Dearest Rachel –
I don’t know how my mind can go from black-and-white line drawings one night to full (if dimly lit) color and tactile sensations, but it was good to see and hear from you last night, even if it left me with more questions than answers – and I still had to let you go before I was ready to.
The setting was beyond bizarre. I would call it a family-friendly bathhouse, which sounds like a contradiction in terms; generally, the word bathhouse conjures up images of ancient Rome or late 20th century San Francisco, both of which have their own unsavory connotations. And indeed, it did seem a bit like the former, lit with something akin to torches along the walls, rather than, say, fluorescent lights from the ceiling, like your typical natatorium. Otherwise, think of a Chuck E. Cheese, but with swimming pools, saunas and hot tubs rather than video games and ball pits. I know, it’s difficult; that’s why dreams are so weird sometimes.
But if a place like that existed, you would have considered yourself to be dreaming, too. Or maybe you would have thought you were in heaven, considering how you much you loved all things swimming-related.
At any rate, Daniel and I were lounging in a hot tub, one of many ensconced in niches around the main pool. I don’t think we were saying much to each other, just sitting there, relaxing as best we could without our usual tech gadgets. Honestly, when we see each other every day (and don’t do much during the day), there isn’t much to say; there’s no news in each other’s life that we aren’t aware of that we need to be filled in on. So we were just… there, enjoying the warm water as it bubbled gently around us.
It was at this point that you were carried in by several orderlies working there. Yes, I said carried; rather than wheeling you in on a gurney. No, I don’t know why – it’s a dream, and we’re going to have to leave it at that. You were covered from head to foot in olive oil and wine – I think I recall asking whether it was red or white, and you gave me a look that said “do you really have to ask?” It was red. Yes, you were dripping with oil and wine like a submarine sandwich, and you credited them with soothing your injuries (how very Biblical times, I found myself thinking). Not that either of them could have done anything about your broken neck, but as you were back, I was too afraid to bring up the subject, lest it upset the moment, or burst it completely.
I’m pretty sure it wasn’t one of those dreams where I know I’m in one, but you did seem to know that you had died – or at least, that you didn’t have much time to be with us. You and Daniel chatted while I wandered around and took in the surroundings – which seems out of character, as in life, you and I tended to be joined at the hip when we were together in a social setting, at least compared to most married couples. Perhaps I no longer remember it, but you may have asked for some time to talk with Daniel on your own, that you had something to say that I didn’t need to be privy to. Anyway, I’ve already told you about the lighting; although there did seem to be electric lights along the walls, they were dim, like being in a barroom, and at a certain point, they went out altogether, as if there had been a power outage, and the place was lit exclusively with the torches, continuing to give the place a Roman bath vibe.
When I was able to return, you and I lay down on a wide chaise lounge together, while you told me how you happened to be here. I don’t remember much of what you said, exactly, but I remember your voice and the touch of your hands on me as you talked. You smirked as you observed that I clearly missed you as we embraced, you lying there at my right side…
And with that simple realization, everything collapsed. You never slept on my right side; that’s the edge of the bed. You would have fallen off. The next thing I knew, the dream had dissolved, popping abruptly like a soap bubble, and there I was, lying alone again.
But I saw your face. I heard your voice. I touched your side, your hip. I kissed your lips.
Maybe you were showing us a scene in your version of heaven, a room in your mansion.
Would that I could see it – and you – again.
Letters to Rachel 