By Kelly Mahan Jaramillo, August 25, 2012
She woke up alone in a big four poster bed. Down pillows, down comforter, clean light blue sheets that smelled faintly of lavender. This was not a hospital bed, with it’s nasty sterile scent and beeping machines bumped up against metal trays on wheels. It most certainly was not her own bed, which was plenty comfortable with layers of old stained and torn blankets covered with cat hair and a snoring 6’4” man within arms length.
It wasn’t Lisa’s normal style of waking up, either. She did not groan and turn away from whatever offending light was forcing her awake, she was not pulling at some wonderful dream to come back and finish the story. She felt sort of peppy, ready and willing to get out of bed. Very unlike her, she thought, stretching her arms out sideways, letting her fingers slide back and forth on the fine cotton sheet. Since she was obviously not in the hospital or at home, she was dreaming. Nice. She sat up, letting her legs slide sideways, her toes lightly touching the hardwood floors.
She was dressed in plaid pajamas, dark green and black. So far, the bed was not hers, the pajamas were not hers, and the room was not hers. This room was twice as big, with a fireplace and two reading chairs across from the bed. A hallway on the left showed a vanity table and the faint outlines of what looked to be the bathroom.
She walked over to the mirror above the vanity. The face looking back at her was the same face she saw every morning on her last glance before running out the door to work. Nothing out of place, except the odd fact that everything was in place. Her hair was clean and perfectly combed, eyeliner and mascara smudge free. Her dark hair was more glossy and her eyes a brighter blue than on a normal day, but she was quite fine with that. It was nice to wake up and not look like a train wreck. She wondered why she was not alarmed in the least, but the only feeling she had was a pleasing sense of acceptance, and a curiosity about whether the coffee would live up to the impeccable taste of the rest of the joint.
Ponyboy, ponyboy, won’t you be my ponyboy, giddy up giddy up giddy up,
She shook her head, no matter how nice she looked, she needed to splash water on her face to get her favorite adult lullaby, the one she woke up with every morning, out of her head.
Padding over to the bedroom door she opened it onto a second floor landing. More rooms to her right, and to the left a curving staircase so long that she could not see the last step. A chandelier hung, the dozy breeze sending sparkling clean colors through windows, dark polished wood. Hypnotically pretty.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded normal, but a little bit out of place in this strange house. There was absolutely no sound at all, no clock ticking, no appliances humming. Lisa was acutely aware of being the only sound, and she sounded loud. Between her perfect hair and makeup and this gorgeous, silent house, she came to the conclusion that this was definitely a dream, and a very cool one at that. Better get downstairs before she woke up.
She tempered her footsteps and tiptoed down the staircase, taking note of the Italian marble steps, beautifully mottled and slightly textured so one would not slip and kill themselves. She had never in her waking life seen anything quite like this house, this dream was out there.
The full view of the living room as she hit the floor stopped her already cautious steps. Glancing up, she was surprised to see how damned high up her room was. She was starting to feel a little bit like Alice in Wonderland when she was very, very small.
She walked by overstuffed suede couches and chairs, a theater sized flatscreen T.V., a home stereo system that defied logic, a long wooden coffee table strewn with books and magazines, fresh flowers in the middle of it, and a fireplace to her right that could easily roast a whole cow.
She headed toward the arched door at the end of the room, breathing in the paintings, the wall sconces, the muted wall colors, the non sterile silence. Yes, a person could get used to this.
Knowing damned dreams, it was probably going to wind up being Rupurt Murdoch’s house, or one of the Koch brothers. Lisa smiled, maybe in this dream she would get to throw something at their heads, should they appear. She carefully picked up a heavy silver candleholder from the coffee table, determined before she woke up to get one good whack at whatever fat-cat Republican bastard lived here.