The Dream Canvas Read online

I took a long shower and melted into a comforting cup of French vanilla coffee and a stale yet strangely satisfying pecan wheel. Feeling human again, I scooped up Pinky (my Siamese cat) and heard my cell phone ringing. It was my Mother. She wanted to know how I was holding up. She also wasted no time in calling Rory every name in the book, and she reminded me if Dad were still around he would’ve kicked Rory’s ass. Two minutes into the conversation, which really consisted of me listening to my Mom rant about my awful taste in men, I heard a weird sound coming from my laptop. I bent down and took a look at the screen: Item 522 Purchased - Print shipping label now?

  “Say what? I just posted this painting, Mom. And it’s already sold. Holy shit!” Mom congratulated me and asked if I needed any extra funds to help me get through the month. She always offered, and I always declined. With the five hundred I’d just made, I’d have enough to pay the past-due water bill and maybe take myself out to dinner. A vegetarian California roll and a pot of saki was calling my name. This was the kind of encouragement I needed - a push in the right direction. I was aching to paint again just so I could sell more. Pretty soon I’d be making it rain, bitches!

  After I’d hung up the phone, I joyfully printed out a shipping label. My heart felt a small flutter of hope that rapidly flew away when I realized I was alone. Plopping down on the wooden floor, I allowed the cool grain to touch the back of my legs, and I pulled my favorite paintbrush out of a red plastic cup. Its handle felt nice yet somewhat alien-like in the palm of my hand. I tried to figure out how long it’d been since I had picked it up. I figured it’d been at least a week but seemed like an eternity. Art becomes a part of survival for an artist, like eating or breathing. Once you take that first breath, you can’t stop. If you stop breathing, you might eventually forget how to breathe again. If you stop painting, well…my dilemma was that I couldn’t remember what to do with the paintbrush.

  I sat there staring at the paintbrush in my hand, waiting for it to make a move. The old wooden paintbrush was no longer a trusted friend – instead it was a heavy anchor clinging to the deck of a rotting ship. It just wouldn’t budge. After what felt like ages, the paintbrush resistibly dipped itself into a circular container of paint. The deep anger inside of me began to bubble up out of nowhere. An intense darkness pulsed through my arm, permeating muscle and bone, flowing down into my hand and out through my fingers. Normally, a steady hand is critical to create an articulate piece of art, but no matter. I raised my left hand, ready to let the raw emotional energy spill out onto the canvas. And nothing happened. My mind went blank, as blank as the canvas stretched out before me. But the anger was still churning inside of me. I was confused. Had my hand forgotten how to paint? Had I totally given up? Even after all I’d been through, there were no artistic visions forming in my mind’s eye. I waited patiently for my thoughts to gather, to conceptualize something, but still… nothing. Globs of purple paint dripped onto the clean white sheet beneath me, and for a moment it seemed as if my paintbrush was crying. Instead of waking myself out of this moment of oblivion, I watched the paint snake down my arm, drip onto the sheet and soak through to the floor. With my stubborn, frozen arm bathed in cold, purple liquid, I gazed as the amethyst tears formed a puddle on the floor. And still I sat there, waiting for a light bulb to brighten the darkness in my mind. Maybe I was waiting for my conscious to speak up. To tell me it was time to move on with my life, to stop dating drug-addicted assholes that only shit on me in the end. Even after all of my patience, the dense confusion won my internal battle. The canvas taunted me with its purity, yet my bedroom floor was splattered with royal purple globs. It was like some sort of Barney the dinosaur murder scene. I stood up, screamed and chucked the paintbrush across my apartment. It landed in the kitchen sink with a clatter. The rogue paint drops formed a bright violet trail between my bedroom and the kitchen. The liquid vile had spilled onto my counters and splashed onto the curtains. And I didn’t give a shit.

  I face-planted into a pile of pillows on my bed. I felt like the energy had been sucked from my body. I couldn’t even hold onto a mildly sane thought. Pictures of zombies with purple blood dripping from their death-encrusted lips dragged through my subconscious. And in my dreams, I was one of those zombies. I remember thinking I should just give up and join the undead army of the apocalypse. It might be fun to tear people apart, mainly men, limb by limb. I figured another couple days of self-loathing ought to do the trick.

  Chapter 4

  Dottie

  Waking up in a haze, I realized I still had purple paint caked to my arm. Some of it had flaked off onto the sheets. I rolled my eyes and persuaded myself to get out of bed. I peered around the apartment, sighing when I saw the mauve mess I’d made the night before. I had the innate ability of getting paint everywhere except on the canvas, where it needed to be. How was I going to clean the paint off the hard wood floors, countertops and sink? Oh well, I’d figure it out later. I had other things to address first. My body ached for a good stretch and my mind was desperate for some solid advice, so I decided to pay a visit to my dear friend, Miss Anne-Marie.

  What day was it? What time? I reached for my cell phone, that’d been resting quietly on the nightstand. Thank God I’d at least left it on the charger. It was Monday, nine-thirty in the morning. I lowered my numb feet to the cool, wooden floor. Both of my cats lumbered over to give me attitude. “Come here, you guys,” I pulled them both into my arms and buried my face into their velvety, mocha fur - one place that’d always felt safe and warm.

  After breakfast and a low maintenance self-grooming session, I reluctantly left my apartment to greet the streets of Ybor. The Florida sun was shining so harshly it took my weary eyes a few minutes to adjust, after being so used to hiding in the bat cave of depression. Ybor City was filled with its normal groups of bustling people, like any other given day. I couldn't help but grin a little at the local shop owners opening their doors and busily cleaning their windows, preparing for another Monday. As wary as I’d been to leave the comfort of my bed, it felt refreshing to escape my stuffy studio apartment and inevitably shut down a twenty-four-hour-self-pity-party. A small part of me, the child-like part, was crying out just run home and flop back into bed!, but the warrior goddess inside of me fought off the toxic urge to wallow in sorrow any longer. In reality I wasn’t dying, nor did the perfect man leave me. These were things to be thankful for. I had to face facts - I had been dumped. And it was time to move on. Life was waiting for me.

  Pushing the Crystal Owl’s door open, a chain of silver bells rang, notifying the shop owner of my presence. After nearly tripping, I was forced to step over a fat, orange cat sprawled out in the doorway. The front of the store was silent and empty. All around the little shop stood bookshelves and copper, circular racks. There was a metal sign above one of the racks that said all rose quartz crystals were on sale for five ninety-nine. Below the sign, three wicker baskets held an assortment of pink stones that sparkled in the light. Next to the crystal display was a tall cylindrical canister, what I assumed was supposed to be an umbrella stand. Miss Anne-Marie had put it to good use – it held a plethora of intricately carved wooden staffs. I admired the handiwork. One had been dyed a dark, mossy green and featured the face of a whimsical nature spirit. Another was made from red cherrywood with what appeared to be letters of a medieval alphabet carved top to bottom. I ran my fingers over one of the inscriptions and felt the smoothness of the wood against my skin. The calming melody of a Celtic singer trickled out from a small speaker behind the cash register. The airy, coral smoke of a woodsy incense spiraled through the air.

  "Miss Anne-Marie? It's Dottie!" I called out to her, thinking she was most likely in the back with a crystal ball, a pot of mystery tea, and a client.

  "I'll be right there, doll! Just give me a minute!" the angel responded, sounding rushed but not exactly strained. She was such a kind and serene woman, I never understood how she wasn't married with loads of kids. On second thought, maybe that was why she w
as always so happy and relaxed.

  Peering around her eccentric little shop, I sauntered over to the heavy, wooden bookshelves and something immediately caught my eye. The book was enclosed in a shiny, plastic cover imprinted with a periwinkle sky and white, billowy clouds. Its title was in a fancy cursive font – Your Guide to Lucid Dreaming. I felt drawn to it. Opening the mysterious book, I didn’t even have a chance to flip to the first page when my friend glided over, her layered gypsy skirts flowing out behind her.

  She looked over my shoulder at the book in my hands, "Are you a lucid dreamer, Dottie?" Her words gently vibrated in my ears.

  "I'm not even sure what that means," I responded, knowing she was going to tell me even if I’d been an expert on the topic. This was a woman who took every opportunity to teach those who had an open mind. You didn’t have to believe in aliens or Elvis Presley, but you did have to be open to new age concepts such as the supernatural and the metaphysical. These were her areas of expertise, after all.

  "Well, I’ll tell you a little bit. Lucid dreaming is when you’re conscious in your dreams. I'm a lucid dreamer and have been since I was a little girl." She smiled at me and tucked a loose dread behind my ear. "Lucid dreaming is a very powerful tool. It can be used by anyone looking to heal inner turmoil."

  "Then I guess I am one. There’s been quite a few times where I realized I was dreaming. But that’s not why I’m here. I wanted to come and get some advice from you, if you have a minute," I wanted to tell her all about my recent heartbreak, lay it all out on the table. Just to talk to someone other than my Mother about Rory would’ve made me feel better. I knew full well she probably already knew why I was there.

  “That's my advice, Dottie,” she held her index finger up to my lips. “Tap into your dreams. You’ll find inspiration and healing there. You'll find yourself,” she handed me the little book of dreams.

  Truth was, I’d been a lucid dreamer my entire life. I just never knew there was a name for it. As a little girl, about seven or eight, I had a recurring dream where my spirit would leave my body and fly out the window. Often I would visit places where there were angels and fairies waiting for me. I would sing and dance with them for hours on end, only to come back to earth and reunite with my sleeping body. At first these dreams terrified me, but as I had them more and more I came to really enjoy them. If I didn’t have a lucid dream, I would wake up feeling disappointed. Unfortunately, the past couple of years had been a dreamless time. I’d woken up every morning feeling lost and never realized why. It was glaringly obvious. I needed to dream.

  The earthy smell of patchouli trickled out from her pores, lingering in the air behind her. Little bells around her ankle rang gaily as she made her way to the back of the store, leaving me with the book and a whole stream of unanswered questions. I put the book under my arm and headed out the door. I was aching to get home and pop it open and confirm what I already knew – that I’d been suppressing my dreams for so long it’d affected my entire life. My dreams had gone away after Rory and I started living together. Maybe now that he was gone they’d come back. Maybe I’d begin the healing process once my dreams had returned…

  ****

  Everything was black. Suddenly a dim light speared through the shadows like a knife cutting through the darkness. I couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my voice screaming, "RORY! Where are you going? Come back!" Even my own voice sounded far away, muffled…like I was trying to talk under water. I saw his silhouette ahead of me, maybe fifty yards or so moving slowly in the light, but for some reason I couldn’t catch up to him. I tried to run but my legs felt like two soggy tubes of jelly. Then it hit me. I was dreaming! It had been years since I’d been lucid in a dream. A moment of pure exhilaration washed over my mind and body, if I could’ve even considered that tingly space my body. I peered down at what I assumed was my dream body. I was wearing a lacey, white dress and a pair of white Mary Janes, exactly like the embarrassing, frilly mess my Mom bribed me to wear to my middle school graduation.

  While I’d been honing in on my lucidity, my surroundings began to come into full focus. My vision went from blurry to strikingly vivid. I swung my head around in every direction and realized Rory had disappeared. Have you ever been put under for a surgery? You know what it feels like when you’re waking up out of anesthesia and everything goes from blurry to clear? That’s how my dream had transitioned. There were rows of heavy wooden pews to my left and a lonely woman sitting in the very front, crying. Wailing, really. I wanted to investigate the situation a bit, so I walked up and tapped her on the shoulder. In reality, I would’ve shied away from a woman showing such a public display of emotion. But in my dream, curiosity killed the cat.

  She turned around. It was my Mother. “Mom? What are you doing here? Why are you so upset?”

  I hadn't seen it before, but sure enough, there it was. The casket. Sitting at the front of the building in all its mahogany glory. The lid was propped open, revealing a quilted cotton lining that looked like the quilts my late grandmother had handstitched when she was still alive. I didn’t have to look at the person inside to know who it was. This was a flashback. A shitty dream turned into nightmare. I didn’t want to relive my father’s funeral, but sure enough that’s what was happening.

  Someone behind me gently grabbed my shoulder. I spun around to see him standing there, smiling from ear to ear. "Dots! You need to perk up, Love! You'll find him. Just look outside," he said to me. I was confused and ignored his cryptic statement, but quickly reached out to hug him. Still aware that it was all a dream, I had this longing to hug him one last time...to feel his strong arms wrap around me...to feel safe again. I wanted to have that feeling like I was a little girl again, wrapped up in my Daddy’s arms. Like nothing could harm me as long as Daddy was there.

  And then, I felt it all sink away. I had this strange sensation like I was falling up, like gravity had inverted itself. I was being sucked upwards into an invisible drain in the sky. My eyes opened.

  And just like that it was all over. I couldn’t believe it. Maybe if I fell back asleep I could go back into the dream and see my Dad again. God-damn it! Why did I have to wake up? To my dismay, my cell phone was ringing. I should’ve picked it up and hurled it out the window for disturbing the one and only time I’d seen my Dad in fifteen years. Be it a dream or not...he was there, and I was almost caught in one of his warm bear hugs that I’d missed so much. Those hugs were magical.

  It was an out of area number. Most likely a debt collector. Lord knows how many of those I had hounding me for one bill or another. I ignored it and figured they’d call again and wake me out of the next amazing dream. A girl has to eat before she worries about paying the corporate dicks at the credit card companies. My stomach rumbled and resembled the sound of a freight train crashing through a building made of glass. I lurched up out of bed. I felt like my energy had been drained. My aunt used to say, “I’m tired of being tired.” That pretty much summed it up for me.

  Food and art. My canary-yellow refrigerator seduced me with images of ice cream, leftover spaghetti, and dill pickle spears. If you didn’t know me, you’d think I was pregnant with the types of cravings I had. One lonely, blank canvas covered by a sheet called to me from across the room. Pull down the sheet, Dottie. Put your hands on me. I gave into its pleas and ignored the fridge.

  Chapter 5

  Isaiah

  "Isaiah! We're waiting on you. Get down here!" Pete and Frank had been not-so-patiently waiting for me after a long twenty-four hour shift. A shift where nothing exciting happened – Pete had rescued a kitten from a drain well, the chief had lectured us for leaving the garage door open, and Frank had slept through the whole thing. The rest of the shift, we sat around, ate two-day-old subs and argued with each other over women and politics. Our resident cook was off on his honeymoon with his new bride. Boy did we miss his hot meals when he wasn’t around. Snacking on old hoagies made of stale bread and soggy lettuce wasn’t my idea of a solid
meal. But at the station, you make do with what you have and I wasn’t about to brave the frigid cold to pick up food for these knuckleheads.

  On the outside, I was a typical man's man. To my co-workers I was a damn good firefighter and outdoorsman, and to my family I was a protective older brother, loving father and son. But I had another side to me. Not many people knew I was also an avid art collector. Why did I keep this part of me a secret? I didn’t have the balls to tell my pals how cultured I was. I’d spent hours every week at my sister's fancy-pants art gallery downtown, I’d gladly go to a Broadway show without complaint, and my drink of choice was a finely aged Merlot. No, Pete and Frank were only allowed to see the firefighting, weight-lifting, superman version of me. Only my rough side. Beer and sports, hunting and fantasy football. Not to mention I was the youngest at twenty-seven, so automatically that made me more prone to being hazed by the older guys. "Alright. Let's go grab a cold one," I tried to ease their impatience while sliding down the pole, my worn-in leather hiking boots landing with a thud on the concrete floor.

  O'Grady's Tavern was two blocks from the fire station. It was every firefighter's favorite spot to grab a brewski after a long shift. Resembling a colonial Irish pub on the outside, O'Grady's Tavern was usually crowded with the city's youth, including dozens of attractive college girls. Apparently word had gotten out about O’Grady’s happy hour. Buy one draft beer for four dollars and get one free. A year ago, it was only the salty locals frequenting this place. Construction workers, local shop owners, servers, and of course firefighters. Then the young people began flocking to it like children to an ice cream truck. Damn social media.

  You would’ve thought we would’ve relocated to a quieter bar, but the guys insisted on coming back to O’Grady’s. It was safe to assume they didn’t mind battling the crowd if it meant they could scope out the local college meat. Tit for tat. Were the girls pretty? Sure. But I wasn’t really interested in that. Ever since my divorce with Cynthia, I’d been a loner. A lone wolf, as my Mother would say. Had I been on any dates following my divorce? Of course…when I was forced to. My friends and sister pushed me to date these lonely single women, women who turned out to be nothing more than snobs in pricey pantsuits. After the first date I hardly ever called them back. This pissed off my sister to no end, because usually they were women she knew from the gallery. Not that I was in the business of burning women, I just never found any of them to be worth it. Most of these women aired that snooty Manhattan attitude that made my skin crawl. And I was sure they wouldn’t have been that much better in the sack. How could I have a good time with a woman who orders a Caesar salad and a cosmo at a Japanese steakhouse? Suzanne said I was a hypocrite. How could I be cultured and not respect a woman’s choice in food and drink? But there was a clear difference between being cultured and being a high-maintenance pain in the ass. I just wanted to find a woman who was laid back, carefree and good-hearted. Was that too much to ask?