Dreams are a funny thing. They can mean everything and nothing all at once. Sometimes they’re just a regurgitation of sensations from the day before, thoughts and images and sounds cycling through the brain as it filters and files and cleans out the excess in an incredibly sophisticated system of neural pathways and lymphatic fluids. Other times, they’re memories, rehashed and repurposed for the sake of extracting context that may have been missed the first time.
And then there’s *those* dreams. The special ones. The ones that feel like they came from somewhere else, some extension of the soul far beyond the reach of the physical form. Dreams with messages and motives. Dreams with characters that look and feel real, some spiritual conjunction of wandering consciousness that meets in a place that can never quite be described in waking life.
Those dreams are my favorites.
Last night I dreamt of a friend that I share a deep connection with, someone I love and trust with all my heart. It took a long time for us to get there, what with all the confusion that comes from existing in bodies that experience attractions and interests that don’t always align with the deepest desires of our hearts. He and I flirted with that line for a long time, a boundary we teased but never dared to cross. Perhaps we would have, had an entire ocean not separated us. Thankfully, we managed to ride it out until we reached a point of being able to stand in front of one another and acknowledge each other for who we really are, in an experience so peaceful and comfortable that it felt like home.
I caught him sneaking through my dream, wearing a disguise, as if not to be discovered. I pulled him back to reveal his face, wearing a cheeky grin that instantly flooded my heart with joy. We laughed, we embraced, and then we went out separate ways and continued our own journeys into worlds unknown.
That’s the way I like it to be.
It’s not always like that, when I see people in my dreams.
A few weeks ago, I dreamed of Claire again. I should look forward to those encounters, but I dread them for how they rattle my bones. You see, Claire passed away when we were both 15 years old. She was one of the tragic tales of a beautiful, perfect young girl whose life is taken too soon. Straight A student, a cheerleader, a debate team star, the very picture of an angel with her curly blonde hair and megawatt smile. Sweet as can be and adored by all. The perfect target for a brain tumor in any Hollywood film.
Claire was my best friend, when we were young. Whispered secrets at sleepovers, inside jokes and coded languages. The friendship didn’t last; she was pretty, she was popular. I was gawky and struggling with the ghastly convergence of puberty and growing up with mental health issues that nobody knew how to handle. We grew apart in our daily lives, but we always walked home together, cutting through the woods behind the football field and walking the fallen log across the creek. Sam’s mom or Camryn’s dad would be waiting in Claire’s driveway to pick up members of the pack and drive us to our respective homes. We would wave goodbye to Claire- see you tomorrow, or have a good weekend.
One day, Claire had a doctor’s appointment and didn’t come to school. We walked home the usual way. When we emerged from the forest into the cul-de-sac behind Claire’s house, she was standing there. Waiting for us.
I knew right then and there. Claire would not live to see adulthood.
Camryn and Kelsey remained optimistic when she told us the doctors had found something, that she had to go back for more tests and scans. It’s probably nothing, they reassured her. It will be fine.
Claire smiled nervously, the look I knew well, the one where her clear blue eyes would betray the whiteness of her teeth. She looked at me over their shoulders while they embraced her. I said nothing.
She knew, too.
I was the first person she called when she came home from the hospital. It’s a brain tumor, she sobbed. I sat in silence for a moment, clutching the receiver of the household landline that was our only way of hearing each other’s voices in those days.
I’ll be right over, I said.
We were 14.
My mother forced me to eat a few bites of food while I pulled on my favourite hoodie, a baggy black abomination several sizes too large. She drove me over to Claire’s house and dropped me off in the customary spot where I’d been deposited a hundred times before, next to the garage. I walked up the path and knocked on the door, just like any other night.
Claire opened the door and fell into my arms, wailing. Her tears and snot soaked the collar around my neck, and all I could do was stand there with my arms around her and let her cry. I remember looking up at the landing, an old fashioned southern entryway so common in Georgia homes, with a staircase leading up to a hallway that opened into the two-story foyer. Her mother stood with both hands on the railing, watching us in silence. Her brother and sister emerged from their rooms and did the same.
There was something strangely holy about that moment, like angels gathered around at judgment day to watch the most beautiful and beloved of them all, who had fallen to a place where she would never be able to climb back up.
Claire emptied herself onto my shoulder and drew a long, shaky breath. She sniffled and pulled away.
“You smell like pizza.”
I didn’t know what to say. She laughed weakly. “Oh no, I got your hoodie all wet.”
“It’s alright,” I heard myself say. “Want to watch American Idol?”
She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve and nodded.
And that was that. We spent the rest of the night talking about the usual things. Boys, school, reality TV. Kelsey arrived, uncertain of what to say about the news, and fell into the familiar routine with apparent relief.
That was the last normal night we had together.
It didn’t take long for the whole school to find out. Claire became a celebrity overnight. She had been popular before, but now? Now she was the girl with cancer. And everybody wanted to be her friend.
Oh the attention, the favors, the gifts. Here, let me hold your bag. Let me get that door. Here, we brought you homemade food. If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.
I faded into the background, unable to compete. I hate to admit it, but I grew to resent Claire. I was jealous of the attention she got. I was angry that she didn’t see how shallow these people were. What about me, the one who had been there for her from the start? Where did I factor into the equation?
By the end of that year, Claire and I were barely on speaking terms.
In the fall of my sophomore year, we moved from Georgia to Michigan. I was distraught. I had finally formed my own group of friends and found a home in band and theatre. I had plans, goals, and for the first time in years, hope. I was so caught up in my own struggles, I forgot completely about my former best friend and her battle with cancer.
I wish I could say that I remember clearly the last time I saw her, but I don’t. It may have been a dinner at a local Italian restaurant, she may have been in a wheelchair; I’m really not sure. It wasn’t important at the time.
Months later, I was in a Toys R Us with my recently acquired Michigan boyfriend, a kindhearted nerd who loved to collect Star Wars figurines. We were shopping for those had just started to look at Legos when my brand new cellphone rang in my pocket. It was my mom.
“Claire just passed away.”
“Oh. Ok. Thank you for letting me know.”
It wasn’t until we reached the car that I broke down in tears and told my poor boyfriend what had happened. I choked it back as soon as I could, and turned the story around to one of forced gratitude. I’m happy her suffering is over. He was more broken by the experience than I was- how can you say such a thing? Your friend just died!
It was a long time before I allowed myself to access those emotions and accept what had happened.
One of my best friends had passed away, and I wasn’t there for her. Maybe it’s not fair of me to say or believe, but I truly felt that I had abandoned her in her time of need.
That guilt still haunts me to this day, and arises in the form of Claire visiting in my dreams.
The dreams are always uncomfortable and bizarre. She’s an adult, beautiful as always, chatting away as if nothing had ever happened. I feel like I’m the only person that can see the elephant in the room- why are you here? Didn’t you, you know. Aren’t you dead?
I never say this to her, of course. I will try to ask obliquely, referencing the year it happened to see what she says. It always seems to be that I was wrong the whole time, that she never actually passed away. That I had simply heard a rumour and never bothered to see whether or not it was true.
The enraging part about it all is how she just accepts my abandonment and talks to me as if none of it ever happened.
Hmmm. If only there was a lesson to be learned in these dreams.
Odd, isn’t it?
Dreams are funny. They can mean everything and nothing all at once. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me, maybe it’s spirit visiting to tell me the things I refuse to hear.
All I can say for sure is that, for now, I’m still haunted by the nights when Claire waltzes into my dreams. But one day, I hope that we can embrace again, and that forgiveness can create space for the gratitude and appreciation that deserves to have been felt all along.
I won’t even mind if I still smell like pizza.
