Хлоя Бенджамин: The Anatomy of Dreams

“Sylvie,” he whispered. “Sylve . . .”

I sat up, shrinking away from him, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Seventy-two hours later, I would step onto the porch with my suitcases and look back at his face for the very last time.

“You told me you wanted to see the stars,” he said.

Slowly, his face materialized in front of me. It was the face of a younger Gabe, the boy who had something to show me—the boy who knew we called him Napoleon behind his back but who marched ahead anyway.

“So that was real?” I had a groggy memory of shaking Gabe in bed—or was it Thom?—and asking where the stars had gone.

Gabe nodded. And though I can’t quite say why, I decided to go with him. It was one in the morning. We drove through the night—past Middleton, past Janesville, to a small public park with a sloping hill.

I’m not sure what we did when we got there. Gabe unrolled a blanket, maybe, or took off his coat, spreading it open on the grass. There was nothing to point out to each other. We knew the constellations—the Big Dipper, Gemini’s twin legs, Lyra and her harp—and we could see them clearly. Perhaps he laid his head on my lap, the way he used to at Mills when we stole out to Observatory Hill in the evening. Perhaps we didn’t touch at all. His eyes were trained on me in their intent, entreating way, or they flickered like a bulb going bad; or he had already closed them, had fallen asleep beneath the cape of dark sky and its light shop of stars. Probably I’ve chosen not to remember it. After a while, Gabe suggested we return to the car to sleep off the last few hours before daybreak. Soon, he was dozing in the passenger seat, but I couldn’t fall asleep, so I stumbled back out to the field and laid my head in the grass.

What I do remember is that at some point in the very early morning, I woke up, and my mind was entirely blank. For the first time in months, I couldn’t remember my dreams or their aftertaste; the feeling was so alien that if it weren’t for the change in the light, I might not have been sure I had fallen asleep. I felt just-born, or born again—the night’s transgressions washed clean, my ignorance the purest blessing.

In the pinkish glow of morning, I could see spring’s first daisies dotting the hill, their fragile petals peeled back and glistening. When I was young, I wove them into crowns, using my fingers to split each stem at its wet, fibrous center. And though I remember myself as a practical child, I imagined I was different when I wore the flower crowns: holier, or supernaturally powerful, as if I could spell myself new just by wanting it.

But this time, I didn’t touch them; I left their roots in the ground. I laid my head on the grass and returned to the same deep, vacant sleep. I knew there was nobody watching me.

There are so many people to whom I have the honor of giving thanks.

First, to my marvelous agent, Margaret Riley King at WME, whose skill and unflagging support carried me through multiple drafts of this book (and moments of mild panic). All first-time authors need someone to take a chance on them, and I am so lucky you did.

To Daniella Wexler, a dream of an editor: your belief, advocacy, and keen editorial insight brought this book into being, and I will always be grateful.

To Judith Curr: you gave this book a home, and it means more to me than I could ever express.

To the rest of the incredible team at Atria, thank you for all the phenomenal work you’ve done on my behalf. At WME, my thanks too to Britton Schey, for first supporting my work; Ashley Fox, film agent extraordinaire; and Tracy Fisher and Cathryn Summerhayes in foreign rights, among others. At both Atria and WME, I feel immensely lucky to be in such good hands.

To the mentors I’ve had throughout my writing life: Kiese Laymon and Paul Russell at Vassar, and Lorrie Moore, Jesse Lee Kercheval, Amy Quan Barry, and Ron Kuka at UW-­Madison. A special thanks to the extraordinary Judy Mitchell, my MFA adviser and mentor, who rallied at my side through each step of this process. There are writers, and then there are teachers. It is my privilege to have learned from all of you, who are both.

To the pioneers whose research informed my book: Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, Stephen LaBerge and the Lucidity Institute, Rosalind Cartwright, Robert Stickgold, Deirdre Barrett, and others. This book would not have been possible without your contributions to the field.

To my bighearted, brilliant friends, from the MFA and beyond: Bri Cavallaro, Alexandra Demet, Alexandra Goldstein, Andrew Kay, Nick Jandl, Angela Voras-Hills, my UW cohort, and many more.

To my family: how can I ever thank you enough? Mom and Dad, Ellen and Molly, Jordan and Ty, Grandma and Papa, Bob and Kate, and all the rest—you know perhaps more than anyone else how much this means to me. Your unconditional support and love, your belief in me and in the value of the arts, are the great gifts of my life. I share this accomplishment with you.

And to Nathan: for your passion, your love, your wisdom, and your partnership—which is not to mention your excellent copyediting skills and your willingness to listen patiently as I rattle off my dreams each morning. You are my person, and it thrills me every day.

Chloe Benjamin is a graduate of Vassar College and The University of Wisconsin-Madison MFA program. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Atlantic , Pank , Whiskey Island , and The Washington Independent Review of Books . She lives in Madison, Wisconsin.