Remember Me
I am what they called a lucid dreamer. Some people have those gentle dove-like dreams that lull you to sleep. I have orgiastic fantasy dreams, rock and rolling dreaming, raging dreams that shake me awake, soaked in a cold sweat. It could be because of the drugs, though Glennis was a big cokehead when she was still modeling and seems to sleep fine. I think it's more a matter of temperment. Sometimes I'll have a cup of espresso before bedtime just to see where the voyage ends.
Actually, and rather unfortunately, the voyage usually ends in late morning, with me peering to see if I have more dark circles under my eyes. It's been like this for the last week, ever since I received the postcard.
I had just been preparing to go into the city, eating what was breakfast for me and lunch for Mother and Glennis. I didn't know where Beno was, and I was irritated that Glennis had known about his schedule than I did.
They were still discussing the ridiculous thing about opening the house up to visitors. "We would take reservations, of course," Mother was saying thoughtfully.
I had a sudden vision of thirty Bentley's filled with aristocrats, arriving late because Mother had purposely given them the wrong directions, even if it meant that the complimentary h'or deuvres go cold. "No eating before the guests arrive"--another mantra which I'm convinced is responsible for Glennis's prematurely malnutritioned body (which was incidentally responsible for her modeling career in the 1990's).
And that Father shows up, five days of beard, huge, spilling over his seat, and we can't quite believe that any of us polished socialite types is related to him, even if he is 100% "good English stock." Blood stained blue through centuries of inbreeding. Of course, in Father's case, it's mostly the weed production. His hands are stained black with ash, and he smells of chemicals and vegetation. Most of all, he reeks of smoke.
He sits in his chair, waiting, until he realizes that no one is going to serve him, and then goes to the server and starts piling on the mercifully not-runny scrambled eggs. Conversation dies around him, but he doesn't notice. I can't remember a time in the last ten years that my father hasn't been stoned, but why not? How else to deal with having no purpose, no special skills, no particular ambitions, a social-climbing wife, two disappointing daughter (one slutty and druggie, the other ice queen martyr) and one son, who he barely recognizes, ("Is that the neighbor's boy"" he asked once). All of which would be forgivable, except my father grew up filthy rich, and now is merely wealthy with a lot of white-elephant properties and investments that are sucking us dry.
No wonder he's stoned all the time. No wonder I am too.
It's always a relief when he starts eating; he's a surprisingly delicate eater who concentrates on his food and is very methodical about his portions. With him occupied with the munchies, conversation resumes.
"By the way, Maylis, were you having nightmares again?" Glennis asks.
Nightmares. Again. Like I said, some people--Glennis, Beno, my brother--sleep peacefully through the night. Some drug themselves. Some have sex. Some take hot baths. I try all of the above, and I still have these hallucinatory visions, of echoing canals and dusty, dim alleys, of someone after me, approaching from behind, inevitably...I shake my head at Glennis. "Didn't sleep too well."
Mother shoots me a look-- she blames "the drugs" for everything, from my inability to keep a man to my sleepless nights. I try to distract her. "Who's that postcard from?"
She looks down at the postcard she's holding, as if she'd forgotten it. "I really don't know. But it's not addressed to anyone..."
"What's that on the front."
We all jump a little as Father rumbles from the head of the table, his voice not used to talking. He asks questions like statements; it's very disconcerting. "Well, dear," Mother says, in her formal "dear husband" voice, "it appears to be our home on the front. One of those architectural drawings of the manor they sell in the village."
The little postcard has all our attention now. Especially mine and father's. "Doesn't it say anything?" I ask.
Mother is already bored. "It says--and it's mispelled, by the way--'I will come to you. I hope you remember. T. Mann." She looks at me. "This is probably one of your strange boyfriends, dear. Shall I throw it out?"
I remember reaching for it, looking over a rather fine line drawing of the house, the grounds, the groundskeeper's cottage off to the side. I don't know any Tom Man, and the writing looks unfamiliar, but the message is loud and clear.
I hope you remember
Thomas Mann
Death in Venice.
I am so scared that I don't hear the rest of the conversation about the house. And I don't notice Father staring me, almost lucidly, as I hand the postcard back to Mother to throw out.
That night? Nightmares. Again.
Actually, and rather unfortunately, the voyage usually ends in late morning, with me peering to see if I have more dark circles under my eyes. It's been like this for the last week, ever since I received the postcard.
I had just been preparing to go into the city, eating what was breakfast for me and lunch for Mother and Glennis. I didn't know where Beno was, and I was irritated that Glennis had known about his schedule than I did.
They were still discussing the ridiculous thing about opening the house up to visitors. "We would take reservations, of course," Mother was saying thoughtfully.
I had a sudden vision of thirty Bentley's filled with aristocrats, arriving late because Mother had purposely given them the wrong directions, even if it meant that the complimentary h'or deuvres go cold. "No eating before the guests arrive"--another mantra which I'm convinced is responsible for Glennis's prematurely malnutritioned body (which was incidentally responsible for her modeling career in the 1990's).
And that Father shows up, five days of beard, huge, spilling over his seat, and we can't quite believe that any of us polished socialite types is related to him, even if he is 100% "good English stock." Blood stained blue through centuries of inbreeding. Of course, in Father's case, it's mostly the weed production. His hands are stained black with ash, and he smells of chemicals and vegetation. Most of all, he reeks of smoke.
He sits in his chair, waiting, until he realizes that no one is going to serve him, and then goes to the server and starts piling on the mercifully not-runny scrambled eggs. Conversation dies around him, but he doesn't notice. I can't remember a time in the last ten years that my father hasn't been stoned, but why not? How else to deal with having no purpose, no special skills, no particular ambitions, a social-climbing wife, two disappointing daughter (one slutty and druggie, the other ice queen martyr) and one son, who he barely recognizes, ("Is that the neighbor's boy"" he asked once). All of which would be forgivable, except my father grew up filthy rich, and now is merely wealthy with a lot of white-elephant properties and investments that are sucking us dry.
No wonder he's stoned all the time. No wonder I am too.
It's always a relief when he starts eating; he's a surprisingly delicate eater who concentrates on his food and is very methodical about his portions. With him occupied with the munchies, conversation resumes.
"By the way, Maylis, were you having nightmares again?" Glennis asks.
Nightmares. Again. Like I said, some people--Glennis, Beno, my brother--sleep peacefully through the night. Some drug themselves. Some have sex. Some take hot baths. I try all of the above, and I still have these hallucinatory visions, of echoing canals and dusty, dim alleys, of someone after me, approaching from behind, inevitably...I shake my head at Glennis. "Didn't sleep too well."
Mother shoots me a look-- she blames "the drugs" for everything, from my inability to keep a man to my sleepless nights. I try to distract her. "Who's that postcard from?"
She looks down at the postcard she's holding, as if she'd forgotten it. "I really don't know. But it's not addressed to anyone..."
"What's that on the front."
We all jump a little as Father rumbles from the head of the table, his voice not used to talking. He asks questions like statements; it's very disconcerting. "Well, dear," Mother says, in her formal "dear husband" voice, "it appears to be our home on the front. One of those architectural drawings of the manor they sell in the village."
The little postcard has all our attention now. Especially mine and father's. "Doesn't it say anything?" I ask.
Mother is already bored. "It says--and it's mispelled, by the way--'I will come to you. I hope you remember. T. Mann." She looks at me. "This is probably one of your strange boyfriends, dear. Shall I throw it out?"
I remember reaching for it, looking over a rather fine line drawing of the house, the grounds, the groundskeeper's cottage off to the side. I don't know any Tom Man, and the writing looks unfamiliar, but the message is loud and clear.
I hope you remember
Thomas Mann
Death in Venice.
I am so scared that I don't hear the rest of the conversation about the house. And I don't notice Father staring me, almost lucidly, as I hand the postcard back to Mother to throw out.
That night? Nightmares. Again.
posted by M.A.A at 11:57 PM
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