Francine Rivers - Her Daughter’s Dream

“So Mom never had nightmares or sucked her thumb…?”

“Oh, there was a while when she used to sneak into Charlie’s room and sleep with him or on the floor beside his bed. It didn’t last long. I put a stop to it as soon as I knew.”

“And she was fine with that, no crying or arguments?”

Silence for a moment. “She started sleeping in her closet. But really, Dawn, you’re making way too much of it.”

“I know, Granny. I’m just curious. That’s all.”

“We started leaving a night-light on in the bathroom. She seemed fine after that. Or maybe it was Oma.”

“Oma?”

“She came to live with us about that time.” Her tone turned brisk. “Either way, your mom stayed in her own bed after that.”

On impulse, Dawn called her mother that evening and asked if she remembered having nightmares as a child.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m taking psychology.”

“Oh. Well. I suppose all children have bad dreams. Don’t they?”

“Granny said you used to sneak in and sleep with Uncle Charlie.”

“Did she?”

“And when she put a stop to it, you slept in your closet.”

Silence.

“Mom?”

“What started this line of questioning?”

Dawn winced. Mom might as well have said interrogation . “I’m taking psychology, and the lectures have been on child abuse.”

“I was never beaten, May Flo-” She stopped. “Dawn.” She spoke the correction quietly.

“We’ll have to talk about my name someday.” Dawn tried to keep her tone light. When her mother didn’t respond, she apologized for asking such personal questions. “I was just curious.”

Her mother’s reticence only served to make her more so.

Dawn sat at the nook table, flipping through her class notes. Slapping her binder closed, she stared out the window. She’d studied enough. She didn’t want to think about psychology or come up with any more theories on why her mother was the way she was. She’d never know anything more about her than she did now. It wasn’t her business anyway.

She knew what the problem was: she had too much time on her hands. She needed something to do other than go to class, study, and hang around the apartment, waiting for Jason to call. She had to stop counting the days until he’d come home. She looked at the bare white walls, the worn beige couch, the drab chipboard coffee table sitting on the beige rug. Life without Jason was as colorless as the apartment.

The place needed cheering up. It needed color !

Grabbing her keys and purse, Dawn left the apartment. She drove downtown and bought half a dozen women’s magazines. She spotted notices on the coffee shop bulletin board: garage sales popped up like weeds every Friday afternoon. She’d always thought it might be fun to visit a few, see what treasures she might find among the piles of junk. On the way back to the apartment, Dawn stopped by a hardware store and picked out paint color strips.

“Walls have to be back to white before you leave,” Mr. Cooper, the apartment manager told her when she explained what she’d like to do. “Otherwise, you forfeit your security deposit.”

After psychology class, Dawn went to the library and looked for books on interior design. She jotted down ideas, then went back to the apartment to take measurements and map out furnishings. She tore pages from magazines.

Early Saturday morning, Dawn drove south to Santa Maria, hoping to be the first arrival at the Huge Neighborhood Garage Sale: furnishings, fine linens, china… She wasn’t. Already a crowd wandered the cul-de-sac, picking through racks of clothing, looking over electronic gadgets, tools, toys, and totally useless knickknacks. Dawn bargained for two matching crested chairs with burgundy upholstery and got them for twenty dollars. She fitted them carefully into the backseat of the Sable and continued her search. She bought two Talavera plates for five dollars; an old, worn, imitation Persian rug in jewel tones for twenty-five; and a glass bowl full of seashells for a buck.

Still on the hunt, Dawn wandered, looking for anything that caught her eye. She became engrossed with a shoe box full of maps and another of postcards. She bought three framed posters of rock groups. On her way back to the car, she bargained for two large sky-blue blankets and a somewhat-faded yellow and blue French provincial tablecloth with deep pink peonies and daisies.

Mr. Cooper saw her pull up and laughed. “When the dog’s away, the cat will play. Need some help unloading all that junk?”

She laughed, excited about getting to work on decorating. “Yes, please.” She started pulling the rolled carpet through the back window. “And I’ll have you know these are treasures .”

Over the next week, Dawn painted the living room wall butter yellow, folded and pinned one blue blanket around the body of the sofa and the other around the two large cushions, unrolled the Persian rug, tucking it beneath the sofa, and set the oval-backed chairs in opposite corners, the coffee table in the middle. Making do without a sewing machine, Dawn folded and pinned colorful cloth covers over cheap pillows and arranged them on the sofa.

Removing the rock concert pictures, she used two of the frames to mount maps of Monterey and Washington, D.C. As the centerpiece of wall art, she created a colorful collage of old postcards from national parks across the country. She hung the two Talavera plates in the kitchen, put a yellow valance over the nook window, and spread the Provence tablecloth. Last touches included the glass bowl of seashells on the coffee table, the new issue of VIA from the California Automobile Association, and a bouquet of yellow roses in a lime green Fiesta water pitcher.

Arms akimbo, she admired the room. Eclectic, she decided, already imagining other things she could do to make the room more interesting. A potted palm in the corner would be nice, and some nice coverings for the ugly end tables. Changing the lamp shades…

She stopped the train of thoughts running through her head. The living room looked warm and cozy. Now she needed to read another chapter in her psychology text and review her notes. She still had five more days for decorating before Jason came home.

Flipping through her notes, she became distracted. She had a great idea for adding a little wow factor to the bedroom.

Dawn spotted Jason in his uniform coming down the steps of the small jet disgorging its twenty passengers. She wanted to hurtle herself into his arms, but had already been warned the military frowned on public displays of affection. Apparently, Jason forgot. When she got her breath back, she noticed Dod Henson and Jack Kohl approaching and called out a greeting as Jason took her hand.

They all waited at the conveyor belt that would deposit passenger luggage.

Jason brushed his other hand against her cheek. “What’ve you been doing while I’ve been away?”

“Keeping busy.”

“How’s your psychology class going?”

“Fascinating, but I’ve discovered another passion.”

“What’s that?”

She gave him an impish smile. “Wait and see.”

When he stepped through the door of the apartment, he stared. “Wow! Did you call in a decorator?”

“Nope. I did it all by myself. I spent less than two hundred dollars on the whole place. What do you think?”

“Classy.” He looked closer at the maps on the wall. “Where did you come up with all these ideas?”

“Women’s magazines, garage sales…”

He stepped around the partition. “I’m impressed.” He stared at the ceiling medallion where she’d tucked and hot-glued mosquito netting that draped the top half of the bed. He turned to grin at her. “Reminds me of a pasha’s tent. Do you have harem girls in the closet?”