A Room With an Unpleasant View
This dream, or at least the portion I remember, is brief.
Michèle and I are in a hotel room. Our suitcases are on the bed and we are having one of those unfocussed, tune in – tune out sorts of conversations while we unpack. We are cheerful. Segues and non-sequiturs are ricocheting off the wall paper. Suddenly she stops in middle of adjusting a (strangely, I remember it is cream coloured and has embroidery at the collar tips) blouse with on a white plastic hanger and asks in a rising panic, “Where is your father?”
I look around – at the bathroom door (ajar and revealing a vacant room), toward the hall exit (still locked and chained), and at the glass doors (open) that lead to the balcony. I think the worst and lean out the sliding door, which, it turns out, open on a tile floored shopping centre promenade. There, perhaps twenty yards away, are my father and my brother Peter.
My father is seated on one of those ubiquitous rectangular bench-planters. My brother is standing beside him, seemingly waiting for something or someone. I am aware that Peter died decades ago, but it does seem to be relevant to this dream and I am relieved he is chaperoning dad. My father stands up and, before Peter can catch him, pitches forward, smacking his face on the tile floor. Peter, horrified, stares through his empty hands at dad, who is groaning. I have an incredibly physical sense of guilt at my negligence. Peter and I look at each other in helpless empathy.
It happens again. And Again. In fact dad’s face just keeps hitting the tile with a horrible bouncing thud until a part of me realizes that the only way to make it stop is to wake up. And when I do I become aware that my blood sugar is plummeting.