A Pregnant Dream
“That’s redundant, isn’t it?” he said, feeling clever.
“What?”
“Oh, you know,” he explained, flapping his hand about his wrist as though he was propelling the obvious towards me, “all dreams are pregnant.”
I thought on that for a moment, taking a drink of water from a glass slick with condensation, “I guess that’s true. Manifest and latent content, right?”
He quirked his eyebrow at me and his hand stopped abruptly, poised in the air like a hieroglyph, “Yeah, exactly. Most people don’t use those terms.”
I grinned, feeling clever now, also, “yes, I know the terms of the royal road.”
He nodded, satisfied. “So, tell me about your pregnant dream.”
“You know, George Carlin said that there is nothing so boring as listening to someone else describe a dream.”
“That might be because people want so badly to interpret it while they’re telling it. Just tell it first, maybe.”
I don’t want to tack too many footnotes onto this, but I think it’s important to mention how very much I had looked forward to lucid dreaming in pregnancy. With my first child, years ago, it was pretty much a nightly event. I could watch a certain movie, or read a book, or even listen to some evocative music, and I could be sure that some manifestation of it would be waiting behind my eyes. It was a treat! Even the scary ones were manageable, since I was totally in control. I could wake up in an instant, but rarely did. I was having too much fun.
This pregnancy, however, not so much. Not much fun awake, and not much fun asleep. Hardly any dreaming to speak of, and so the other night when I finally had a lucid one it felt even more important, more special.
Anyways, the dream. It begins in some dystopic place, but not obviously so: the air isn’t thick with smoke, there aren’t twisted towers of metal or crumbling concrete. It’s more like a base knowledge that it’s some later era of history and concerns are more now-based. Food, shelter. Safety.
Really, the set pieces of the dream were quite nice. I see them in flashes now, but there was a sprawling green yard in some kind of compound. A fort, like. The wood was old, and damp, but sturdy. I’m not sure why I was there, but I was there. That rain-smell of damp earth and chlorophyll, the rutted soft feel of the wooden posts and rails under my pink fingertips. The breeze that smelled like spring but was a little cold and made me shiver, along with the wetness in the air making my hair frizz and stick to my forehead.
Other people were there, but they moved unseen. I could hear them thunking along the wooden paths, purple-charcoal shadows that splashed and receded against the walls. I was making my way somewhere, down a ramp of planks onto the ground. And there my husband was. I don’t feel right referring to him as husband in this dream, the word doesn’t taste right. In this dream it wasn’t like my husband or the father of my children or even my boyfriend like I was in some kind of time warp. It was more like it’s Him. The only him that’s ever been, if that makes sense.
I know, I’m interpreting instead of telling. But it’s important, I think, because part of the tell is the feel.
In any case, there he was at the bottom of the ramp. And he said “we have to go now.”
So we did, exiting through the front gate. And, like dreams do, the setting changed.
I took a pause and another drink of water. The sun had slipped behind the clouds. The day was still bright, but there was that frisky chill in the air of winter hanging on.
“Bored yet?” I checked in.
He smirked at me, “I haven’t reached for my phone or anything, have I?”
“No,”
“Tell your story.”
“Have you ever played Prey?”
“What?”
“Prey, on PS4.”
“Ah, no,” he looked confused.
“I ask because that’s kind of what happened next in the dream. Not what happens, I mean, but where we ended up. In the lobby.” He shrugged, so I explained further, “it’s not crucial to this or anything, it would just make it easier to describe. Basically that same dystopic feeling, but now in an office building. Night time. Isolated. Something is obviously wrong there, but it’s hard to tell what. There are trashcans knocked over, broken windows, furniture stacked up in front of some doorways. All the fluorescents are still lit but it just feels feels creepy.”
“Ominous.”
“Right.”
“I’ve always felt that way in office buildings after dark. Hell, in daytime. How have we not figured out a better way to light our workspaces?”
I smiled and nodded, “Thank God we work from home.”
He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger and gave a little nod, “but in your dream you find yourself there. With the him that is your husband.”
“Right.”
“And then?”
I felt rushed, but was more speed walking than running. He was ahead of me, holding my hand, but not dragging or hurrying me along. My palms were sweating, my face was flushed. My heart was thudding away in my chest. I had that rising urge to go faster, to run, but I also felt like I needed to control it, like if we just walked at a rapid clip we were still okay, but to run would be to panic. My heart might burst.
We’re moving along, not speaking. There’s nothing to see, I mean nothing pursuing us. No sound of footsteps after us. We’re walking down empty hallways, past empty rooms. The sound of ventilation ducts overhead, and our footsteps on the tile. But ominous, like you said. It’s somehow worse than seeing something, anything, this gaping nothing all around us. I train my eyes on his back, focus on the feeling of his hand linked to mine.
He leans against a closed door, his free hand deftly pushing the handle down. With his other he leads me behind him as he cracks the door so that I can’t see inside. And so whatever’s inside can’t see me.
His body’s tense, and I can feel heat rising off his clothes. It’s his work shirt, thick white polyester, neatly pressed. I can smell our laundry detergent as he leans slowly against the door, nudging it wider.
There’s nothing inside, but the room’s been tossed. Metal filing cabinets are on their sides, dented, half open. Papers strewn about. For a moment the tension mounts, and snaps, and he swings us inside. He regains his control and quickly swings the door closed, but pausing at the last moment so that it doesn’t slam. It clicks shut with about as little noise as its machinery is capable of while still closing securely.
We face each other. The room is quiet, but differently so than the lobby and the hallways. The nothing out there was a shout all its own. This feels calm. I think something like we’ve made it.
“I need to get back out there,” he says. His voice is deadpan, a deep monotone. “Clear the area.”
“Of what?”
He looks at me. His eyes are warm chestnuts. “Stay here. It’s safe here.”
I nod. There isn’t anything else to say. Even now, telling this, I remember his eyes. How exactly right they were in the dream. All of it, exactly him. There wasn’t anything else to say.
He turned and left, swiftly but quietly, the door swinging shut with the same adroit click.
I don’t know if I felt fear, or just apprehension, anxiety, whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter; they’ve all got the same physical profile, right? Heart beating a little too fast, uncomfortably against my chest. Blood roaring in my ears, breath ragged. The room was cool, my skin prickled as sweat dried. It had windows, but with those cheap beige vertical blinds obscuring their entirety. I thought about peeking out between them, but thought of the plasticky noise they’d make, clattering and sliding against each other. I was afraid the sound would be explosive and my safe little haven would pop like a soap bubble.
I huddled and waited.
The waiter came by with the check. My friend nimbly lifted it out of my reach. It was a game we often played.
“You got last time,” I reminded him.
“So?” he said, nonplussed, leaning to reach into his back pocket for his wallet, “I’m paying for the story.”
“Shouldn’t you wait for the ending to see if it’s worth the money?”
“That depends, will I have to know something about a game I’ve never played to understand it?”
“No, it just would have helped describe the setting. That’s all. No phantoms.”
“What?”
“The aliens in the game. Just no!” I said, but my voice cracked. He cocked his head at me as he dropped his credit card onto the black rectangle holding the receipt.
“Ok, then proceed.”
I guess this is where I want to mention that this is why I love pregnancy dreams: lucid, but never too terrifying. I didn’t have to wait for long. I know, it makes a boring story. But it felt so good to be there, kind of afraid but not too afraid. Feeling safe. I was crouched in the room, away from the windows. Really pretty much right where I was when he left, but now seated on the ground near a desk, somewhat penned in by the filing cabinets on their sides and the papers everywhere. If you want to talk manifest or latent content they were probably my tax returns, or a medical bill. I didn’t check; who wants to review paperwork in lucid dream?
And then he came back. Quickly, quietly, again closing the door behind him. The entire atmosphere changed. There was more oxygen. It was warmer. Something had ended or started but all of it was good.
“All clear,” he said and I stood to meet him. For the first time in the dream we hugged, and I was pressed against that familiar feeling of him. His laundered work shirt, his beard like a stiff brush in my hair. His arms, warm, secure.
It took me a moment to realize I had stopped talking, and then I caught him looking at me. Was he horrified?
“Ah, shit,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Shit. I’m sorry, I,” he trailed off as he patted his pockets, reached into his coat draped over the back of his chair. “Fuck, there’s just these napkins,” he gave an uneasy smile as he handed one to me, “damp already.”
It took me another moment to realize that there were hot tears spilling down my cheeks. Once I realized it they seemed to turn to ice on my skin in the breeze.
“It’s okay, really,” I said, taking a napkin and dabbing at my eyes, “I’m pregnant, you know.”
“I know, but even not pregnant, that’s. That’s rough,” he gestured vaguely, helplessly, “the lucid part of it. Being able to have him back again.”
I worked on my breathing, carefully measuring it out and back in again. With these tears it could always go either way, and I wanted to get back under control. Lightly tracing the rim of one eye with the napkin I took in another measured breath, deeper, like closing a door swiftly, but quietly. “I’ve got it, it’s all right.”
He was still looking at me like a deer in headlights. I kind of loved him for these moments when his cleverness fell away and he was just another awkward human wanting to help without knowing how.
“I mean it,” I assured him, “it’s all right,” and permitted myself a shrug, “that was pretty much the end of the dream anyways.”
“Really?”
I took another breath and knew the storm had passed, “yeah, well” I smirked, “it got a little saucy after the hug you know, one ought to take advantage of every lucid opportunity.” He shared a small smile, unsure of what else to say so I went on, “but I’m not going to go into detail about all that. It was just…nice.” I almost echoed him and added “to have him back again,” but then the dam would have broken for sure.
“Sounds like it,” he ventured, “at least, it sounds better than whatever happens in Prey.”
“I think you’re right.”
We both shifted uncomfortably in our seats. Our amicable ending had been sullied by what was, after all, just a dream. A dream that was a little more pleasant than my reality had been lately. I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, but before I could speak again he did —
“We could stay out for a bit; I’m done working for the day. Take a stroll, grab some tea, some chocolates for the preggo, maybe?” He asked. His eyes were scanning my face looking for clues as to what he should do.
“Seriously, it’s okay, don’t make me say it again. Hormonal pregnant lady. Misses her husband.” I felt a fat tear bead up on an irritated eye and blinked it away, “just husband, you know, not he.” I smiled, “besides, I’ve got to pick up the little one from my mother’s.”
“Right, right, I almost forgot about that,” he said.
“If I’m still feeling mopey I’ll be able to talk it out with mom, no worries.”
“Okay…you can call me later if you want. Or let me know if you want to hang out this weekend.”
I nodded, grateful, “Will do. I appreciate the offer. But don’t be offended if I want to duke it out in my hidey hole.”
“You’ll be safe in there.”
“Right.”
He hugged me tight before we departed. It wasn’t as good as the one in the dream.
Later that evening, after I had put my son to bed, I lay curled on my side in an absurdly large bed I had once shared with someone who loved me. The tears had returned,feeling like warm oil spilling over my eyelids and down my cheeks. It wasn’t so bad with no one looking on. There’s a certain kind of quality to feeling sad, to feeling anything, while pregnant. In the darkness of my bedroom I looked at the gray slants of streetlights slipping in between my curtains and thought of those vertical blinds in the office. Focusing on my breathing everything started to feel under control again. My heartbeat like the soft tick of a clock, non-intrusive, but steady.
A flutter in my center solidified and became a limb, two limbs, turning and curling inside of me. This baby didn’t kick and flail so much as turn and pivot, always reaching herself out to test the limits of her room, feeling for the corners, maybe the exit. Too early, yet.
I rested a careful hand, trembling just a little, over the source of the movement and broke the silence before it could get too loud:
“Stay here. It’s safe here.”
