Dream Sequence

by Rebecca Mear

Dream

Dream, reads the faded, beachy poster above

Jamie’s rusty, brass bed frame.

It’s a bleached, curling artifact

Tormented by the sun

For six long years,  

A mere souvenir of a distant

Cape Cod trip, and all

That remains on Jamie’s

Pale aqua walls.

Jamie’s small arms cross

As her mother boxes up

The walls’ belongings.

But walls cannot retaliate, so

They only mourn the loss of

Their glow-in-the-dark stars

And billowing butterfly tapestries

And stick-on flower decals

And birthday cards from Grandma Joanna,

All

To be haphazardly thrown

Into the box labeled “Jamie’s Stuff”

In drippy, blue chicken scratch.

Because all of Jamie’s possessions,

Her precious memories, are only

Useless objects, good enough

For one limp box.

But home is family—not a place

Or possessions. Right?

Jamie’s mom wears a phony smirk

And says, “Jamie, it’ll be okay.”

The girl half-smiles back

Until

Her mother yanks down

The poster—

The one reminding Jamie to dream

And hope and

Be happy and

Hold on.

Jamie snatches up her beach-scene

And rolls it together

Before facing

Her bare, soulless bedroom walls,

The ones she has stared at for

A lifetime, or maybe

Just six years.

But is there really

Any difference?

The walls whisper their sleepy mantra,

A secret chant for Jamie:

dream,

  dream,         dream,

dream,

Jamie inhales their words

And traps her memories

In the lonely box

Before whispering back:

How can I dream

If I do not have anywhere

To sleep?

And they answer her:

Dream,

Dream,

          Dream,

       Dream,

    Dream,

 Dream,

Dream.

And in response, she says:

Don’t you worry, I’ll try.

Mermaids Don’t Dream

Jamie tears off the yellowing tape

In one swift motion,

Releasing prisoner #236, “Jamie’s Stuff.”

The box sighs out in relief

And shushes its eager contents:

The objects too useless

For Jamie to glance at.

Even the Dream poster

Is purposeless here, in a place

Where Jamie is a stranger

Without her own walls.

If only Jamie could live on the beach,

The one from the poster.

She could be a mermaid

And spend all day swimming

In the satisfying ocean.

But no. She is stuck here,

In a foreign house

That smells like mildew and tea,

Inhabited a distant but related

Woman.

Jamie cringes, for even the cardboard box

Is freer than this wannabee-mermaid girl,

This mess of oceanic tears and knotted seaweed hair.

For the box’s lips are open

And Jamie’s are plastered shut.

Looking in the box is not an  option.

Looking in the box is giving into the

Current behind Jamie’s eyes.   It is

Drowning in the salt,   forgetting to

Swim,  becoming one with the ocean:

Sorrow, sea salt,         and tumult.

So Jamie does not open the box

On the musty floor

Of Grandma Joanna’s house.

Instead, she lies

Down      

And stares at the ceiling fan’s

Hypnotic display.

Jamie’s eyes

Circle around

And around

Until

She hears the box’s familiar sigh

And dissolves the box with her dagger-eyes.

If only it actually worked, if mermaids could

Make things—or people—disappear.

Traitor, she mouths to the box.

She tries screaming it,

But no sound escapes.

Once the mute button is pressed,

Mermaid-Jamie replaces

Sugared, elated Jamie.

Jamie tires from fighting

The tide. But if the box is even a traitor,

For helping her move to this dumb place,

Who can be trusted?

She lies back down on her new sand carpet—

Scratchy and satisfyingly uncomfortable—

And gazes up at the fan’s dancing arms

Flailing about. Then everything fades

To crippling darkness.

sleep finds her,

but dreams

do not.

mermaids made

of sorrow

and sea salt

and tumult

do not

dream.

Wavelengths

          Jamie   Jamie            Jamie     

Jamie         Jamie            Jamie         Jamie

The waves pound against Jamie’s face,

Crashing until her eyelids

Force themselves open.

Jamie blinks

Salty condensation away

Before gazing up

At her mother,

The woman who drained

Her oceanic dreams.

All that remains?

Saltwater residue.

Jamie sees her mother’s lips move

But only hears

The roar of a sea

lion. Or maybe that’s just

Jamie’s muted screaming.

But don’t ask the box. He’s a traitor.

Jamie tap, tap, taps on the side of her head, draining

The sand filling her seashell ears.

What did you sa—she begins.

The reply:

Blah          Blah        blah        blah

       BLAH   BLAH     BLAH        

Now unpack that box!    

But—Jamie utters.

But nothing comes out.

But the box’s sigh intensifies.

But the imaginary sea lion releases

A hard laugh.

But her mother’s blahs continue on

For one minute, two, three,

Until

It’s all too loud to ignore

And Jamie must open the box

For her own sanity.

Enough, enough already!

And then: silence

For the Opening

Of the Box.

Jamie breathes in its musty scent

Of basement cardboard

And glares

At her corrugated enemy.

Her mother’s narrow mouth

Hinges open. Beady eyes

Stare her down.

If only Jamie had a bucket of sea

Water to refresh her mother.

But mermaids are not miracle workers.

Jamie lifts a wrinkled finger to the box

And peels back its evil flaps.

The only sounds in the room:

Jamie’s silent gasp,

Her mother’s high heeled-shoes

Marching off,

And the maddening sigh

Of the enemy.

Jamie and Barbie

It’s Sunsational Malibu Barbie,

Complete with 80’s tan and stringy blond hair

And orchid swimsuit, faded

From the sun and pool chlorine and yes—ocean salt.

So what if her suit’s tie frays

From innumerable knots

And its metal snap and single flower decal fight

To jump off the purple fabric?

Does that really matter to Barbie?

Barbie, why are you in that box of doom?

You’re too pretty to be trapped away

Without sunlight to exfoliate your plastic tan.

Your cheeks may be too round, too dimpled,

And your turquoise eye shadow and arched

Eyebrows are no longer in-style,

But I love you all the same. I need you.

Barbie smiles her painted-on grin,

The one that endured even when

Jamie gave Barbie a not-so-minor haircut

Or dripped chocolate ice cream down her violet one-piece

Or took her out to play in the snow

In a bathing suit, for goodness’ sake!

What endurance! What tenacity that Barbie has!

Barbie, you were always there for me—even when nobody else was.

When Mom was God-knows-where, doing God-knows-what,

When Only-Friend Benny abandoned us and moved to California,

When Santa Claus wasn’t so real anymore (and neither was Christmas).

You even stuck it out when you lost everything.

When Mom sold off poor Ken and Midge and Alan and Skipper

In the Great Yard Sale of ‘09

And you lost your Magical Mansion and pool and parrot Tahiti and jet ski

And even your entire wardrobe—except for your tattered bathing suit—

Because Mommy was mad at me for breaking her favorite wineglass.

Jamie’s eyes well up as she looks at her long-lost

Shoeless plastic friend—

Malibu Barbie is barefoot because

She prefers to feel

The scorching sand tickle

Her pointed toes.

Why would a little bit of pain

Stop a timeless icon?

Oh, Barbie, do we have to stay

At Grandma’s forever?

Why can’t we just live

At the beach instead?

We can make sand castles all day

And play in the waves.

I’m a mermaid now, you know!

Maybe you can even teach me

To surf. Barbie,

We can stay and dream

In the hot sun. If you want,

Both of us can be mermaids.

Let’s go, right now. Close your eyes.

We’re here, Barbie!

Do you feel that?

It’s the salty breeze.

And there’s the scratchy sand,

Hot the way you like it.

Oh, I can even taste the ocean mist

In the air. I think I’m tanning!

Look, Barbie, am I really?

Noise? What noise? I don’t hear—

Jamie, what are you doing?

Blah, blah, blah.

I’m sorry we don’t have

A real beach, Barbie,

With actual warm sand

And salted water.

But we can still pretend,

Can’t we?

Pretending’s all we really can do.

It’s not like mermaids can dream.