Dreams, Love, and Trauma

by G.H. McConkey

SHE STAYS at the desk in the dim bedroom almost all of the time. In the corner by the window I see a workspace that is not being used at the moment; a dusty telephone, a computer, printer, speakers, a lamp, and a water bottle. On the computer screen is a piece of writing. It’s about me!

“I See You, Mara”

There is a boring writer who seems to secretly fancy herself interesting and unique. She picks up the pen, literally and figuratively, from late morning until early night, endlessly writing non-cohesive fragments of thought, apparently with the hope of putting together an article, book, or anthology. I pity her weak and pointless waste of time. Therefore, I am preparing to go forth and vex her in the following ways, some of which may not be as fruitful as others, because she is fickle and difficult to gauge.
Some days she is easily sidetracked, reading the latest posts about the world’s difficulties, or suddenly doing menial chores, after which she needs to lay down. I adore it when her body defeats her. Other times she is drawn to attempt useless weekly writing exercises, instructed by some fellow online who sees himself as a sort of saviour of lost writing souls. 
I begin the vexation by placing pens without ink and pencils with worn points all around her home. It is a great source of entertainment to watch her rifling though jars, drawers, purses, pockets, and pouches, scribbling on scrap paper, frantically seeking where a new writing tool may lay. 
I shall ring the phone to interrupt her thoughts and when she answers, not say anything but give a loud snort or push a buzzer. The most amusing foil of all is to stall the internet reception so she has to jiggle cords, fiddle with settings, and restart the computer several times before she can get to the writing program. Pure bliss, until she remembers to say, “I SEE YOU, MARA!”
Oh, that’s precious! She writes about me as if I am an entity to be easily ignored. I am not only omnipresent, I am immortalized in her words. How quaint. Photos of her (young and old) scattered on the desk remind her of places, people, thoughts, stories, and the passage of time. I see a worn zippered pouch filled with some old makeup, bits of paper, notes, cards, correspondence, bills, art brochures, and questionnaires. 
Perhaps she feels more functional with all the clutter, papers, and envelopes around her. Having a stack of unfiled documents means she has “work” to do. It’s eccentric, but sometimes a trick of the elderly to still feel useful. Her dishes are done; only a plate for toast, a bowl for soup, a fork, a spoon, a knife, and last night’s tea mug. Her old, drab clothes are mostly organized, but there are still some on the chair and dresser to be put away or into the laundry hamper. After decades of folding, opening and closing the same drawers thousands of times, it has become tedious, especially if no one is around to prompt the need for a good cleaning or organizing. 
She once was an impeccable homemaker and housekeeper, always cooking meals, baking, cleaning, planning projects and special occasions, making lists, driving children to school or lessons, and endlessly shopping. Now that has all passed, so what’s the hurry for her chores to be done? 
Back when she was still living with her young husband, she used a well-worn but stylish green alligator satchel. At one time or another it contained the following:

Solid gold nail clippers 
Monogrammed knife, fork and spoon
Vial of colourful pills, purple lace underwear, worn
A half-pack of cigarettes from China with one joint and a Zippo lighter
Shopping list on yellow foolscap for car parts and booze
Deck of Ryder tarot cards with worn grey edges
Coupon for a movie in Times Square from 1963
Russian/English translation book, the name printed inside “Baxter 1965”
Silver compact (cracked mirror, worn pad, dark powder)
Used birthday candles
Broken silver necklace and a quartz crystal with bite marks
Seven pens from different hotels in Las Vegas
Nicotine gum (unused, worn package)

“a ½ pack of cigarettes…,” she says to herself, and begins to write.

Baxter reached into the left breast pocket of his red plaid flannel shirt for the half-pack of Chinese cigarettes. Extracting one of the tailor-mades and the lighter, he glanced at the joint, then quickly slid the pack closed. He lit the cigarette and snapped the lighter shut, puffing and releasing smoke through one side of his dry lips. His chapped hands rasped against each other, and then he took the cigarette from his mouth. He looked up and down the dark street. Soon he was approached. “Okay, we’re ready,” they said. He stood up and buttoned his coat, smoothing the wire’s tape on his stomach. They walked to the porch and saw a dim light on in the front room, faint Southern rock was on the record player, and a slight breeze tinkled a wind chime.

Each time she begins an excerpt, be it from her life or someone else’s, it’s another chance for me to distract, annoy, or disturb her faculties. Sometimes it seems she looks forward to my intrusions and the delay of her creative flow. That is when she’ll gaze out the window, arguing with the weather about going outside or not. She’ll imagine all that is happening in the apartment building next door, or blame the sirens on me. Excuses, excuses, the bane of her existence.

“a monogrammed knife, fork and spoon”

I wanted to go to the United States, to be with my sister and her family. I knew if I stayed on the farm, I might never meet someone to marry. I was already 26 when I decided to leave. My brothers promised to send money to help me make the long trip. 
I had saved up by raising and marketing meat animals, selling my part of the harvest and preserves each fall for nearly three years. Every season reminded me of the passage of my youth and my empty womb. I questioned my selfish dreams.
With some of the money, I bought a few good clothes. I needed to look as if I had some means. I applied for a travel visa and other documents for passage. I had taught myself to read from the small newspaper of our country. The Germans were collecting people all over Europe to work for them. I had to escape.
I remember the first night I arrived in America. Conrad handed me a Russian/English translation book, and took me to a local Balkan café to greet the others. We would continue to meet until I learned the routine. Stealing by the proletariat was viewed as wrong in our country, subject to severe punishment. But here, well, there was just so much of everything. 
After our last meeting, I casually dropped a five-dollar bill on the floor. Baxter picked it up and tapped me on the shoulder, just as I had planned. His brown eyes were soft and warm.

Clearly that story has no mention of a monogrammed knife, fork or spoon! Perhaps there is a method to her madness. Perhaps she was simply mesmerized by the memories and forgot. She seems wary of the next interference, which there may or may not be!

Rifling through her boxes of ephemera one morning, she chanced upon a tattered blue airmail letter and tucked it inside the translation book. I noticed a quirk of hers was to collect old papers and books from second-hand stores. She had several plastic bags with postcards sent and received by strangers. Perhaps she thought there would be inspiration from them, à la Griffin and Sabine. 

“a Russian/English translation book”

March 10, 1942.
To: Miss Olga Nekrasov
c/o Mrs. M. Ostoforov,
Zaslavskaya str., 12,
Tsentralny District, 
Minsk, Belarus
SSR

Dear Olga,

Please forgive the forward nature of this letter. I have noticed you down at the factory for about two years. You pass me when you are leaving your shift as I start mine in the evening. Already you may feel discomfort that I have watched you for over two years. I apologize as that is not my wish for you.

I have gained knowledge from your outer appearance and I hope that it is correct. I see no wedding band or engagement ring on your hands, nor do I ever see someone coming to meet you as you hang up your apron and leave the building. Your green handbag is well worn, as are your shoes. You never wear makeup or nail varnish. But still there is a fresh, healthy glow that emanates from you. It makes you stand out from the crowds of workers, exhausted from their work day. Perhaps they are just worn out from life and their returning to unhappy homes, cranky children wanting dinner, or bad living situations. But you always seem to have a bounce in your step, even at the end of the day. It inspires me, and makes me look forward to seeing you the next time.

When you were not among the exiting throng last Wednesday, or since, I became alarmed. I sought to find out your name and address. No one seems to know the reason you are not working here now, or if you had a friend who could offer any information. Please respond if only to advise me that you are alive and well. I mean no intrusion, and this request is in earnest, as a fellow employee of Daimler-Benz.

Sincerely,

Melvin B. Stonhuffer

Oh, she is making connections now! The synapses seem to be firing at a snap-happy speed for her. Nothing in her external world has changed, but the internal is swirling, flashing, tickling, and pulling words from the ether. I will be watching carefully for a chink in the armour, another chance to block and divert. She’s just asking for it. What’s this? Another scene, and so suddenly!

“purple lace underwear”

She was sitting in the orange sodium glow of the parking lot, waiting for me. Little did she know that I’d have a few choice words for her, after all this time. At first, I was shocked she had found me. I was still leery of being recorded or photographed when I finally got to scream the words I had longed to say for over a decade. No apologies.
She saw me from two rows away. The pavement was wet from a brief rain shower. She got out of the car, staying beside it. I went no further, but called out, “What do you want?” Her head cocked as if she didn’t quite hear me, but she did. Her face suddenly magnified and she was right in front of me. Startled, I stepped back.
“Get away from me, you can’t control me again.” Her eyes became sparkling mirror balls, and when she spoke, her voice was low. 
“Hey, Bax, how have you been? No, wait, I already know. I told you how it would be, no matter what. So, are you happy with your life?” 
“I have so much that you will never have. You think you know what unconditional love is, but your life is empty.” 
“Now, now, there’s much more you aren’t even aware of.” 
“Don’t threaten me.” 
“So, there’s no way to convince you that we still watch and listen to everything?” 
“I’m not your fucking experiment, and I don’t believe you. How dare you play with my mind like that.” I paused, then added, “You’ve been trying to make me seem crazy so you could report to them that I am. But I’m quite sane, and you’re the psychopath.” 
She smirked and turned, I blinked, and she was back beside her car. Looking at me one last time, she saluted, swept her arm to her waist and bowed. I caught a glimpse of her purple lace bra. 
Baxter drove away after she left. Months later he found the purple lace panties under the front seat.

What? Now she’s changing roles, digging in for the guts, grabbing the proverbial throat, going for the jugular. No one would expect a passive, quirky loner to have such power. I’m curious how far she might reach to find the depth of meaning she seems to long for. Will it be jealous rage, bowel-weakening fear, or heart-breaking pathos that brings her to her knees?

“solid gold nail clippers”

I might pre-judge someone who has been given the leisure and money to sit and write all day, only to have seven publishers fighting over a ninny story about a love triangle. It might seem easy for them, but I resent it because they’ve never sacrificed one thing in their lives except the time to write. And oh, how sad for me not to be in Paris, as we once were, at the precise moment the spring rains begin, forced to sit inside a steamy-windowed café, smelling the croissants fresh from the oven, the coffee cooling next to the scratched water tumbler, and three more new Montblanc pens, waiting for words to pour forth onto the pages of your compendium. 
Oh, how dreadful to have the space and freedom to do that anywhere because daddy’s a world banker, and maybe some of that money was laundered, but how would you know? And your mother is busy running three estates in different countries, one is the castle in which you were born. You long to go there again, except it’s damp and cold right now, despite the new central heating.
Did you know you dropped your solid gold nail clippers? I saw them slide from your bag and land under your chair while you gazed out the window, pondering the book store across the street. I was willing you to get up to go see if your latest publication was displayed prominently enough to encourage sight-buying by the giggling matrons. Daddy bought the front table at each store, right? I sat in your chair before the server came back. He presented me with change from your 100 euro note, about 80 euros. I handed him one of the 20s. He smiled broadly as he passed me a brown paper bag. 
Bending down to adjust a boot buckle, I scooped the clippers, then put them and the money away in my green alligator satchel. You would return soon to fetch the brown paper bag, but I would be down the street and into une bijouterie by then.

What’s in the brown paper bag? A wad of cash, croissants to go, a small velvet case with something valuable inside, or perhaps just a very nice assortment of drugs? I wanted it to be the drugs because that’s dangerous. I wanted trouble. Will she wade into the deep end with that story? Should I stop her first? It seems that I must now allow her to pick off the scab of her grief to give her a moment of raw emotion. She’ll recover.

“a shopping list on yellow foolscap for car parts and booze”

When her husband died, she didn’t get rid of anything of his. Fifteen years later, she began to think of selling the house. She knew it would be traumatic, and was overwhelmed while looking at his handwriting on a shopping list she found in the pocket of his favourite plaid shirt. He never got the car parts or the booze. He was dead that afternoon. She was suddenly struck by the fact that he didn’t exist anymore. That man who loved her, fought with her, gave her children, and so much grief, wasn’t just at work on the afternoon shift. He wouldn’t be coming home ever again.
The night she died, she imagined she saw him in the hospital lobby. She felt him there. Sleeves rolled up, his plaid shirt was tucked into his green work pants. He looked at his watch. He spoke to no one, but his sharp eyes glanced at each passing individual. Patients and visitors quietly shuffled along. Loved ones were crying as ethereal beings lifted away. He watched the partings with empathy. He had been here before he himself had departed. Now she was here, and he waited patiently for her to be ready. The old car sat outside, invisible to the living, once more shiny and new, the perfect way for them to travel back to the stardust. He saw their grown kids leave, broken, holding each other. He knew she would be joining him in eternity very soon, and he steadied himself. He had missed her, so much.

She is sobbing now. Who is the old woman talking about? I’ll let her have her private moments, but then I will shake her from her feelings and begin again. There is no grand finale without her arranging the stories to make sense. I’m injecting frustration straight into her veins, so she doesn’t accidentally confuse me for some kind of mildly mischievous muse. Her eyes will clear soon.

“…tarot cards…”

Olga shuffled the tarot cards as she waited for the young woman to take off her coat and settle into the creaky wooden chair across from her, while noting the cheap silver necklace that held a small quartz crystal. There were what looked like bite marks on it, a sure sign of a nervous habit.
“Welcome. Do you have a question for the cards today?”
“Yes,” she quietly answered. “I want to know if the man I met recently will ask me to marry him.”
Nodding slowly, she asked her visitor to cut the deck. Olga re-stacked them and began to lay out the cards in the traditional formation. One by one, she placed the worn cards face up, patting them gently before she reached for the next one.
“Love is different for everyone, my dear”, Olga began. “You are so weary of living alone. Your heart has been broken several times. But you still have hope for the future.” 
“Yes, oh, yes. This man is different, he’s a foreigner, and very handsome. He says he works in finance…but please tell me more.”
Olga saw the future so clearly, so she lied to the girl. “He seems very interested in you, and he would like to meet your family.”
“That sounds wonderful, he hasn’t mentioned that yet,” she gushed.
When Olga held out her hand for payment at the end of the reading, the girl gave her twice as much as requested, smiled slightly, and left.

Now she’s putting it all together. Her characters are getting to know each other but that does not preclude me from trying to confuse her, the timelines, and her plans. I’m at once curious how these disjointed stories will align, and also mindful of my own job as trickster. She seems tired now, and lays down to take a nap. Will she ever finish the stories? Dream, madam, dream, and relive those memories that you so hopelessly retain. They are nothing now, they are the dust on your furniture, on your knickknacks, and on your shoes. 

“…used birthday candles…”

I was at a garage sale when I first spied the beat-up-looking green alligator purse. I had seen it so many times during my childhood. Olga and Baxter were quite the pair. I remember one time on my eleventh birthday after I blew out the candles, Olga took each one, licked off the icing and put them in her purse. She said my wish would come true if they were never lit again. She had such funny superstitions. Another time she said in her soft Russian accent, that to attract the right man, just drop a five-dollar bill on the ground to see if he returns it. I never tried it, I suppose that’s why I’m still single. The purse had been in the bottom of a box of random items. I bought the whole box so as to not draw attention to the purse. My heart was pounding when I got home.

It’s so amusing that she can excite herself with her own stories. Are they ever going to make any sense, or is she just continuing to ramble about the scenes that arrive in her mind? Unfortunately, my reach is limited to confounding her, not controlling her thoughts. Maybe I’ll just misplace some other things or curdle her milk for now. I want to see how she pulls it all together despite the stalling tactics. I want to hear her call my name again!

“seven pens from different Las Vegas hotels”

I spoke Russian before I spoke English. My father was furious as he couldn’t understand what I was saying. He forbade my mother to speak either Yugoslavian or Russian in the house. That was going to be difficult as she could only communicate with her aunt in Slav and with our landlord and the woman next door, who took care of me, in Russian. My mother also did English translation work for other members of the ethnic community, sometimes working far into the night on some politically-charged document. We could hear the clacking of the manual typewriter’s keys and the rattling roll of the carriage whenever she had typing work. We were not to bother her during those times.
I don’t speak the languages anymore, but can understand a meagre amount if I hear it. The night we went to get Bear out of that house, I had heard them in the kitchen. Years before, Olga had given me the translation book and I mentally riffled the pages to make sense of their Russian slang.

Kakuyu tsennost’ predstavlyayet dlya nas eta amerikanskaya dryan’? 
(What value is this American crap worth to us anyway?)
yego otets vladeyet neskol’kimi otelyami v Las-Vegase, tak chto on dolzhen stoit’ kuchu deneg.
(His father owns some hotels in Las Vegas so he must be worth a lot of money.)
YA prosto khochu otpravit’ nemnogo deneg na rodinu dlya svoikh detey.
(I just want to send some money back to the old country for my kids.)
Nadeyus’, eto budet poslednyaya rabota, mne stanovitsya strashno.
(I hope this will be the last job, I’m getting scared.)
Kiska, ne oblazhaysya, a to popadesh’ v tyur’mu, a potom tebya deportiruyut.
(Pussy, don’t mess this up or you’ll go to jail and then be deported.)

They were as afraid as we were. If the negotiations went well, Bear could safely leave with us. I didn’t want to think about the alternative. 

The old woman is surely going off the rails now. Where is this story coming from? Is it hers or the main guy’s? Or somehow a bit of both? It seems she is stretching far beyond anything she has written before. She has just received news of the passing of an old family friend, born of Russian parents. How coincidental that she has that Soviet thread in her story. She’s taking it as a sign to continue, her memories are stirred, and details, scents, sounds and old voices are emerging. I’m fascinated, and irritated. Suddenly she has a craving for borscht. 

It was the drugs. But also inside the brown paper bag was a note with what was presumably the young man’s phone number. What a joke. As if a woman of her wealth, beauty, and notoriety would ever be interested in him. He was an American studying Russian in Paris. Of course! Who would be more perfect to join their little operation? He obviously had connections for dope here, and maybe some Russian pals.
After I pawned the clippers, I waited a couple of days before I went to find him. From across the street I saw him arguing with the young woman writer. Seems as if it was over before it even began. She was walking straight towards me.
“Pardon, avez-vous de feu?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied, as I held up my silver Zippo.
“Oh, you speak English,” she met my eyes. “Good.”
I held the flame to her black Sobranie cocktail cigarette with the gold filter.
“Are you alright?” I asked as I snapped the lighter shut.
“That fucker ripped me off,” she huffed. “I’d love to have him fired.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s from the States. He claims to be playing poor, but I happen to know he’s not. His father owns hotels there.” She stomped on the butt.
“Would you like me to read your Tarot cards?” I offered.
“You know, that might be fun, but can we meet tomorrow instead? I have to meet someone now.”
“Of course,” I replied, intending to never see her again. “This corner at noon?”
I would not be the one to call the American, he might recognize me. So, I gave his number to Baxter. Whatever arrangements they made were between them.

I sense a shift in awareness, memory, her senses, and her direction. She’s feeling more confident that she can pull this winding story towards its fulfillment. She’s never read a story like this, and sometimes she’s pausing to allow the meandering over the inner landscape, drawing objects, snatches of conversations, locations real or imagined, from her mind to colour in the white spaces. It’s captivating to see where this goes next, but mischief might be just around the corner.

“I will always see you, MARA!”

It was not long after the undercover operation that Baxter died. He had saved the young American’s life, and the captors were arrested and charged. He already knew he didn’t have long, that’s why he had agreed to the job. His insurance would leave enough for Olga to live comfortably. She knew all about the girl with the mirrorball eyes, her manipulation and attempts at blackmail. That time in Vegas was a highlight of their lives. Conrad won the poker tournament and shared with them all.
“Remember in New York we all saw From Russia With Love?” he once asked. “You, Baxteronov, were like our James Bond, except we wanted so much to be in America.” 
“Of course,” Baxter had replied. “I also knew you were in love with Olga. But I picked up the five-dollar bill first.” 
Conrad had chuckled and shrugged.

She has surprised even herself with these twists and turns. However, she has banished me once again for an indeterminate length of time. I’ll return when she’s tired and blocked, in the middle of the night when her sleep is deepest, to wrestle with her imagination. Meanwhile she will continue to write drivel, journal entries of daily routines, and every so often something just for herself. She just never gives up. It’s the bane of my existence.

Epilogue: “1954”

They asked me what I wanted to be. “A princess,” I blurted. I was instantly embarrassed, and couldn’t stop the burning tears. When I stumbled down the wet stairs to the sidewalk, there was no car waiting, there were no guards. I was alone in my fantasy. It began to rain again as I walked, coatless, down the hill. When I shivered, I felt a deep hollowness in my chest. 
There was no one at home when I got there. I found the hidden key and went inside. The curtains weren’t open. It was so cold in the quiet darkness. I felt no hunger, though it was past lunch time. As I sat at the kitchen table looking at the square clock on the wall above the stove, the hands were suddenly spinning backwards. Hearing a noise, I jumped up, and went to the back door. I saw a big black bear coming up the stairs. The door wouldn’t lock, and the bear wasn’t stopping as I kept slamming. 
I don’t remember going to my bed, but I was there when my mother, still wearing her black coat with the fur collar, and smelling of stale cigarette smoke and cold air, was calling my name. Olga, same as hers. We were named after a Russian princess. She didn’t push me to answer what happened, but felt my forehead for fever. She stood in the hallway, lifted the receiver, and dialled the school to say I was found safe at home.

Gerry grew up in North Burnaby, a suburb of Vancouver. Her most exciting kid memory: seeing the Beatles at Empire Stadium in 1964! She loves art, music, and writing. Gerry has written art and music reviews for minor publications, and has self-published chapbooks. She is currently enjoying being a graduate student at SFU and lives on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia.

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The British Columbia Review

Interim Editors, 2023-26: Trevor Marc Hughes (non-fiction), Brett Josef Grubisic (fiction and poetry)
Publisher: Richard Mackie

Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an online book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.

“Only connect.” –E.M. Forster