carried a sense of confidence in everything he did. He knew he would be somebody someday. Even as a child, he knew it, and deep down, I knew it too.

Dean’s heritage was Italian; he had the strong features, dark hair, and lips that I never ceased dreaming about. His eyes seemed to tell a story each time I looked into those light blue eyes of his. They alighted with excitement; you could feel his emotions each time he belted out a tune. I always seemed to melt into him each time I heard him sing. For my eighteenth birthday, he sang a song for me that I to this day can remember each of his movements, each time he smiled at me, and how his face and lips formed each word. He played along with the story that he sang. Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On was the perfect gift that he could’ve given me. The following week, I left for college, and it ended up being a going-away present as well. We were splitting ways; little did I know that it would be the last time I would see him in person.