A Dream Away

Strange how you can look forward to something, yet dread it all at the same time. Today is my eighteenth birthday! Hurray me! I’ve survived a lifetime of foster care. I gather what little belongs to me, placing it neatly in my large green seabag. Same bag I’ve always had. Although I’m not sure where it came from or how I came to possess it. I sarcastically consider myself lucky that everything I own fits inside with plenty of room to spare.

I’ve always been an orphan. Although I’m sure that can’t be true. I must have come from somewhere. Yet, no one has any record of where that somewhere may be. All I know of my beginnings is I was abandoned, found, and dropped off at an emergency room. Baby Jane Doe, Jane stuck.

I was an ugly child. I know this. Confirmed daily by at least one person. My red, kinky, unmanageable hair, and skin so pale, white was an understatement. My eyes a dull shade of brown. Oh, and the freckles. Let’s not forget the freckles. No one ever lets you forget the freckles. Let’s just say I wasn’t the pick of the litter.

It was suggested by the experts that I also had a learning disorder. Apparently, whoever spawned me enjoyed the company of illicit drugs while I too, occupied their body. I know this because even though they think you’re not listening, you’re always listening. Gathering clues about who you are.

No one wanted me. I was passed around from family to family. My behavior was what seemed to be the culprit of all my failed relationships. My behavior! Never the behavior of others leading up to my behavior! That’s all over now. I’m officially an adult. I toss the seabag easily over my right shoulder, taking one last look around the small attic room I’ve slept in for the last three years.

Mrs. Deaver, my foster mother, stands at the foot of the stairs watching me descend. The space between us decreasing with each step I take. She is neither happy nor sad to see me go. A career foster mother with no children of her own whose husband died early on in their marriage. Due to her lack of any formal education or skills that may have afforded her employability, fostering unwanted children for money ended up a perfect fit for her. She fostered older kids. The ones who’d be leaving as quickly as they came. She refused anyone under the age of fifteen. Luckily, there were plenty of us to go around.

“Hurry girl! That cabs been sittin out there waitin on you! Unless you wanna be walkin, I’d suggest you get movin.”

Last little bit of motherly advice. How fortunate I am for her concern.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Deaver. I won’t allow myself to miss that cab. Be out of your hair faster than you can say goodbye.”

I say overly reassuringly.

“Don’t be smart, girl. No one likes a smart ass.”

I ignore that last statement. Avoiding one last final altercation. She seems shocked. I pass by her without so much as an overly exaggerated exhale. The glass storm door is just a few short steps away. I see my case worker pacing back and forth across the oversized porch. That porch was my favorite thing about this place. The house was as old as Mrs. Deaver. Falling apart all around us, but that porch. That porch was the closest thing to anything that ever felt like home to me. It would surely be the only thing I’d miss.

“Jane! Goodness girl! What took so long?”

I stammer as I begin to try and answer. I’m interrupted before a decipherable word departs my lips.

“Here’s your things. The driver’s been instructed on where you’re going and all the stops along the way. Good luck to you child.”

She says as she reaches out with a half-hearted embrace.

“Now, I’ve got to go! I’m late for my next appointment!”

And with that, she’s gone. Miss Goodwill. The one constant in my life. She’d been my caseworker for the last ten years. Can’t recall any adult who ever stayed in my life longer. A lump rises in my throat as she sprint away. I swallow it down, like I have so many times before. The feeling fades. I stare at the manila envelope in my right hand. No need to open it. I know what it contains. A little gift from the great state of Georgia. I step off the porch, walking somberly toward the lime green minivan. Whatever happened to yellow cabs?

For the first time in my life I feel empowered. I’m calling the shots. I reach into my left front pocket. My fingers assured by the soft, dry, fabric of the roll of cash comprised of proceeds from many a missed lunch, change collected from anywhere I could find it, and the occasional birthday cash from Miss Goodwill. Kept it hidden from everyone. Saving and adding to it for years. It, plus my final check from the state, should be enough to start my journey to find the one I know loved me. My Nan.

Not sure when the dreams began. Sleep, dreams of her, were the best part of my life. The little white house with the bright blue door. Same shade as a Robin’s egg. Like the one that fell from a nest after a storm. I kept it hidden, believing I could hatch it. Believing I could raise the little orphaned bird inside. It was taken away before I got the chance. My hand brutally slapped for picking up things that carried germs.

A house at the end of a dusty, dirt, dead end road. Six large Oaks surrounding it. A Weeping Willow in the center of the yard blocking it from the view of any passerby. An old, rusty sign. The letters barely readable. Somehow, I know what the letters spell out. Marigold Lane.

A student of dreams. I read everything I could find concerning them. Wrote down every clue my dreams afforded me. My talent, lucid dreaming. I live a whole other life in my dreams. Nan’s always there.

I’ve located every Marigold Lane that dead ends from here to Florida. I’ve even mapped it all out. I settle myself in the cab. My green bag beside me, and hand the driver the map.

“This ain’t where she told me to take you, young lady.”

The old cab driver says without turning around to look at me. I can’t see his face. Just his old, leathery, brown, hand holding the map at the end of his nose.

“Yes sir, I’m aware. There’s been a change of plans. I need you to take me to all those places marked on that map. Don’t worry, I’ve got enough money to cover it.”

I say, flashing the bundle of cash from my left pocket.

“Okay then young lady. You the boss.”

We drive in silence. The driver only alerts me when we’ve reached each destination the map instructs. The threat of hopelessness harasses me as each Marigold Lane ends in disappointment. I look at the taximeter, watching the numbers change more quickly than I wanted them to when suddenly my ears perk to the familiar sound of loose gravel beneath the tires. I’ve traveled this road before. I stare out the large, tinted, side window of the minivan. Old broken fence posts adorn both sides of this aged thoroughfare. White clouds of dust engulf the cab. Visibility becomes nonexistent.

“Pull over please.”

I shout out to the driver.

“What? You want me to pullover?”

He shouts back.

“Yes! Yes sir. Please pullover.”

I reiterate.

He slows the vehicle down, edging toward the side of the road and finally comes to a lumbering stop.

“How much?”

I say to the driver.

“You want me to let you out here? In the middle of nowhere, young lady?”

He protests.

“How much do I owe you sir?”

I say, ignoring his concern.

“Looks like a hundred and fifty-three dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

I peel the cash away from the bundle, counting as I go, then reach into my pocket for exact change, handing it to him as I step out of the cab. I close the door, not bothering to listen to his final words and begin walking.

The sun is setting, turning the sky a fire orange with whisps of purple. Just like the skies of my dreams. I walk the road like I’ve walked it a thousand times before. My feet navigate their way assuredly, with little regard from me. The road y’s up ahead. I walk a little faster, staying to the right. An old rusty street sign stands alone. No need to read it, I already know what it says.

I walk on, knowing it won’t be long now. The sky rapidly fades from fiery orange to a dull gray. My feet tire. Fearful thoughts tempt me to give in to the possibility of my own insanity. Ignoring them both, I continue.

Suddenly, the black silhouette of a house breaks through the late evening shadows. Excitement propels me to a full run, narrowing the divide between us. I slow down, stopping fully at the end of a long, rocky, drive.

I count the colossal trees surrounding the old house. Six, but no weeping willow. At this distance, the front door is impossible to see. From the looks of it, no one’s lived here for a very long time. I step up onto the rickety porch, resembling Mrs. Deaver’s old porch. The house is indeed uninhabited, front door’s missing from it hinges. Little bits of light left from the day have now faded. The house lays in darkness, yet I know my way around.

Pulling a blanket from my seabag, I find a place amongst the rubble to make a pallet. The seabag becomes my pillow. Closing my eyes, I dream.

The house comes alive. A fragrance of something wonderful baking in the oven. The laughter of a little girl. An old woman pleads, “hold still.”

“Come now little one. Let me comb the rats out of that golden hair. Never a more beautiful girl than you. Now then, let’s eat those cookies, shall we.”

The two-run past, hand in hand, through the hollows of my mind. I awaken, a smile rests on my face. The sweet taste of cinnamon cookies remains on my tongue. First morning rays of the sun, shine against dust on neglected windowpanes. This is the house in my dreams. A better life. Lived long before this one.

“Dreams will guide you, little marigold.”

I was a child whose only crime was vividly remembering who she once was. A previous life unforgotten. A knowing that in time, only grew stronger. Accused, through no fault of her own of being a witch or child of the devil. Rejected by any would be family for simply remembering.

“I promise I’ll always be here. I’ll always take care of you. Never forget I love you, my little marigold.”

I never did. I walk through this house, past the aged door lying on the floor. Flakes of blue paint lay like dust around it. A small metal box lies deep inside the cavernous hollow of an old tree stump. All that remains of the willow. It contents confirming what I know to be true.

Images captured in faded sequin. The kind face of an old woman with child wrapped safely in her loving arms. A torn, tattered letter, a small golden key, and the dusty remains of an old, decayed, golden flower.

My dreams had led me back to the remains of a life once lived. Although separated by lifetimes, Nan kept her promise. I hold the box tightly to my chest. I turn to walk away. A glimpse of gold catches my eye. There, alone in the midst of tall overgrown grass stands a single Marigold…