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House of Dreams
by Mari Mitchell

The early morning sky was laced with ribbons of cotton candy clouds. It soon gave way to a light grey blue. Clare Nelson's slumber crumbled away at the edges, washed away in a river of dreams, lakes of moonlight lilies and star oceans filled with emotion.

"Bobby!" she called out clutching at nothing but the air, while crickets struck their uneven chords.

"Wake up, Clare. You're having that dream again." Mark held her in his arms so that she could find her way back into sleep. "Who is that guy?"

"When I figure it out, I'll be sure to tell you."

Clare wrote in her journal,

Have you ever had a dream where you're in a house, lost and calling out to someone? This is the dream that's haunted me for as long as I can remember. After I met my husband I thought that the dream might stop. But still there is that incomplete feeling, a feeling of not being whole and it needs to be filled.

It's never a scary dream; it's more frustrating and I have the feeling that I am being driven by something . . .

My dream doesn't happen every night. It's like a rerun on TV, you never know what channel it's on or when it will play. In a way, I'm being haunted by the dream, always inside the house, going through empty rooms, calling out to a stranger I can never see. I've given the dream a great deal of thought, even read books about dreams but I have never sought therapy for it. Maybe I should?

My heart's looking for something, somewhere or someone. It's like my soul's an incomplete quilt. Something sacred that I've lost.

Now that we are looking for our new home, my dream screams at me, almost every night. I must be searching for something. There is something I am supposed to do, but what?

The third weekend of May, Clare went house hunting on her own. Mark stayed home with a cold.

The couple had looked for a house for over a year. They had to find one soon because their lease was nearly up and they would have to move. Some of the houses the two looked at were new, some were older, but each felt wrong. What Clare needed wasn't a place that was merely wood and walls, but one of with a sense of soul. She wanted a place that felt like home.

Mariposa County was one of her favorite places to look. But without Mark to help guide her, she had gotten lost. Clare had been driving for a long time and needed to stretch her legs before turning around.

"Maybe I'll be able to find a living person here to give me directions back to the highway?" she remarked to herself as she pulled over on the side of the road.

Sentinel trees stood along the length of the road. Clare listened to the birds sing instead of the barrage of the city's clamor. She wouldn't take too long, just a few moments. She needed to get home and make Mark her famous soup from a can.

Like a mist, the scent of mimosas filled the air. A red rubber ball rolled across the road just as Clare was about to get back into her Volkswagen. She scooped the ball up before a child could run out into the road to retrieve it, not wanting them to run out and get hit by a car.

A stray thought ran through her mind, 'The loss of a child must be one of the greatest pains that can happen to a soul over time. It must be something that always stays with you.'

Clare was not fortunate enough to be a mother yet, but someday she and Mark hoped to have a child of their own. They had been trying for a little over two years, but had had no luck.

Picking up the ball she took it back in the direction from which it came.

"Hurry up and find me. I miss you."

It appeared that a little boy was playing a game of Hide and Seek, and had mistaken her for someone else.

At first there seemed to be nothing but trees. Clare couldn't see a single soul. Just as she was about to put the ball down, she heard laughter. It came from a thicket of wild oak trees.

The house stood behind the oaks, almost as if the trees were trying to conceal it from the rest of the world, saving it just for her. Layers of neglect perforated the house: windows broken, paint faded and flaking, yet somehow it whispered to her, "Come home."

Without resistance, the house welcomed her in. Dappled with dust, the air danced as she moved in and out, bringing with her movement and life. Inside the house, a calm surrounded her with the comforting knowledge she was finally home.

It wouldn't be easy to sell the idea to Mark. He wasn't very handy and this house would require more than a little TLC. Even as old as it appeared to be, the house still had many good selling points. The roof didn't seem to have any leaks, and the floors and walls appeared to be sound. Of course Clare couldn't tell if the plumbing and the electricity worked properly, or if they needed a complete overhaul, because they were turned off.

Someone had kept a fine garden once in the backyard. Clare thought, Monet could have painted this. The air smelled sweet like rich perfume, there was an apple tree bursting with fruit, and ancient rose bushes had grown into tangled collage of colors: winter whites, blushing pinks, voluptuous reds. Beside a swing, a bush of mimosas grew. The blooms like little yellow bells ringing of sweet scent.

Clare didn't even know for sure if the house was for sale. When she got home she wasn't going to tell Mark. She had to keep it a secret until she was ready to reveal the house in such a way that he would be able to welcome it as well.

For days, Clare made calls to find out whom she needed to speak to about the mysterious place.

In her dreams, she went back to the house behind the oaks, no longer abandoned but filled with light and laughter. Clare chased a small boy who darted in and out of the rooms while she followed after him in happy play. He was her son, a child yet to be. Astonishing to behold, he had Mark's dark curly hair and Clare's clear blue eyes. All she wanted was to catch him, to hold her son in her arms, to breathe him in, to make that dream real.

Clare's heart longed for the house of the boy, where he played in its rooms of the future.

The countless calls inquiring about the house paid off. Finally, she found that the house was for sale. The realtor told her that a Mrs. Robertson owned it. The elderly woman asked to meet Clare before she okayed the sale. To help the sale along, Clare brought a small present of cut flowers that reminded her of the Monet garden.

They sat in a quaint room in two wingback chairs of rich burgundy velvet. Clare felt as if she were six-years-old again, visiting her grandmother. Her feet still dangled off the chair, inches away from the Persian rug. Behind them, a large fireplace where two stone lions stood watch over piles of books. The walls of the room were a patchwork of photos: pictures of a long life spent among smiling people, moments of time caught by paper and framed in glass.

Mrs. Robertson removed a picture of the house and handed it to Clare as she began to speak, "We called it Memory House. You'd think it'd be bigger than what it is with a name like that."

"It's perfect to me."

Mrs. Robertson looked at her with eyes soft as summer. "We thought so too."

"Why aren't you living in it now?"

"The meaning behind its name became too hard for me after we lost our boy in an accident. Then I was given a telegram that said my husband had been killed in the war. It was like something was taken out of my soul." Her eyes glistened with tears as she spoke. Frail hands lightly touched a small red ball that rested on the fireplace.

Part of Clare wanted to ask how, but she couldn't bear to bring Mrs. Robertson any more pain.

The elderly woman composed herself after a few more sips of blackberry tea. "I moved in with my sister, Anne, hoping someday to return and make it a home again. I guess, I never got around to it. The house always seemed too sad. Not enough happy memories there for me, I'm afraid."

"Are you sure you want to sell it to us?"

"It seems to me that the house picked you. A house needs to be a home. You seem to have the love that it needs."

"I do."

Mrs. Robertson smiled at Clare and held the young woman's hand in hers. The two passed the rest of the day drinking tea out of mismatched cups and saucers and talking of things remembered and dreams of things yet to be.

Clare spent three weekends alone at Memory House repairing windows, cleaning, painting, hanging curtains, and doing yard work. Part of her hoped to find the red ball or hear him speak, but the house was still, as if it were holding its breath waiting for something. She told Mark that she had to work. It was only a small lie and one she would soon confess. She was sure he'd forgive her for it once he saw Memory House.

The following weekend Clare told Mark that she did not have to work and that they would be going away for the weekend. She didn't tell him where. It was a surprise. She packed a romantic picnic dinner for two and left a note and a map for him to find her.

By candlelight, they drank glasses of red wine. The two kissed as she showed him each room and told stories of things to come.

"When it's Christmas, we could put the tree in the bay window. Imagine how beautiful it will look."

"How did we get from drinking wine to talking about the holidays?"

"Because this is where we will be for them."

"We will?" he said with more than a little doubt in his voice.

"Uh-huh." Clare grabbed his hand and kissed his warm lips with a passion of newlyweds. "The place is ours, if we want it."

"I think I had better see more of it first, don't you think?"

"Come with me." She lead him to the kitchen. “We'll put in a checkerboard floor, paint the cabinets cream, the walls buttercup and have lace curtains for the windows."

Clare showed him the bathroom. "On the floor, our friends and family will paint one flower each. Look at how large the claw tub is."

He looked at the bedrooms, which were on the small side. "We could make this one into a guest room or a writer's den for you."

Clare kept the secret that it was their son's room. Soon, she would paint the ceiling with clouds and stars playing peak-a-boo. On one wall, there'd be a mural of rolling hills. Dinosaurs would roam the valleys, a castle high on the hill would stand, a pirate ship at the shore with mermaids combing their long hair, as a rocket would sail by. This was her boy-to-be's room. The room their son would play in, the room where they would read him stories, and the room where he'd fall asleep in the future.

Just as the two were about to enter the last room she said, "Wait here for a moment."

He smiled at her.

"Cover your eyes. I need to set something up before you come in."

"Okay."

Clare had placed a blow-up bed into the master bedroom. She'd bought new linens in Mark's favorite color, chocolate. As quickly as she could, Clare slipped out the dress to put on a negligee the color of strawberry and let her hair down. She placed herself carefully on the bed striking her best come-hither look.

Seductively she said, "You may now come in."

"Why, Mrs. Nelson, what will your husband say?"

"He wouldn't say anything. He's a man of action." Mark joined his wife among the soft warm blankets.

That night, Clare dreamed while sleeping in Mark's embrace. She heard her boy-to-be say, “Mommy, you found me.” As she reached for him, he vanished into giggles and daylight.

In a new journal Clare wrote,

I no longer have the dream.

That first night we shared together in Memory House, we conceived our son. We named him Robert Edmond Nelson. We call him Bobby.

In our first year, Mark and I painted the house periwinkle blue with white trim. I planted heather by the front door for good luck. Mark made a bench where we can sit and watched the deer. In the backyard, I planted a lemon tree. There are always repairs of some sort or another to do, but it's a labor of love for the both of us.

I now collect mismatch teacups and saucers too, as a way to remember Mrs. Robertson. She passed away shortly after we moved in. I was able to tell her the joyful news of the baby we were expecting. The last thing she told me was, "Through you, I know you'll live the life I never could."

We happy three now have the home of my dreams with the family of our hearts.