Chapter 9 9

9 The next morning, when I awoke in my old room, I realized that I had dreamed of Friar Thomas.The room was filled with sunlight, and I lay there quietly, replaying what had happened in my dream: we were lying side by side on an inflatable raft, floating on the sea.I was wearing a swimsuit, much like the two-piece swimsuits Mike and I had worn to Saint Cynara all those years ago.Brother Thomas wears a black cassock with a hood covering his head.He turned toward me, propped himself up on his elbows, and stared down at my face.The sea water swelled with a soothing melody under our bodies, and the pelicans plunged into the water, picking up small fish with their sharp beaks.He pushed the hood back on his head and smiled at me. It was as inviting as it was in the garden, and I found it extremely sexy.He touched my cheek with his hand and called my name.Jessie.His voice was low and I felt my back arch.He reached under my body and undid my bathing suit.His lips were close to my ear, and the hot air of his breath came in and out quickly.I turned to kiss him, but, as is often the case with unexpected turns in dreams, I found myself sitting up on the raft in a sudden panic, completely lost in the sense of time.All around us, as far as the eye can see, is a vast, undulating sea.

I rarely remember my dreams.To me, dreams are just depressing mirages coiled on the edge of waking, and disappearing brightly before your eyes as soon as you open your eyes.However, this dream remained in my heart with every detail.In my mind's eye, I can still see the pearly splashes of pelicans gleaming on Brother Thomas' black wool ordination robe.There was a scorching light in his blue eyes.His fingers slid under my body.Suddenly I wanted to know how Hugh or Dr. Ilk would analyze such a dream, but I decided I didn't want to know.I sat up and fumbled for my slippers with my feet on the edge of the bed.I ran my fingers through my hair, tugged at a few knots, and listened for Mom, but there was silence in the house.Last night, my mother and I both fell headfirst on the bed, we were so tired that neither of us wanted to talk.When I think about having to take the initiative to talk to her today, I can't wait to get back under the covers and curl myself up tightly.What am I telling her?Are there any other parts of your body you plan to cut?This sounds disrespectful and scary, but, that's exactly what I want to know - is she a threat to me, and does she need to be sent somewhere where someone can look after her.I shuffled into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards until I found a bag of Mac's coffee.I had to make coffee with a twenty year old electric coffee maker with frayed wires.I don't know if she ever heard of "Mr. Coffee".When the coffee pot started chugging, I sneaked over to my mother's door to listen.There was a slight snoring sound in the room.It seemed that her insomnia had disappeared along with her fingers.I go back to the kitchen.The kitchen was dimly lit and chilly.I struck a match, lit the heater, and listened to the blue gas flame pop up as usual.I put two slices of bread in the toaster, watched the electric coils burn red, and thought about the strange encounter last night with the monk Thomas, who appeared in the garden out of nowhere.I think of our conversation in the backyard, his eyes looking deep into my heart.

A tremor in my body.And then I had a dream I once heard Hugh say about a beautiful, mysterious plane flying over your sleep, opening its bomb hatch and dropping a ticking dream.The toast jumped up.I poured a cup of coffee and sipped the black coffee while nibbling the bread slowly.The heater turned the kitchen into a Carolina cypress swamp.I got up and turned it off.I can't explain to myself why I think these things.Think of Friar Thomas—a monk.And, in that way, in that provocative way.I thought of Hugh at home, and I felt a sudden dreadful weakness in me.It was as if a carefully guarded place in my heart had been suddenly abandoned, wide open for attack—the place that could tell me who I really was.I got up and went to the living room, and the feeling from the dream came over me again, the horror of drifting away from the shore.My mother hung fifteen or twenty photographs in random frames on one wall in the living room, some with black and dirty edges.Most are old pictures of me and Mike at school.ugly hairstyle.Half-closed eyes.A wrinkled white shirt.Braces.Dee called it the "Wall of Shame."The only post-sixties photo on the wall is a photo of me, Hugh, and Dee in 1970, when Dee was a baby.I stared intently at the three of us, remembering how Hugh had pressed the time-lapse shutter on the camera.We sat on the couch with Dee between us, her little sleepy face on our chins.The same night that photo was taken, we had sex for the first time since Dee was born.We were supposed to wait six weeks before having sex.However, we were two days early.I walked across the nursery and saw Hugh bent over Dee's crib.Although Dee was fast asleep, he was still humming softly.The dim yellow light from a night lamp spread across the ceiling, and then fell on his shoulders like a thin layer of dust.A wave of heat ran through my body, intense and sexy.It was the tenderness in Hugh that struck me so deeply—the sight of him silently loving his daughter.

I was suddenly obsessively longing for the intimacy with which we had created her, the flesh and blood of our love in the next room.I walked over and put my arms around his waist.I put my face against his back and I felt him turn towards me.His two hands slowly drew circles on my body.He whispered, "We have to wait two more days." When I told him I couldn't wait, he picked me up and put me on the bed.The feeling of loving him seemed different—more indulgent, deeper, more sensual.It seemed to have something to do with Dee, and Hugh and I were united in a new way, and it was an indescribable feeling that drove me crazy.Later, when we lay across the bed, Dee cried.Hugh set up the camera while I nursed Dee.I'm wearing a peach house jacket that's not fully buttoned yet, Hugh - you should see the expression on his face in the picture, so contented and happy and mysterious.That photo always stirs up a secret feeling in me, and then a little bliss spreads out across my chest like a strange paper fan.I stood there, waiting for this feeling to come.That seems to have happened a long time ago.Like a glorious ship in a bottle.I don't know how it got in or how to get it out.I picked up the phone and started dialing. "Hello." Xio said, his voice came over like the solid ground under my feet. "It's me." I said. "I was thinking about you. Are you okay? I called you last night. You're not here." Oh, great, I have to get a Mr. Coffee, and an answering machine. "We're at the convent," I said, where I found my mother burying her fingers. ""You mean, dig a hole in the ground and bury it?" "" That's exactly what I mean. "

There was a long silence.I think that might actually be a good sign, at least temporarily. "He said that might mean, she's settled down, that her obsessions are going underground, so to speak." I raised my eyebrows, interested in what he had to say, almost hopeful.Do you think so? ""Maybe so," he said, "but, Jessie, she still needs help from medical professionals.She should be in a psychiatric unit.Over time, symptoms may reappear. "I pulled the phone over to the dining table and sat down. You mean, she might cut off another finger?" "Oh yes, it could be somewhere else entirely. This obsession is self-contradictory." , all random thoughts." With a soft tap, I knew he was standing by the sink in the bathroom, talking on the cordless phone and shaving. "However, I don't think she cut off her finger at random. I really think it has something to do with it," I said. "Oh, I don't think so," he said, dismissing the idea, dismissing me.I leaned back in the chair and sighed. "I'll have a chat with her today and see—" "I think you might as well give it a try, but I'm considering... I'll be on the island this weekend. You shouldn't be dealing with this yourself." He interrupted take my word for it. "No, I don't think it's a good idea for you to come to the island," I said, "I think it might be easier for her to—" "Jessie, this situation is too complicated for you to handle yourself." Of course it was complicated .It was like sitting me down and solving a two-foot math problem; what was going on in her head was a complete mystery to me, sadly deep.

I'm thinking about whether I should tell him: OK, OK, you can handle it.However, I still feel something is wrong.Part of it was that I felt that I—the non-psychiatrist in the family—could help my mother more than he could.It may be easier for me to figure out a way to do it myself.It's also possible that I just don't want Hugh to come here.I want to be alone for a while, alone - is that so bad?I said to myself, it has nothing to do with the monk, nothing to do with what happened last night.I mean, nothing happened.No, this time it's all for myself, doing one thing according to my own ideas.Although, I would have my doubts about that later.Are my motives really that pure?I stand up. "Like I said, I'm going to handle it myself. I don't want you." I didn't expect my voice to sound so angry. "My God," he said, you don't have to shout at me. "I glanced back into my mother's bedroom, hoping I hadn't woken her up." Maybe, I just wanted to shout. "I said. I don't know why I'm picking on a fight." For God's sake, I just want to help.What's wrong with you? ""No," I said gruffly. There's nothing wrong with me." "Well, you obviously have," he said, raising his voice. "You mean, if I don't need your help, there's something wrong." "You're ridiculous," he said, sharply, did you hear that?You are ridiculous. "I hung up the phone. I hung up without saying a word. I poured another cup of coffee and sat there with the cup in my hands. My hands were shaking slightly. I waited for the phone to ring and for him to call back ...he didn't call back and I became anxious and filled with a strange uneasiness, like you've been washed up on a little island and you don't know how you're going to survive. After a while, I bent over and Look under the table. The Crucifix is ​​still crucified under the table. Jesus in the Tempest Tent.