the rose garden of dreams Part 1 of 3

johnjgeddes (75)in #fiction • 7 years ago

Footfalls echo in the memory,
Down the passage which we did not take,
Towards the door we never opened,
Into the rose garden
—TS Eliot

I watch other people and envy them. Their lives seem safe and predictable. Not mine. I’m always at the center of a storm. Mind you, it’s a storm of my own choosing.

It’s my fault I was very nearly killed in an auto accident—drinking far too much and popping pills—so, I suppose there’s a reason why I long for an ordinary life, just as there’s a reason why I obsess about dead people.

I look at Elias and he’s smirking—of course, he’s a shrink and doesn’t buy half of what I say, especially statements that begin with ‘because’ and end with a contrite look on my face.

“You tend to see yourself as a victim, Leon, but everything that’s happened to you is the result of choices—your choices—Maya included.”

I don’t know why he always keys on Maya. Yes, she’s the storm in my life, and yes, my lifeboat is swamped in a maelstrom, so I guess he figures he’s a lighthouse. But he’s not—he’s not a light to me—more a foghorn continually emitting warning blasts.

And maybe that’s why whenever I see Elias, it rains.

It’s past five when I exit his office and head back to my Rosedale manse—an Art Deco home formerly owned by Jessica Skye.

Jessica was a Thirties’ actress with Garbo looks who haunts me continually—partly because of her huge dark eyes staring at me from her portrait above the mantel—and partly because she inhabits a virtual wing of my house.

I know it sounds crazy but the closest I can get to explain it is to compare her ethereal abode to Wonder Woman’s airship—partly invisible, but real. I access her hideaway through a portal in my basement that outwardly appears to be a wine cellar, but actually is a Thirties’ speak-easy. Behind some swing-out shelves lies a second door that leads to a part of the house that is not of this world.

I still can’t quite wrap my mind around the whole experience but when you live in a Cubist house once owned by a Thirties screen star, I suppose anything is possible. Really. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.

Besides, Einstein said the Past still exists, around a bend in the river of Time—so, I’m not crazy if I believe it’s true, and I’m not just taking the word of a genius, because I know–I’ve been inside Jessica’s shadowy apartments.

That’s right, I’ve seen the Mobled Queen and she’s haunted me ever since.

In my mind I picture her extant wing of the mansion as a Cunard liner from the Thirties ran aground on a desert island. The ship’s crew and waiters, all in white, wait upon her while she throws elaborate island parties replete with exotic fruit and drinks the color of water. She and Amelia Earhart live on in a perpetual sunny afternoon beyond the ken of the world at large.

I know—I sound insane, but as I stand here in the rain outside my manse, it all seems so clear. Somewhere in time, there is a sunlit garden where beautiful people are whiling away a June afternoon—it’s not something I hallucinated—I’m inner-directed and know what I know. That sunlit garden party is real. I stumbled upon it once, and fully intend to go back and prove it exists.

But just how I’m going to do that, I have no idea.

I eat a light supper sitting in the front room by the light of the fire. It’s basic, if not a Spartan repast—Swiss cheese on rye and a glass of Shiraz.

I know—with my history of alcohol abuse I shouldn’t, but ever since I explored the basement speak-easy and stumbled upon that portal to the past, I’ve needed the occasional drink to calm my tremors.

No, they’re not DT’s—they’re more a distant thunder—a reverberation that pulses inside me every time I remember the dark surprise in Jessica’s eyes.

I can see her still.

Sometimes, I tremble so much, I have to squeeze my fingers tight into a ball and scrunch my eyes closed and try not to see that white petal in a dark sea—Jessica's face in the garden below, staring up at me.

I admit–it challenges belief. A second-floor room in a turret that doesn’t exist in this time or space—I mean, how can that be? But I was there! I know it’s real—as real and palpable as this longing for a woman that’s been dead half a century but nevertheless has managed to ignite a conflagration within me.

The rain has stopped and I wander outside and stand on my front lawn. It’s cool and there’s a slight breeze. I look up at the manse Jessica built—a monolith towering above me—a Cubist house with curving lines, now illumined with the aura of a full moon about to crest the roof line.

It’s romantic standing here beneath the dark oaks, listening to the rustling leaves, and watching the Moon break free of shadows and beckon to me.

A wild delight surges through me. I can sense Jessica near. She’s on the grounds with me and the darkness provides just enough obscurity to soften the stark actuality of everyday and liberate her spirit.

I begin to shiver and have to go in. I force myself to shut the door on my fantasies, but it’s futile—I know I can’t shut her out completely, because nightly, she haunts my dreams.