A Peculiar String of Bizarre Dreams

Chapter 7: Her Brown Eyes

The front door of our house is ajar when we return from dinner.

"Didn't we close it before leaving?" Dad asks me.

I remember coming back home from Yuna's, pulling on a baggy burgundy sweater and tying up my hair. Meanwhile, Dad showered after his run and dressed in a gray shirt and black trousers for dinner. Then, we reassembled in the hallway and walked out together, closing the main door shut behind us.

Cautiously, Dad opens the door wider and enters the house. Not wasting another second, he begins to inspect, going from room to room, making sure nothing is amiss.

I walk in after him and look around. Nothing looks amiss.

The bookshelves in the den look the same, with all the classics and volumes on the science of gemstones left untouched. The kitchen counter is as clean as we left it. The thin layer of dust on all the flat surfaces around the house looks unaltered. Two out of five french windows are still open, as they usually are. So, basically everything looks okay to me.

But my father is now heading upstairs to check the bedrooms. In seconds, he's downstairs and heading towards the garage.

Avian Oaks can get windy as the night progresses. In all probability, a strong band of winds from the open windows inside the house knocked the front door open, which probably wasn't closed right.

"Daaad! Will you please come in? Nobody tried to rob us. We don't have anything anybody would want anyway. Plus, this town is absolutely non-criminal."

He peeks his head from the rusted garage shutter-gate and yells, "Non-criminal has the potential to turn criminal, once that 'non' is gone, you're left with 'criminal'."

His head disappears back into the garage after his linguistics rant.

I sigh and fall tiredly on the couch in the living room. Our couch is of a faded blue colour with the pattern of Kings, Queens and Jacks from a regular card deck. The King of Spades covers one side, with the black from the spades now fading to a dark gray. And the Queen of Hearts covers another side, whose red only seems to darken with age to a bloody maroon. It is a strange looking couch, but it is sufficiently comfortable.

Dad finally walks in holding a rugged broom. It's the kind of broom that gives you splinters and blisters but does not harm the thing at which the harm is intended.

"Please return the evil broom to its rightful place."

But he frowns at me and shakes his head, as he looks behind the dishwasher in the kitchen.

"Jemma, I'm sure a rat or a troupe of mice got in while the door was open. They probably even sneaked in their entire family. I have to get them out of our house...OW!"

He looks at his index finger. I knew the evil broom would wound him. I don't understand why middle-aged adults don't listen to younger adults.

"The evil broom will not rest till it has pierced you with several tiny wooden arrows."

I go up to him, take the broom from his hand, and put it aside on the dishwasher. I grab his hand and assess the damage.

I announce the prognosis, "You will survive."

The fire in his icy-blue eyes melts. He walks over to the couch and falls equally tiredly in the spot I have just moved from.

"It was probably the wind or something, Dad, don't worry about it. Do you want me to make you some tea? It'll help you calm down from this imaginary mice attack."

He nods, closes his eyes and rests on the couch for a few moments.

I make a pot of fruity hot tea. I place his steaming mug in front of him and take a seat across him on our jaded jade-coloured sofa. I take a few sips from my own mug.

"Thanks for the dinner, it was really good." I say to him.

His now-liquid-blue eyes focus on me. They seem to have seeped in some warmth from the tea he is sipping from.

"It really was. I think I'll always order the same favourite when we go to Orlando's, experimenting rarely yields satisfying results."

I smile and nod at him. I relate — it's similar to how sometimes reading books from unfamiliar or new authors can be disappointing. Which for some reason, makes me think about my nightmare-dream from this morning, how I thought that I was stuck in a dystopian world because I've been reading dystopian books. I decide to voice my concern.

"Dad? You know how we have nightmares sometimes...do you think they're trying to warn us about something?"

"Mmhmm sure, or a nightmare could be telling you that you have something good stored for you in the future. They don't have to be all bad."

I frown in thought and grumble unnecessarily for the heck of it, "I think the evil broom has manipulated you into thinking all bad is actually all good. You'd think removing that splinter would have returned your reasoning unscathed."

He shakes his head, and puts his cup down.

"Your mum used to have nightmares quite often. Sometimes she would awaken and I'd notice her smiling to herself. Which, by the way, was very unsettling to observe. But she would say it was the half moon. And she'd have these nightmares for as long as the moon was half-visible. I'd tell her all this was making me worry about her, but she'd say I was being silly, that it was nothing."

My father has spoken about my mother before, but I don't ever recall him telling me about her half-moon nightmares.

"I remember Mamma's smile, it was dreamy, like she knew something the rest of us didn't know," I add.

"You know she used to tell you about her nightmares. And in return, you'd hold on to her trying to comfort her, it made her happy and you could see this joy flash in her brown eyes."

I try to recollect this memory of her as I listen to him. I don't remember anything about her nightmares, but her brown eyes, I remember them.

"I don't remember much else," I tell him sadly.

He looks at me fondly, but my sadness reflects back in his eyes. He suddenly gets up and goes into his office.

He returns back holding a frail object. It shines golden-silver-rose, all shades of a jewel.

He drops it in my hand. A necklace, with its locket shaped as a spade. I tug on its edges and there's a click as it opens gracefully.

I find a dark sapphire stone embedded inside.

Dad watches me carefully. I look up at him and ask, "Is this her's? Did she wear this?"

"No, it's yours. I don't know why I'm finally giving it to you. She used to keep it in her drawer, next to her bedside. I found her looking at it some nights, before she fell asleep. Once, I asked her why she never wore it, she told me then that it was for you. It may be a family heirloom, from your mother's mother or something, she never said."

I nod at him. I never met my grandmother, she passed away long before I was born.

"Why didn't you give it to me earlier? Mamma left more than a decade ago."

"I don't know, Jemma. Sometimes, you need to follow your instincts. But instincts can be wrong too...giving it to you now just felt right," he says, almost woefully.

My father could go from being an evil broom murderer to an instinct believer in a matter of minutes.

"Thanks, Dad. It's beautiful." I smile at him warmly and he grins back in return. I tuck the necklace in my pocket and he wraps me in a big hug.

"I'm glad I gave it to you. I'll be all by myself in this old house soon...do you know I'll miss you? Avian Oaks will miss you."

I let myself enjoy the warmth of his words and embrace.

"I know. And I love you, you know that."

His eyes get ever so slightly teary to hear me say that, but moments later the waters flow back to their icy depths.

"Now, I've exhausted my portion of fatherly duties. We must get some sleep. Dream well, and good night now."

I chuckle and wish him well-intentioned dreams in exchange too.