A Work of Fiction - Part One

Last night I dreamed about Priscilla Truley. She was standing on the edge of a cliff, beckoning me to come to her. But in the half conscious realm of the dreamer, I knew I couldn't reach her.

She was calling my name in that soft, whispery voice that had held me under her spell for so many years. She was imploring me to come back to the summerhouse, saying she was sorry, asking me to forgive her.

She held out her hand and I leaned forward to extend mine but the sound of the roaring water below frightened me and I pulled back. I was overcome with sadness, as it came to me that too much time had passed and we could never be reunited.

The summer house. That magical place of youth where we had fantasized and dreamed. First with dolls, tea parties and dressing up in adult clothes; later as teenagers giggling about boys, planning our wardrobe and listening to our favorite music. It was our place, mine and Priscilla's.

Until that day I stormed out in anger, vowing never again to return.

In this land of dreamers, a fog suddenly rolled in and Priscilla’s face was hidden from me. I could faintly hear her musical voice calling out to me, begging me. 

But more clearly I now heard Momma’s voice behind me, beckoning me inside for lunch.

Conflicted. Just the way it always was where Priscilla was concerned. I wanted to go to her. 

I wanted to reenter the summerhouse, to live again in the land of make believe where knights in shining armor and pretty princesses ruled the day; where little girls in frilly pink dresses and dolls with names sat around a tiny tea table and sipped Coca Cola from little bone china cups.

Where teenage girls had trouble deciding if they wanted to become a movie starlet, beauty queen or airline stewardess.

I wanted to go once more to the summerhouse where Priscilla called the shots.

But I was afraid. Did I fear the danger of crossing to the other side of the cliff, or fearful that Momma would be angry if I didn’t come for lunch on time?

No, the dreamer knew it was neither. It was Priscilla I feared. Of her being angry, rejecting me, casting me aside for other friends, just as it had always been.

I awakened in a sweat, the images and voices of the dream still clear. Why, after all these years, had I dreamed of those long ago days? Of the person who so greatly influenced my life but was now lost to me forever?

I jumped out of bed and grabbed my iPad. A quick Google search could perhaps help me learn where she was, or if she was even still alive. 

It wasn’t a road I was sure I wished to travel, but something inside urged me on. Sometimes the not knowing is best, I rationalized.  But the dream had been too vivid, and I couldn’t stop myself.

Stay tuned for Part Two.

I