1
O’
sen
d
me
do
wn
to
dre
aml
ess
slu
mb’
rin
g…
Eyes. Jade-green, with tiny flecks of gold dancing around the ebony center. They stared out from the emptiness of
what seemed like the past…or the future. There was an undeniable familiarity—a sense of knowingness in their
infinite black cores that was chilling and yet somehow comforting all at once. The detached windows of a nameless
soul gazed out from the darkness, silently. Then, the darkness began to lighten slightly, like the moonless sky in the
moments before the first invading rays of the dawn…the color of the sunless deep of the ocean. Darkest sapphire
blue with swirls and ribbons of an inconceivably darker shade. An overwhelming cobalt scape reaching into
forever. Then, with an almost undetectable subtlety, the red crept in. Cold crimson, bleeding out of the abysmal
blue. A teardrop-cut ruby…or a splash of burgundy wine on a blue…canvas…
That was the first dream—the one that started it all. Lydia woke with a mild sense of uneasiness, but she had dismissed
the thought after a few cups of coffee. She thought nothing of it that first night, except that it was an odd and graphic
dream. Night after night, though, the shapes and hues danced across an ethereal canvas behind her eyes, leaving shadow-
images that began to haunt her during waking hours.
Every night, almost imperceptibly, the dreams changed. The colors became less murky and unfocused. The actions
became more purposeful and distinct. With each new dream, the meanings seemed to creep nearer, yet remained just
beyond her perception and understanding. She found herself recounting the visions during the day, analyzing the
images--hoping to find some hidden meaning and, at the same time, admonishing herself for allowing such dawdling over
what really amounted to nothing more than a bunch of random electrical impulses of the brain that fired haphazardly during
REM sleep cycles. Just dreams, she told herself again and again.
Lydia Greene was a pragmatist. She was a bit of a control freak, too, although she preferred to think of herself as merely
an organized detailist. Her patients thought of her as an angel, while her co-workers regarded her as a proficient,
somewhat cool nurse. Lydia strove to be the consummate professional, right down to her clean white shoelaces, thanks to
the tutelage of a former Army nurse during her schooling. She was always on time, always prepared, always reasonable.
She was friendly, but preferred to keep a professional distance from everyone with whom her nursing involved her. From
the outside, she seemed aloof, disinterested in everything that was not related to her work as a hospice nurse—work about
which she was passionate in a way only those very few that knew her well understood. Lydia had an ability to remain
detached at a level that was unapparent, as if there were two separate beings within her—one side that was able to hold the
hand of a dying patient and convey the kind of comfort one might expect from an old and dear friend, and another side that
could remain composed and disengaged in the most emotional or unnerving situations. This dichotomy went beyond the
surface into her very core, where she silently struggled for balance. But she was also a work in progress.
A new side to Lydia had been emerging over the past few years, as she began trying her hand in different artistic pursuits.
Oil painting was the most recent undertaking, but poetry had been the first. She had also ventured to try photography,
sculpting, ceramics, needlepoint and sketching, but poetry was the one medium in which she felt completely unfettered. It
had begun during nursing school, when she would find herself idly scribbling down phrases in the margins of her orderly and
methodical lecture notes. Eventually, those phrases were arranged into poems.
Once the first work was penned, more poems suddenly spilled out of her like waters gushing past a crumbling dam. She
even bought a special notebook to write in, which she kept within reach even at night, at times waking with a verse trapped
in her mind that begged to be released. Now, painting had become an extension of poetry, trading pen-strokes for brush-
strokes. After taking up the art earlier in the year, she immediately began looking at the whole world in terms of painting:
what colors and brushes were needed to recreate the subtleties involved in every simple object. There was a realization that
no one color could suffice even for the simplest and plainest item—that there is a shadow cast upon everything, and the
brighter the light around it, the darker its obscurities become.
On a Saturday afternoon in early October, with images of her continuing dreams racing within her head, Lydia found
herself staring at a clean canvas. Tubes of paint lay in the easel's tray, along with an assortment of brushes. In her hand
was a palette covered with the smudged stains of every shade she had used ‘til now. From the window of the spare
bedroom she used as an office and studio, the light from the early October sky cast a hazy warmth. She opened the
window a few inches to allow in a bit of the breeze that evidenced itself in the gently tilting treetops visible from the
second floor, and the sheer curtains began to dance gently.
Lydia closed her eyes and tried to conjure the images from the
dreams. Just as she began to see the familiar blue, a cool draft
touched her neck, and she shivered. She opened her eyes and,
seeing the blank field before her, sighed. She looked to the tray and
its crinkled tubes, deliberating over which to use, where to start then
picked up an unused fan brush and ruffled the silky bristles. The
learn-to-paint kits and books had all encouraged the use of a brush
like this, but she still felt too inexperienced to try using it. She placed
it back in the tray, and returned her gaze to the canvas. The wind,
seeping through the opened window, made a brief low whistling
sound, drawing her attention back to the scene outside.
"Fine," she said aloud. Standing
resolutely and going to the closet,
she withdrew an old leather satchel,
and hurriedly stuffed it with the
paints and brushes and a small jar
half-filled Then she folded up the
easel and placed it between the
satchel’s nylon carrying straps.
After pulling on a windbreaker, she
grabbed the canvas and the bag
and was downstairs and out the
door.
The small back yard was too
shadowed by trees, and
neighborhood children playing
in nearby lots would be too
much distraction. She needed
to be alone. With only a
moment’s thought, she knew
where she needed to go, so
she neatly laid the painting
supplies in the car’s trunk and
started driving toward the
river.
There was a place at the edge of the river that the local youth had
dubbed "The Grotto." To reach it, one had to take a partially hidden
path that started near the newly-erected overlook. Lydia had
discovered the place about a year ago while taking pictures at the
riverfront. She had been climbing down the bank to look for
driftwood, paying close attention to the rocky path, when she
suddenly stopped and looked behind her and to the left. The
opening was directly below the jut that had been modified into an
overlook and it would be impossible to see from any other angle but
below, from the river. Her curiosity compelled her to approach the
opening to the cave-like structure, and her amazement drew her
inside.
It was a run-down site full
of broken concrete slabs
and crumbling walls, nearly
all of which had been amply
covered with spray-painted
or chalked images of
everything from "I luv R.J."
to some very elaborate
renderings. On the wall
just inside the hollow
were the words "The
Grotto 1997" scrawled
in black spray-paint.
Some casual research revealed that The Grotto was actually part of the basement of
one of the factories that had lined the river during the heyday of river trading. Several
of the warehouses and industrial structures had been leveled in recent years to "clean
up" the area for commercialization, but at one time, the riverfront had been the site of
a booming river trade industry. During the mid-late 1800’s, on or near the site of The
Grotto had stood the flourishing garment manufacturing company of Barrister &
Sons, Inc. It had been sold around 1940 to a pottery company, but was actually
used during World War II to make aircraft parts. The pottery company went
bankrupt years later and then the building remained abandoned until being torn down
in 1996. Now, its remnants created this hideaway: a gallery for frustrated artists and
vandals, a graveyard for the industry that once dominated the riverfront.
Lydia had been coming to the
place at least once a month
since discovering the place to
inspect the newest artistic
offerings and sit thoughtfully,
watching the barges on the
river, sometimes writing poetry
or sketching. Even with the
obvious intrusions of the
vandalistic artists, this felt like a
secret place, ingeniously
detached from the world.
On this day, Lydia carefully
descended the broken path
and set up her easel in the
opening of the Grotto and
began to paint. The calm of
the river and the crisp light of
the afternoon sun reflecting
peacefully off the water
provided the perfect
atmosphere, and she was soon
completely and sublimely
engrossed in her work.
"What are you doing?" The
alarmed voice came from
behind Lydia. She spun around
to see a thin, pale woman with
dark wavy hair glaring at her.
The woman raised a slender
finger and pointed past her at
the painting. Lydia was both
startled and annoyed by the
sudden intrusion, and the
woman’s tone made her stand
stiffly upright.
"Wha
t are
you
doing
?"
she
asked
again,
more
emph
aticall
y.
"I
…
I’
m
pai
nti
ng,
"
Ly
dia
ans
we
red
flat
ly.
The woman’
s eyes
narrowed as
she looked
from Lydia’s
face to the
makeshift
easel and
canvas, then
drilled her
eyes back
into Lydia’s.
"I can
see
that,"
she
said,
anger
just
beneath
her
quiet
voice.
"But
why are
you
painting
—that?"
Lydia felt stumped. She glanced back to the barely-begun painting, looking
for some clue of what this woman might be seeing that was apparently
offensive. What difference does it make what I’m painting? She
thought. How could she even know what I’m painting? At this point, I
don’t even know. All she had so far was a surface covered with some
meaningless, dark Caribbean blue swirls and a smudge of alizarin crimson.
There was no obvious form to anything there…only that indistinct blur of
crimson that held its space slightly to the right of the center, like the lifeless
heart of an enigmatic creature, but she had yet to determine what the
finished product might be. She regarded the formless colors as merely a
base-coat. Resolved to this, Lydia turned back to face the woman’s icy
glare.
Mahogany-brown hair framed the woman’s pale, narrow face in
uneven strands that fell over her shoulders and partly covered
prominent collarbones. The contrast of her fair, delicate characteristics
with her dark hair made her quite striking. Her deep green eyes were
deeply set and seemed exaggeratedly large among her diminutive
features. She had a very small but perfectly shaped mouth with thin,
pale pink lips. She was wearing a heavy cardigan sweater over an ill-
fitting sweatshirt that fell almost to her knees, and dark leggings
covered—yet accentuated—her slender legs. She seemed to have
dressed for warmth, yet she wore the sweater unbuttoned and the too-
large sweatshirt sagged around her neck and shoulders.
She didn’t seem to
notice Lydia
looking her over,
silently appraising
her small frame and
features. Her eyes
were fixed on the
painting, and they
were brimmed with
tiny tears that
refused to fall
against her stony
cheeks.
"
W
hat
’s
wr
on
g
wit
h
my
pai
nti
ng
?"
She continued to gaze at the
canvas, her eyes riveted and
motionless even as her head
tilted slightly. It was as if she
could see the images that had
yet to be created there.
Lydia moved to stand in the
way of her intruding eyes,
and after a moment, her head
snapped upright and she
looked straight at her.
"Why are you painting that?" She asked again.
Her glare seemed to soften slightly, and Lydia’s
defenses relaxed in accord. There was something
familiar about her, although Lydia was quite sure
she had never seen this woman before. Still, her
seeming vulnerability or fragility coupled with her
outright boldness was intriguing as well as
unsettling. Lydia fleetingly considered simply
dismissing her and her contemptuous and
unwelcome interruption, but an innate fascination
spurred her to pursue the conversation.
"It's a dream,"
Lydia told her,
looking back to the
unfinished work.
"A vision—
visions—that I’ve
been having." She
realized that this
explanation had to
sound silly, but the
woman’s eyes
pleaded for her to
continue.
"I’m sure it sounds crazy,
but, these…shapes…and
colors… have been
wandering around in my head
for weeks now. I guess I’m
hoping that if I can paint
them, I will understand what
they mean." She laughed at
herself for that explanation,
which seemed more like a
confession, adding, "if they
mean anything at all."
The woman showed an odd expression, like the answer
was exactly what she’d thought it would be, yet she hadn’t
expected to hear it. With her small mouth slightly opened
and her eyes even wider than before, she appeared
stunned. She was leaning forward a bit, and she suddenly
straightened as if catching herself from falling. She started
slowly toward the easel. Instinctively, Lydia moved into
her path—a lioness protecting her precious cub. Her
action was merely a reflex and was certainly not meant to
be threatening, yet the young woman stumbled backward
as if Lydia had pulled out a sword.
"I’m sorry," Lydia
said, with hands
up and palms
toward her in an
attempt to look
non-threatening.
She recovered
and straightened
to face Lydia
squarely. "Why
are you so
interested in my
painting?"
"No," she replied.
"I’m sorry. I'm
being…presumptuo
us, I guess. It just
seems like—" She
halted her words,
and Lydia waited to
hear what she didn’
t say. She shook
her head,
apparently
dismissing the rest
of the statement.
"I’m sorry," she
said again. "I didn’
t mean to be
so…invasive." She
allowed a small
disarming smile to
reveal itself. A
beautiful smile that
seemed to change
every aspect of
her, as if a light
had been cast
upon her.
"It’s okay,"
Lydia told her
as she stepped
subtly to the
side. "I guess I’
m just a little
sensitive about
my work." She
smiled again at
that, and she
looked back at
the painting.
"Okay…a lot
sensitive," Lydia
admitted with a shrug.
The mysterious
woman giggled
wistfully, without
moving her eyes, and
Lydia allowed her to
approach the easel.
She lifted a hand
toward the canvas,
but Lydia stopped
her again.
"It’s wet."
"Oh
.
Yes
.
Of
cou
rse.
I’
m
sorr
y
agai
n."
Tha
t
smil
e.
"It’s
ok.
Not
like
you
could
do
anythi
ng to
hurt
it at
this
point,
anyw
ay."
"
What do you mean?"
"Well,
I just
started
it. I
don’t
even
know
what
it’s
going
to
look
like
when
I’m
done."
"It will
look
like…you
r vision,"
she said,
still
focusing
only on
the
painting.
It was as
if she
were
making a
prediction
.
Lydia couldn’t
seem to look
away from the
woman, and as
she squinted a
little to look
closely at her
eyes, an errant
ray of the
afternoon sun
fleetingly lit up the
tiny flecks of gold
among the green.
"My
name is
Amelia,"
the
woman
said,
snapping
Lydia
back
from her
recollecti
on of a
recent
dream.
"Lydia Greene,"
she said, shaking
the hand that was
offered. Lydia
wondered if she
looked as
dumbstruck as she
felt. She couldn’t
look away, even
when Amanda
awkwardly
looked down.
"I’m sorry,"
Lydia said,
realizing she was
making her
uncomfortable.
"This is going to
sound weird, but
I saw your eyes
in a dream the
other night.
Well—eyes that
looked like
yours, I mean."
Amelia
wrinkle
d her
narrow
brows
and
tilted
her
head
slightly,
but
she
said
nothing.
"It was
the same
dream
where I
saw
this,"
and she
motioned
to the
painting.
She
shrugged.
"Just
weird."
"Ye
s, it
is."
Am
and
a’s
tone
was
level
,
non
com
mitt
al.
A gust off the river
caught the canvas
just then, lifting it
from the easel.
Amelia, who had
never lost sight of it,
lunged forward and
caught it by the
edges. She replaced
it on the canvas with
the care of a mother
handling a newborn
for the first time.
"Oh
,
tha
nk
you
!"
Lyd
ia
rele
ase
d a
gas
p.
"No
probl
em.
It
gets
pretty
breez
y
down
here
in
the
aftern
oons.
"
"So, do
you come
here
often?"
Lydia
chuckled
at herself
for how
that must
have
sounded.
Amelia
smiled
warmly.
"Yes,
actually
.
Almost
every
day,
when
weathe
r
permits
. This
is my
favorite
spot."
"No
kiddi
ng?
Mine
,
too.
But
I
don’
t
come
dow
n
here
much
."
"It’s a wonderful
place to hide...or
just think." A
subtle sadness
crossed her face
as Amelia looked
away toward the
river, and Lydia
noted the dreamy
way she gazed
toward the far
banks.
"Yes,"
Lydia
agree
d. "I
usuall
y sit
and
sketch
or
write.
It is
very
peace
ful."
"What do
you
write?"
Amelia
turned
back to
Lydia and
her
expression
changed
instantly,
from
melancholy
to sanguine.
"O
h,
po
etr
y,
m
os
tly
. I
jus
t
da
bb
le.
"
"I love
poetry!"
Amelia’s
exuberant
response was
unexpected,
but Lydia
was pleased
to see this
less dour
side. "I write,
too. How
cool. And
you draw?"
"Well,
I draw
about
as well
as I
paint,"
Lydia
chuckl
ed.
Amelia
did
not
see to
notice.
"I
’
d
lo
ve
to
se
e
y
o
ur
w
or
k.
"
"Really? Oh...well, wow. No one has ever asked to see my work." Lydia felt
apprehensive, even though the remark had seemed sincere. Being with this
dichotomous young woman was a little unnerving: her appearance and initial
demeanor had seemed closed and cool, but now she spoke as if they’d been friends
forever. Lydia regarded her with a critical eye—the way her windblown hair closely
framed her face, almost hiding her, making her seem smaller and younger than she
probably was; the way her oversized sweatshirt hung from her narrow shoulders; the
way she twisted her small hands, her pale fingers entwining and clenching, constantly
moving; and then there were those eyes...they were just like the jade spheres that
had stared at her from within her dream, with the tiny gold satellites almost dancing,
glimmering as the sun peeked from behind a thick cloud...
Ameli
a
looke
d
away
abrup
tly,
snapp
ing
Lydia
out
of
her
reveri
e.
"I like to draw too," she said, facing those eyes back toward the
painting. "But I usually sit down there...the light’s better." She pointed
down the riverbank to a large, flat rock about fifteen feet above the
water line. Indeed, the sun was casting a warm glow all around that area
of the bank. Lydia imagined Amelia’s tiny, over-clothed frame perched
on the rock, peering out over the broad spanse of the river, leaning over
her sketchpad, fervently transferring her mind’s images to the paper.
For a fraction of a moment, she felt that it was not an imagined
impression, but more of a memory. Perhaps she had seen her there
before and just not paid attention. No, Amelia’s striking presence surely
would have drawn her interest. With a small shake of her head, Lydia
let go of the thought.
"It’s a good
spot," Lydia
said. There
was a moment
of silence
between them
as they looked
toward Amelia’
s "spot" and
she quickly
began to feel
uncomfortable.
"Do
you
co
me
her
e
ofte
n?"
she
ask
ed.
"J
u
st
…sometimes."
"Pe
rha
ps
I
coul
d
see
you
r
wor
k
som
etim
e."
Amelia’s face seemed to tense at
the idea of sharing her drawings.
Lydia immediately regretted her
suggestion. It was really not like
her to be so forward, anyway.
She seldom talked with
strangers, except the occasional
small talk in the dentist’s waiting
room or in a line at the bank.
Now, here she was practically
asking this woman to show her
her "etchings."
Amelia’s face
remained grim, but
she managed an
obligatory smile that
was more like a
twitch, her lips
barely parting and
the corners of her
mouth lifting only for
a second. Her eyes,
though, revealed
what looked like
panic.
"I’
m
sorr
y,"
Lyd
ia
said
quic
kly.
"I
did
n’t
mea
n
to
—"
"No, it’s okay," her
face softened again.
"It’s just that no
one has asked to
see my drawings
since...my mother
died." Amelia’s
eyes had dropped
to stare at her
hands, where her
fingers paused their
continual twisting.
"
Oh, I’m so sorry."
The sullen
woman gently
nodded her
acknowledgeme
nt, making no
sound. Her eyes
remained
focused on her
hands. The
silence began to
seem
insurmountable.
"So, what do
you like to
draw?" Lydia
expelled the
question with the
urgency of a
breath blown
into a dying
body. Only
Amelia’s smile
was weakly
revived as she
looked up again.
"O
h
…
any
thin
g,
I
gue
ss.
Ev
ery
thin
g."
"Y
es.
I
kn
o
w
w
ha
t
yo
u
m
ea
n."
"I think that’s why I like
to come here to the river,
ya’ know? There’s such
a peacefulness here, even
when there are other
people around." She
went on, "And I love to
watch the barges. They’
re so huge and so heavy,
yet they drift down the
river…like—graceful
skaters on ice."
Since Inglesburgh had a long
history of river trade, there had
been thousands of barges and
riverboats that had passed before
this spot, docking nearby to load
or unload cargo before moving
on. As close as it was to the
reality of the riverfront shops and
traffic, the riverfront had a unique
peacefulness about it that both
women obviously appreciated.
Lydia
nodded.
Amelia
seemed to
be coming
alive,
unfolding
like a
spring
bloom as
she talked
about her
drawing.
"I think I’ve
drawn that
island a
dozen
times," she
said with a
muffled
giggle. "It
looks
different in
every
drawing.
Well, it
looks
different in
every
season."
Both women looked across
the river to the small island
that interrupted the river’s
path. It was dense with
hardwood trees with
colorful leaves. The narrow
shore was spotted with
driftwood and charred
remains from the summer’s
campfires, but there were
no boats tied up on its
deserted banks today.
"I’ve
always
wanted
to go
over
there,"
said
Lydia.
"But I
don’t
know
anyone
with a
boat."
"Me,
too.
I
wish
I
coul
d
swi
m
well
enou
gh
to
mak
e it
there
."
"Oh
,
no!
The
und
erc
urre
nts
are
too
stro
ng!"
Amelia
looked
back to
Lydia
with
surprise
at this
warning
. Lydia
felt her
face go
flushed.
"I
mea
n—
"
she
stam
mer
ed.
"Tha
t’s
wha
t I’
ve
hear
d."
The two women talked like old friends,
reunited after a lifetime apart. They
chatted about their jobs, their creative
pursuits. Lydia was surprised to find
herself confessing to anyone that she
wrote poetry—much less a complete
stranger—but Amelia’s genuine interest
put her at ease. Likewise, Amelia
admitted she wrote a little, and was self-
conscious about it. They were both
amazed and pleased to discover so many
likenesses between them.
Even as they spoke, Amelia continued to
furtively glance at the painting. Each time her
eyes moved past Lydia to the canvas,
though, a melancholy shadow would briefly
change her whole visage. She would snap
back in an instant, turning her eyes back to
her new friend, but the shadow remained.
Lydia tried to act as if she wasn’t aware of
the apparent fascination, but she couldn’t
help but be curious…and perhaps a little
concerned. What did she see there?
Two hours passed quickly
as they learned about each
other. The sun was
beginning to set gently
over the trees of the small
river island. As subtle
pinks and crimsons flowed
across the dusty blue,
Lydia became suddenly
aware of how dark it had
become in the small cove.
"I better get
going,"
Amelia said,
anticipating
the
inevitable.
She stood
and took a
step toward
the entrance
of the
Grotto.
"This has
been so
nice."
"Yes, it
really has
been."
Lydia
stood
from the
large,
cold
concrete
slab,
feeling
the
stiffness
and chill
for the
first time.
"Do
you
think
—"
Ame
lia
paus
ed,
unsu
re
of
hers
elf.
"That
we
could
get
togeth
er
again?
"
Lydia
compl
eted
her
thoug
ht.
Am
elia’
s
smil
e
was
genu
ine
and
bea
utiful
.
"Ye
s!"
"How about
next Saturday?
At the coffee
shop?" Even
now, Lydia’s
numb and
aching
backside made
her long for a
cup of hot
coffee. Amelia
visibly tensed,
though.
"Oh…"
Her
eyes
quickly
lowere
d. "I
thought
maybe
…we
could
come
back
here."
"
H
er
e?
O
h.
Well…sure. OK."
"Gre
at. I’
ll
really
look
forw
ard
to
that.
Will
you
bring
your
painti
ng?"
"Well, it depends on the
weather. It’s not easy
hauling all this down here
when the weather is bad."
Lydia gestured at the easel
and the brushes and other
supplies on the ground
beneath it. When she saw
the flash of disappointment
on Amelia’s face, she said,
"But I’ll try…but only if you’
ll bring your drawings."
"I will."
Amelia
smiled
again,
relaxing
but still
tense.
"Perhaps,
instead,
you
could
bring
some of
your
poetry?"
"Sure,"
Lydia
said,
making
an
involunt
ary
nervous
frown.
Amelia
didn’t
seem
to
notice.
"D
o
yo
u
ne
ed
hel
p
wit
h
yo
ur
stu
ff?"
"Ah, no,"
Lydia
replied,
already
starting to
replace
brushes
and paints
in the
satchel.
"Part of the
labor of
love to
carry my
tools
myself."
"O
kay
,"
she
sai
d,
smi
ling
.
"Y
ou’
re
sur
e?"
Lydia assured her that she
could manage, and Amelia
turned and started to climb
gingerly across the concrete
bits that marred the floor of
the Grotto. Lydia watched
her gracefully navigate the
rocks, and when she turned
back toward her, the setting
sun behind her cast a
shadow across her face.
"
Lydia?"
"Yes?"
"I
ca
n’
t
wa
it
to
se
e
yo
u
Sa
tur
da
y."
"
Same here."
She turned and was soon out of
sight, past the opening of the
Grotto. Lydia stood quietly for a
moment, thinking of her—her
gentle nature, her porcelain skin,
her soulful eyes and petite mouth,
and her beautiful, expressive
hands. She sensed that Amelia’s
art would be so much like her—
expressive but mysterious, subtle
yet eloquent, understated and
intricate.
~~*~~
Lydia’s dream changed that night. The colors were the
same: the blue that seemed to permeate every shape,
and eventually the crimson blur that seeped eerily into
the blue. But the eyes…the green eyes with the golden
sparks of light… were clearer and closer. They pierced
right through the dream into Lydia’s conscious mind,
and she awoke with a certainty that those were Amelia’
s eyes. They had been watching her for weeks in her
dreams, just as Amelia had been watching her at the
Grotto. In the darkness of her room, Lydia could still
see those eyes…Amelia’s eyes.
She sat up and shook her
head, then blinked a few
times. Adonis, who was
curled up atop the covers,
made the feline equivalent
of a "harrumph" and then
settled back in. Lydia
reached down to stroke
along his back, and he
began to purr the moment
she touched him.
"Why was this woman in my dreams before I even knew
her?" She asked, continuing to stroke his silky fur. She couldn’
t see him in the darkness, and she knew he was not interested
in anything she said. "Maybe I did see her and just didn’t think
about it. But I don’t see how I could have not noticed her.
She is so striking…" Lydia sat quietly in the darkness,
remembering the mysterious yet fragile-seeming young woman
and their serendipitous meeting. She tried to recall the timeline
of when the eyes had appeared among the visions, and
concluded that it must have been around the same time that
Amelia had said she’d seen her at the Grotto.
I must have
seen her,
then. I must
have
somehow
known she
was there,
but it just
didn't
register,
because I
was so lost
in my
thoughts.
Yes, that
was it.
She laid awake
another hour or
more, turning the
ideas over and
over. When she
finally drifted back
into slumber, she
was grateful that
no more images or
colors—or eyes—
taunted her. Not
that night, anyway.
in
or
der
to
co
nti
nu
e
to
Ch
apt
er
Tw
o.