The City of Dreams -- Part 11

[This section gets a dedication.  It's a day late, but this is for Liz, my cousin who did the art on Pete and The Dog and on this page and who turned [AGE REDACTED] yesterday.  We were together in London while we did a semester at BYU's center there.  Of course, at the time I didn't really know what depression was, or that I was dealing with it, but we all survived, and Liz called me 'Drew' and helped convince me to dye my hair and we stood in the stones of Stonehenge.

[Now, thirteen years later, we know a lot more than we did.  Thanks for being my friend when I was young and stupid, Liz.]



I woke up.  Then I sat up.  The sheets around me were wet, my forehead was sweaty, and only my full bladder reassured me that none of the wet was from any more embarrassing results of being afraid.
I rolled out of bed, made my way to the bathroom by the light from the nightlight, emptied my bladder, and got a drink.  The tap water tasted awful, but I didn't want to go downstairs to get a drink from the filtered tap.  I wanted to go bug my sister.
Tamara's light was on and spilling under the crack of her door, so I knocked.  When there was no answer I turned the knob and pushed it open.
"Tamara?"
The light was from her reading lamp and she was asleep with her hand propping open a very thick novel.  I considered letting her sleep, but I wanted to talk.  I never want to talk, so I considered this a special case that made waking up a sleeping sister worthwhile.  I trusted that Tamara would agree.
It took calling her name a few times, bouncing the bed, and finally more extreme measures to get her awake.
"Don't lose my place!" she said, jerking awake as I pulled the book out of her hand.
"Good morning," I said.
She rubbed her eyes, rolled up onto one elbow, and looked at the clock.  "Perry.  You are insane."
"You fell asleep with your light on."
"Why didn't you just turn it off?"
"Because this is more fun."
"How is this more fun?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging.  "It just is."
Tamara rubbed at her face again and looked at her fingers.  "Ohmygosh.  Did I take off my makeup?"
"Your face looks pretty naked from here," I said.
"Be glad that's the only thing naked," said Tamara.  "What if I'd been sleeping au natural?  Wouldn't you have been embarrassed."
"I would have politely covered you with a blanket.  And then woken you up."
Tamara looked at me--really looked at me--and scooted up to rest her back against the wall.  "You want to talk, don't you?" she said.
"Kind of."
"Which is Perry speak for 'I'm dying to tell someone but I don't know who.'"
I blinked at her.  "Why do girls have such an easy time saying things?"
"Physiology.  Boys have smaller language centers in their brains."
"Is that true?"
"No idea.  It's three in the morning, you woke me up, so I'm entitled to make up whatever I want about anything I want, and you have to nod and agree with me, or I go back to sleep and pour water on you in the middle of the night.  Then you'll be wondering if you still wet the bed, and you'll never know the truth.  Not for sure."
"I stopped wetting the bed years ago."
"Also a more common problem with boys than with girls," said Tamara, pulling her hair back and tying it up with something made of elastic.  "So what makes you want to talk at three in the morning?"
"I had a bad dream."
"What about?"
"A priest.  And light posts."  Then I stopped talking.  I wanted the words to come out, I willed the words to come out, but they weren't coming.  The stinky blanket, the heavy coat, they were back.  Not as heavy or stinky as before, but still enough to mess up everything that I wanted to come out of my head and get through the air to someone.  Anyone.  And Tamara was a good anyone.  Why couldn't I talk?
"Was that the whole dream?" asked my sister.  Her hair was more toward brown than Diana’s, pretty close to the color or Brie's hair.
"Most of it.  There's also a guy named Not."
"Like the thing with rope?"
"I...don't think so," I said, "though I suppose it could be.  I didn't think to have him spell it."
"But it's your dream, right?  Shouldn't you just know?"
"It's not exactly my dream.  It's more complicated than that."
Tamara shrugged.  "Complicated dreams is fine.  I get that.  I had this dream that I had to sell girl scout cookies to dogs, and schnauzers couldn't have thin mints, and dobermans couldn't stand coconut anything, and don't even get me started about the dulce de leche and the poodles.  But you didn't come here to ask about my dreams.  What was the bad part?"
I thought about it.  "Waking up.  And the street lights trying to kill me."
Tamara leaned her head back against the wall and looked at me.  "The killer street lights I get.  I think you'd better sit down to explain the other part.  Also, put a bookmark in that book, because if you lose my place then I'll have to kill you."
"What is this book, anyway?" I asked.  "It's huge."
"It's huge and Russian," said Tamara.  "I have to read it for school, and if you lose my place I'll have to find it again, and finding my place in the middle of all those 'ovskys' and 'oviches' and 'ovnas' is a nightmare worse than killer lampposts, so take that piece of paper off my desk and save us both a headache."
I put the paper in with exaggerated care, set it on her desk, and pulled out her chair.  I sat on it sideways, leaning on the back with my arms crossed, and looked at her.
"So, Perry," she said in what was probably supposed to be a German accent, "tell me about your father."
"You mean my dreams."
"Whatever," she said, completely American again.  "I like you, Perry, but it's now three-oh-five, and we have to leave for school in four hours, so unless this is a very, very frightening dream that will cause you trauma for the rest of your life, then it's a dream on a time limit."
I nodded.  "I talked with a priest."
"Confession?"
"No.”
"Do you need to confess anything?"
"We're not even Catholic, Tamara."
"I hear confession is good for the soul.  Speaking of which, the other night when we had lasagna, we also had cookies."
"I didn't get any cookies," I said.
"And now I've confessed.  We ate them all.  I feel so much better."
"Tamara."
"Yes, Perry."
"Can we be serious for just a minute?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Do you mind if that minute starts right now?"
"Yes, Perry."
"Then why aren't you being serious yet?"
"Okay, give me a second."  She rubbed at her eyes again, then looked at me.  Then she busted up laughing.
"I'm going back to bed," I said, and stood up.
"No, Perry, don't do that.  Sit down."  She patted the bed next to her.  "Sit, Perry.  Tell me about the priest.  And tell me why you didn't want to wake up from your dream, because if I were being attacked by killer street lights, I'd probably want to wake up."
I looked at her.  "You're going to be serious?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you still laughing?"
"I'm just getting the giggles out.  National deficit, clubbing baby seals, Kung Pao chicken.  There.  Giggles all gone.  Really, Perry.  Sit."
I gave her a second, just to double check that she meant it, and realized I really did want to talk with someone.  Wanted it badly enough to wake up my sister in the middle of the night, enough to not really care if she laughed at me.  I sat down.
"So what was with the priest?"
"He said he thinks I'm depressed."
Tamara looked at me expectantly.
"And?" she said finally.
"That's it," I said.  "I'm depressed.  Suffering from depression."
"And?"
"Isn't that big enough?"
"Didn't you know that, Perry?"
"How should I know that?"
"Diana and Cindy and I have known it for months.  You've been a walking corpse."
My nose wrinkled.  "That's a gross image"
"But not too far from accurate," said Tamara.
"How did you guys know?"
"You're the only one of us so far who hasn't taken psychology, Perry.  Well, Cindy hasn't yet, but she'll probably sign up for it next year.  We told her it's an easy 'A.'"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Tamara turned her hands over in a question.  "What is there to tell?  'Perry, we've been talking, and we've decided that you feel lousy.'  We figured you already knew that."
"But what do I do about it?"
"There's always medication."
"I don't want to take medication."
"That's what we figured, so we didn't bring it up."
"But medication helps?" I asked.
"Some people.  Therapy helps some people.  Diana read somewhere that exercise helps."
I leaned back against the wall.  "Is that why you all kept trying to get me into cross country?"
"That's part of it," said Tamara.  "Also, Cindy has a friend who runs who has a little crush on you, so it's kind of a favor, too."
"No she doesn't," I said.
Tamara smiled and shrugged.  "You're a cute boy, Perry.  Can I pinch your cheek?"
"Can I pull your bookmark out?"
"I've thought about it," said my sister, "and I think I'll keep my hands to myself."
"I have such smart sisters."
"I know," said Tamara, modestly.
We sat for a minute, quietly.  I think she was waiting for me to talk.  I wanted to talk.  I made some huge, gut wrenching effort and got my mouth moving.
"I don't think I want to be depressed.  It's not fun."
"It doesn't look fun.  I had been planning on trying it, but then you started, and I didn't want to crowd you."
"You do art, Cindy does cross country, and I do depression?"
"Exactly.  Every child should have room to shine."
I smiled.  "Have we started being serious yet?"
"Not really," said Tamara, "but is that okay?  I'm afraid if I get too serious you'll run away."
I thought about it.  I nodded.  "Yeah, I probably would."
"So now you know you're depressed," said my sister, pushing out of bed and going to her dresser.  "What are you going to do about it?"
"I don't know.  What fixes depression?"
Tamara shrugged and pulled out a drawer.  "You didn't like any of the things I suggested."
"Drugs, therapy, or running?  I hate running.  That's part of why the dream was so bad.  I had to run a lot to get away from the street lights."
She turned to look at me, holding flannel pajamas and pushing her drawer closed with her back.  "But in dreams, can't you run forever without getting tired?  Or fly?"
"These aren't those kind of dreams.  They feel...really real."
"Really real?"
"Really really real."
"Really really?"
"Exactly."
"Like how?"
"It's in a city, and it's just like I'm awake, but instead of a normal sky, the entire sky is the moon, and the stars chase around under it.  And the buildings move, and I already mentioned the light posts, and there's a girl I know from school."
"Aha," said Tamara.
I stopped.  "What was that?" I asked.
"What was what?"
"That 'aha.'"
"Just an aha.  A normal aha.  Nothing special."
"But why right there?  It's just a girl I know."
"And you're dreaming about her."
"It's not like that.  She's dreaming about me, too."
"Aha," said Tamara.
"No, not that way!  The City--the City of Dreams--it's a place that lots of people can dream about at the same time.  I'm dreaming, and Brie is dreaming, and the guy down the street is dreaming, and we all dream the same city.  It's like we're awake, but we're not here, we're there."
"Her name is Brie?" asked my sister.
"You're not hearing the important parts!  The thing is it's this crazy place where everything is different.  I run and get tired, and I scrape my knees, and I eat food, and it all feels real, but I feel different there."
"Different how?"
"I don't feel so tired all the time.  I don't feel angry without knowing why, and I don't hate everything I'm doing, and I don't feel like running away from people, and I--"
"Don't feel depressed," finished Tamara.
"Right.  I don't feel depressed."
"And so you don't want to wake up."
"Exactly.  When I'm awake I feel terrible.  And I screw things up."
"Did you screw things up with Brie?"
"I think."
"Which is why you woke me up in the middle of the night?"
I rested my head against the wall and looked up at the ceiling.  "It's a big mix of reasons."  I looked back down in time to catch Tamara yawning.
"Can those reasons wait for tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, not sure I could ever get my mouth loose enough to talk about these things again.  "Yeah, they can wait."
"I'm not going to let it go, Perry.  We will talk about this."
"Sure," I said.
Tamara looked at me.  Then she sighed.  "Whatever.  Get out, Perry.  I'm changing and going back to sleep."
"Sure," I said again, feeling doors closing that had opened in Father Thomas's living room.  "See you in three hours."
"Is your alarm set?" asked Tamara.  "Because I'm not waking you up."
"It's set," I said.