The Dream Canvas Read online

  Dottie

  With the email sent, my first instinct was to take it all back, but I shut the computer and backed away.

  I splashed the last of the tea into my mug and added a bit of almond milk. The blister on my tongue serving as a sore reminder to test the temperature before chugging. I was having a love affair with this new brand of chai tea. Being a tea enthusiast began when my grandmother would throw little tea parties for me. Memories of sipping out of dainty teacups decorated with delicate, pink roses, eating tea cakes and cucumber sandwiches. Happy memories of sitting across from my grandmother at a tiny white table under the shade of three old oak trees. These memories were all I had left of her. She died of lung cancer when I was eight, no sooner after did my aunt clear out her house with the speed and strength of a cyclone in a trailer park. I asked a few times for the rose teacup set, but I never saw it again. I assumed one of my aunts claimed it as their own, or it was taken to the dump with the rest of grandma’s things. Sad how people spend their entire lives working for material gain, then they die and all of those things they worked so hard for are thrown out like yesterday’s trash. That was why I kept my apartment fairly empty. I am what you’d call a minimalist. The less shit cluttered in around me, the better. The less people in my life, the better. I’m able to focus more clearly when I have a clutter-free, people-less space to work in. Less distraction.

  Because of this firefighter’s strange obsession with my artwork, I had no inventory on my website. My bills for that month were paid, but what about the next month? I had to get to work on my next set of paintings or I’d be swimming up shit’s creek, like Dad used to say. I browsed my supply shelf and realized my inventory was rather low. As much as I wanted to avoid crowds and sunshine, I would have to leave my apartment to stock up.

  My cell phone rang before I could step foot out the house. It was my Mother. She had that all-too-familiar tinge of worry in her voice.

  “Dottie! How are you, Honey?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Just getting ready to walk down to the store. I’m running out of paint. And canvas too.”

  “Sounds good. Are you still coming today?”

  “Coming where?” I knew I had forgotten something important as soon as the words had left my mouth. I could tell by the clicking noise my Mother was making with her tongue. She clicks her tongue instead of biting it when she’s pissed.

  “We’re supposed to meet up for brunch downtown. Remember? Today’s your father’s birthday.”

  “Would have been his birthday. Yeah. I’ll be there. Sandy May’s?” I couldn’t resist reminding her that Dad was dead. I knew it would hurt her, but this uncontrollable urge inside me forced me to bring it to her attention. This happens almost every time his name is brought up. It irritated me when people talked about him like he was still there. Let’s all move on, people. It was easy for me to remind those around me, that didn’t mean I listened to my own advice.

  “It was his favorite. So, absolutely!” her voice strained with fake enthusiasm. She emphasized the was as a jab towards me. It wasn’t the first time I’d hurt her feelings. A for not remembering it was Dad’s birthday, and B for bringing up the fact that he was dead. And he wasn’t ever coming back.

  I sat my phone on the kitchen counter with a small thud and headed to the bathroom. My reflection in the bathroom mirror surprised me a little. Dreads were still in place with no loops or kinks to be seen. The permanent set of heavy, black bags under my eyes seemed to be fading away. Somehow depression bodes well for my looks. Irony at its best. The last time Rory ran out on me I slept for five days straight, and then I woke up with a glow to my skin I hadn’t seen since my tween years. Even after dealing with Rory’s last disappearance, I looked more rested and healthier than I had in months. Probably the one and only gift Rory ever gave me. The power of rejuvenation. I looked down and realized something was missing. My hand rose to my bare neck. My locket. Where had I put it last? I ran out of the bathroom and grabbed my satchel, tearing through the pockets and crevices. Crumbs from the bottom of the bag lodged under my fingernails, and the smell of old peppermint gum almost made me gag. I couldn’t find it. I dumped the contents out onto my bed, scouring over every little piece of junk. Random key. Two linked paper clips. An old tissue. Loose change. But no locket. Fuck! I can’t believe I lost it! And on Dad’s birthday, no less. A renegade tear streaked my cheek. It was gone.

  After showering and shaving, I headed out the door. My sneakers clapped against the concrete and cobblestone streets. Conservative people in suits and dresses brushed by, most of them rushing to meetings with other business-like folks at one trendy café or another. Some of them carrying leather briefcases, others carrying doggie bags of god-knows-what. At noon on any given business day, you’d see Ybor’s restaurants filled to capacity. I never knew for sure, but I assumed these people drove over from their cramped offices in downtown Tampa. Ybor City was a fun place to visit during the day, and there were so many good spots to eat. Ybor City at night? Kind of scary. Between the thugs frequenting the clubs and the news reports you saw on brutal stabbings, you didn’t want to be caught in Ybor City alone at night. Especially if you were a woman. That’s why I ran all my errands during the day to protect myself from a good old fashioned raping. I wasn’t worried about being robbed. What were they going to take – my money or my sanity? Didn’t have either of those. Take my wallet and you’d get a couple gift cards with low or void balances. Maybe a library card. And my sanity had walked out the door a long time ago. So no worries there.

  Sandy May’s Café was a cute little breakfast joint on the corner of 7th and 9th. It had been there since the early 1950s, and it was always my parents’ favorite spot to get a hot breakfast. Their breakfast hash and fruit pancakes were to die for. I often had a difficult time choosing between the two. Being a lukewarm vegetarian didn’t make it any easier, since the corned beef hash was good enough to turn any devoted animal rights activist into a flesh-eating barbarian.

  It was no surprise the place was crowded, even in the middle of a work week. A young family with a newborn baby waited in line for a table next to an old man who wreaked of tobacco and booze. You got the run of the gamut in Ybor. I spotted Mom sitting in our customary corner booth. Her glasses rested on the tip of her straight nose, and her blue eyes scanned the yellowed, plastic menu. Honestly, she could have recited the choices like a child recites her ABCs, but she reviewed the menu every time we ate there anyway. I took the seat directly across from her, the red leather squeaking as I slid into the booth.

  “It was the leather,” I said with a smirk.

  “Sure it was,” Mom responded with a girlish giggle. “So what’s going on with you? I haven’t heard my phone ring in a few days; was starting to get a little worried. You haven’t heard from Rory have you?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really. I’m actually much better now that he’s gone. And this time I hope he doesn’t come back. I’m getting used to only picking up after myself and having some legit peace and quiet.”

  “Okay, honey. That’s good to hear. I still can’t believe he did this to you. Again,” mom shook her head disapprovingly.

  “That’s typical Rory for you. Remember this isn’t the first time I’ve put up with his non-committal, runaway-rock-star bullshit.”

  “Yes, I know. But still. He should have the common decency to call and let you know he’s okay.” We both knew she was holding back her comments on the drugs. The word junkie hung in the air over our heads. Neither of us were going to speak of it, though. As she laid the menu on the table, her white linen sleeve soaked up a drop of coffee.

  “Mom, your sleeve,” I pointed to the little brown spot.

  “No matter,” she replied and rolled up her sleeves to expose her tiny elbows. My mom was always smaller than me. Weighing in at a hundred pounds soaking wet. She’d been that way since before I was born. It was always hard for her to keep female friends, I believe in part because women were actually jealous of h
er. Even women who tried to care for themselves somehow ended up looking dumpy and unkempt around my mom with her perfectly drawn-on eyebrows and pressed blouses over her waif of a waist. She was always dressed to the nines. Never left the house unless her handbag and shoes matched her outfit.

  An older waitress in a muted pink shirtdress and clunky espadrilles traipsed over to take our order. Her mousy brown hair was piled on top of her head resembling a beehive from the 60s. I also noticed she hadn’t dyed it in months. The ends of her hair were a bright burgundy color. She smiled forcefully as she took our orders, and I noticed a bit of red lipstick smeared on her two front teeth. This woman had worked at Sandy May’s for years. Poor lady. You could tell she was overworked and jaded. She was one of those women who still shopped in the juniors section alongside her granddaughters.

  Mom ordered the same meal as always – the famous corned beef hash and another cup of decaf coffee. I ordered the spinach, mushroom, and feta omelet. Of course the fat girl inside of me screamed for a stack of pumpkin flapjacks, but my healthy voice shut her down immediately. My mom was always skinny, but my father’s DNA gifted my hips with the ability to pack on the pounds after a candy bar or two. If I didn’t watch what I ate and exercised I would wind up with enough love handles for three men to grasp.

  “So I think I have a date this weekend,” I glanced at her for a split second to catch her initial reaction. With widening eyes, she looked like someone had just cocked their leg and pissed in her coffee mug.

  “Oh? With who?” she nervously picked at a manicured fingernail.

  “This guy from New York who keeps buying up my work. He’ll be in town and wants to get together.”

  “A guy you’ve never met before? How did he get a hold of you? How do you know he’s not some psycho? Do you still have the pepper spray I gave you last year?” her voice started to escalate and became shrill.

  “Mom. Mom. Calm down. I’m a grown-ass woman, remember? He emailed me last night, and I already gave him my number. We’ll have dinner in a public place, so if he tries to go all Bates-Motel on me at least there will be witnesses, okay?”

  Her mouth curled up into a reluctant smirk as her blue eyes rolled back into her head.

  “Okay, Dottie. Just be careful. Make sure you take that mace, honey.”

  Ever since I was a little girl, my parents acted as if a kidnapper was lurking behind every corner. Waiting to bust out of their white rape vans, grab me, do lord-knows-what to my lifeless body and ditch me somewhere on the side of a deserted mountain to be eaten by coyotes and buzzards. They would have me recite the “private part” rules and no-talking-to-stranger rules prior to any school outing or event. I never told them I climbed into the back of an ice cream truck once in the sixth grade. Thank God the ice cream man didn’t turn out to be Jeffrey Dahmer.

  We spent the remainder of brunch reminiscing about Dad, and how he always ordered the corned beef hash with the “hash on the side”. He did it just to make the waitress laugh. He was always a knee-slap comedian. A people-person at heart. Too bad some of his light-heartedness didn’t rub off on his daughter. Often I wondered how different my personality would’ve been if he was still alive. If only he would’ve stayed home for Thanksgiving that year instead of heading out on another “emergency” expedition. The fucking whales could’ve waited until after the holidays. I’d had an aversion to whales after that. Boycotted Free Willy when it was in the theaters. Trashed a souvenir t-shirt a friend brought me back from her trip to Sea World in the eighth grade. Fucking whales. People always think I’m awful for it.

  After leaving Sandy May’s Café and assuring Mom I’d be okay on my blind date, I strolled down 7th Avenue towards the Crystal Owl. My to-do list was burning a hole in my pocket, telling me to go to the art supply store. But I couldn’t deny something was pulling me towards Miss Anne-Marie’s. There was this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach like my umbilical cord was being tugged by an invisible force. This force was leading me to the Crystal Owl, whatever it was.

  Scanning the sidewalk cracks for my lost locket, I slowly walked into the store. A plethora of scents hit me – my olfactory nerves absorbed the aromas of patchouli, rose and jasmine. Miss Anne-Marie was ringing up a customer at the cash register, exuberantly chatting with a young man in a beret about the uses of quartz crystals. She gingerly wrapped a clear stone into a green piece of tissue paper and placed it in a brown paper bag. She handed the bag to the young man and smiled wholeheartedly in my direction. I tried to appear busy by browsing a shelf of new inventory – a collection of vintage metaphysical books. The titles followed a blatant occult theme – Magick in Theory and Practice, Zolar’s Fortune Telling by Cards, Practical Palmistry, and The Stone Bible.

  After the young man had left, Miss Anne-Marie wasted no time to visit me.

  “Dottie, dear. Came back for more tea, have you?” she placed a hand on my right shoulder and devilishly winked at me.

  “Whew. That stuff was strong. What was in it?” I said, hoping she would let me in on her secret ingredient. Mushrooms? LSD? Perhaps a light dose of Belladonna? THC?

  “I’m not at liberty to give out my secret recipes, love. You know that.”

  “So you just drug people and get them to come back for more,” the sarcasm dripped from my lips. Miss Anne-Marie had a scowl twisting her soft face. She chose to ignore my comment.

  “Did you need something today or were you just coming by to say hi?” she folded her arms across her chest.

  “I was actually wondering if you could do a reading for me…” the sentence escaped my mouth before my brain could overanalyze it. I’d had readings done in the past but it had been a long time. I normally avoided this kind of stuff like the plague, mainly because the readings I’d had done in the past were either frightening or downright depressing. Let’s just say the death card and the tower card had reared their ugly heads more than once. Or things that I never wanted to learn about people always came up in a reading. Deep, dark secrets better left in the closet. Skeletons you’d rather keep buried. I’d always been skeptical of psychics, but I’d also always had weird experiences with all things related. I never could make sense of it, so I just chose to ignore it. Until now.

  After flipping the “Open” sign to “Closed” and locking the front door, Miss Anne-Marie led me over to the far north corner of the shop. We took a seat at a worn turquoise table, and Miss Anne-Marie reached into her kimono pocket to reveal a deck of cards no larger than the palm of my hand. The art nouveau artwork on one side revealed a delicate design - specks of gold and silver that shimmered when the lights hit just right. Plump fingers looped with silver rings shuffled the iridescent cards. Miss Anne-Marie didn’t say a word, just focused on shuffling. Splitting the deck. Shuffling again.

  “Cut the deck three times. Be sure to think of your question while you do,” she said as she slid the deck of tarot cards towards me.

  “Okay. No problem,” I hesitantly lifted the cards and cut the deck three times. “I’ve been thinking a lot about…” before I finished my sentence, her finger raised to her lips and a soft voice interrupted me.

  “No, no. Please. I don’t want to know. That will just taint the reading. You hold the question in your mind, and I will provide you an answer with help from Spirit.” This lady was legit. She didn’t even want you to ask a question in order to give you an answer. Unlike so many frauds out there who ask you for as many details as you can provide and then take you for all your worth.

  I didn’t say another word. What was my question, exactly? I had more than one, really. I wondered if she would tell me if Rory would return. Then I shook that thought from my head. He could take a nose-dive off the Skyway Bridge, and I’d laugh as he hit the water. I wondered if I was destined to be alone. Would I end up like the crazy cat lady I always pictured myself as? Maybe they’d put me on one of those episodes of Hoarders: Buried Alive. Or maybe I would be one of those crazy bird ladies who climbs up onto her roof and feeds
rotten meat from a nearby buffet to the neighborhood scavenger birds. Both of those sounded like better options than living with Rory Langdon for the rest of my life. What about this mysterious man I was supposed to meet…what was the deal with him? Did we have a future together? What was I thinking? I didn’t even know the guy. So what was my question, exactly? I cut the deck three more times, feeling more confused than ever. I’d always been so fickle.

  She silently flipped over the first card and fanned away a cloud of incense smoke that had drifted into her line of vision.

  “This card represents your past,” her index finger caressed the image on the card – a golden skull with delicate pink lilacs emerging from its eye sockets. The Death Card. Of course that card would rear its ugly head again, why wouldn’t it? Typical. I almost immediately regretted asking for a reading.

  “You have experienced death on a very personal level, which we both know already. But now you are experiencing a new kind of death – death to your old self. Perhaps your old habits or an old way of life. The death card, as you might already be aware, doesn’t always represent death in physical form. It can also be a symbol of transformation. Death to the old in order to make way for the new. This could be emotional, mental or spiritual. I believe this card has multiple levels of meaning for you. Remember, when one door closes another one opens. Sometimes a fire must purge an old forest in order to allow new growth. Now let’s move on to the present card.” Her ringed fingers made their way to the next stack of cards like fat tarantulas and her silver charm bracelets jingled with each flick of the wrist. I noticed she was wearing a ring with a spiral symbol. Another was a weathered Egyptian ankh. The esoteric jewelry matched her green and black kimono flawlessly.

  “The Magician. This card represents what is taking place in your life as we speak. You’ve been presented with a new beginning, and you are in the midst of creating a new life cycle for yourself. I believe this has to do with your passion for art, but may also be on a deeper level, as well. With Rory leaving, you are creating magic in your life by embracing your past and using it as inspiration for the future. You are using your talents to help in the healing process, and this is helping you create a whole new world for yourself.” This reading was getting a little better.