Livia Dreams

Written by Eleanor Gang

You are walking down a hallway, both sides of which are lined with closed doors. It is unlit, but you can see your immediate surroundings as though you provide your own illumination; yet you carry none.The hallway seems to go on forever. Despairing of ever reaching the end, you stop and consider the closed doors. They are indistinguishable one from another. There are no identifying marks, no numbers; even the doorknobs are identical. You remember the story of Ali Baba and the chalking of the houses by the blindfolded tailor and the resourceful servant. None of these doors is set apart, neither with chalk nor scratches or spots of wear and tear. You risk a glance behind you, but the way back is as dark as the path ahead. You no longer remember your place of departure any more than your destination. It seems as though you have always been walking down this corridor. On impulse, you grasp the knob of the door nearest you and turn it. The door opens easily and you are surprised, having expected it to be locked. You are momentarily blinded by sudden dazzling light and you see that the room is as big as the whole wide world. You cross a marble floor only to be stopped by a railing at the edge of a parapet overlooking a grand vista: mountains and valleys, rivers and lakes, grassy plains, verdant forests, rolling oceans. Far off in the blue, blue sky you see an eagle soaring on a thermal. You lean over the edge of the railing in an attempt to catch sight of what lies directly below when it suddenly disintegrates and you are falling, falling through the blue sky, through cold wet clouds, pine trees, a ploughed field, into the very ground, past rock strata, secret aquifers, through the Earth’s crust, its mantle, and right down to the fiery core of the planet itself, the heat oppressive, the pressure unbearable. Just as you fear you will be crushed or consumed by fire, you find yourself in the hallway, your hand still on the cool knob of the door.

You continue walking, wondering at your recent experience.You stop and try another door. This one opens onto a meadow filled with wild flowers under a blue summer sky. There are children playing everywhere, laughing, running, throwing and catching balls, gathering daisies and making them into chains. When they see you, they drop what they are doing and run to you, calling, “Mamma!” and give you a quick hug before running off and joining the others to continue their games. You are overwhelmed with emotion. Clouds move in and the sun starts to set. The blue sky is replaced by a pink overcast and three children come out of the gloom to face you. All the others have disappeared. You do not know these children; then you do. They are truly yours, the ones you aborted when you were in no position to have them, whose father was married to a woman he would not leave. You burn with shame and tears roll down your hot cheeks. They reach out to you and take your hands, pulling them so that you encircle the three with your arms. You draw them to your breast and they melt into your aching womb. The sun plunges into the meadow and you are plunged with it into darkness to find that you are back in the hallway, your fingers still on the knob of the door you just opened. You try it again, but this time it is locked and does not yield to your insistent twisting.

Once more you walk down the corridor, bringing your small illumination with you, cheeks damp with tears. You grasp a handle and pull open another door, stepping into the room beyond. Inside there is an ancient woman stirring a pot on a fire. The log walls are chinked with moss, the roof above you is thatch. There is a black cat on a rocker who opens one green eye to gaze at you incuriously before rising, stretching, then settling down to the serious business of washing its fur.The old woman at the fire stops her stirring and turns to greet you. On the table is a teapot, two cups, cream, sugar, a plate of biscuits. Everything is glowing with a soft golden light, the polished wood of the table, the copper pot on the fire, the mantle piece above. The old woman smiles and you are reminded of someone, but of whom? She does not speak, but motions you to a seat and pours tea. You are wary. You remember Persephone ate pomegranate seeds and was obliged to stay in the underworld, and for a brief moment you wonder if you have died. You raise the cup to your lips. The old woman opposite raises her cup to her lips. You reach for a biscuit. She does the same. You see a ring on the gnarled hand, identical to the one on your own, your mother’s engagement ring, one large diamond with two smaller ones on either side. Your mother is dead, has been for decades. She was still a young woman when you last saw her, younger than you are now. Is this her, aged a hundred years, living in a log cabin with a cat for company? Or is it you? The cat finishes its toilet and leaps onto the scarred, wooden tabletop. Your impulse is to shoo it off, but the old woman merely continues smiling and sipping her tea. The cat jumps onto you and you drop your cup to the floor where it shatters. The cat lands on your face. You cannot see and you cannot breathe. You feel as though you are drowning, suffocating, clawing at what smothers you and come suddenly awake in a darkened room.

For a moment Livia thinks she is back in the hallway, then realizes that it is her own bed, her own room. The faint illumination comes from the window where the false dawn is breaking. The dream clings heavily about her head and shoulders and she looks at her hands, her aging ringless fingers, and decides then and there that she will find a way to marry Arthur McGruder.