Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

She took his right hand and held it; kissed it gently, pressed it to her cheek. “I know that,” she murmured. “It was very dear of you but . . .” Her voice trailed off and she closed her eyes. “He’s dead, Richard,” she said after a few moments. “ Gone . There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Ann, I’m here! ” I cried. I looked around in wretched anger. Was there nothing I could do to let her know? I tried in vain to pick up objects from the bureau. I stared at a small box, trying to concentrate my will on moving it. After a long while, it hitched once, but, by then, I felt exhausted by the effort.

“Dear God.” I left the room in sorrow, starting down the hall, then, on impulse, turned back toward Ian’s room. His door was closed. No big deal, as Richard likes to say. I went through it in an instant and the loathesome realization struck me: I’m a ghost .

Ian sat at his desk, doing homework, his expression glum. “Can you hear me, Ian?” I asked. “We’ve always been close, you and I.”

He continued with his homework. I tried to stroke his hair; in vain, of course. I groaned with frustration. What was I to do? Yet I couldn’t force myself away either. Ann’s grief held me.

I was trapped.

I turned away from Ian and left his room. Several yards along the hall, I walked through the closed door of Marie’s room. Now I felt repulsive to myself. Passing through doors seemed like a distasteful party trick to me.

Marie was sitting at her desk, writing a letter. I moved there and stood looking at her. She’s such a lovely girl, Robert, tall and blonde and graceful. Talented too; a beautiful singing voice and definite presence on a stage. She’d been working very hard at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, intent on a theatrical career. I’d always had confidence in her future. It’s a difficult profession but she’s persistent. I’d always planned to make some contacts in the business for her after she was finished with her training. Now I’d never be able to do that. It was one more regret.

After a while, I looked at what she was writing.

We never saw a lot of one another. I mean just the two of us, especially in the last few years. My fault, not his. He tried to get us together-for a day, an evening. He and Ian spent days together, playing golf, going to ballgames, movies. He and Richard spent time together, eating out and talking for hours, getting to know each other. Richard wants to write too and Dad was always helpful and supportive to him .

I only went out with him a few times. Always to something I wanted-a play, a film, a concert. We’d have dinner beforehand and talk. It was always enjoyable but there was never enough of it, I see now .

Still, I always felt close to him, Wendy. He always took good care of me, was always tolerant and understanding. He took my teasing with good grace and had a wonderful sense of humor. I know he loved me. Sometimes, he’d put his arms around me and tell me directly, tell me that he had great faith in my future. I sent him notes and told him he was the “best Daddy” in the world and I loved him-but I wish I’d told him in person more .

If only I could see him now. Tell him: Daddy thank you for all-

She stopped and rubbed her eyes as tears dripped on the letter. “I’m going to ruin it,” she mumbled.

“Oh, Marie.” I put my hand on her head. If only I could feel it, I thought. If only she could feel my touch and know my love for her.

She began to write again.

Sorry, had to stop to wipe my eyes. I may have to do that several times before I finish this letter .

I’m thinking about Mom now. Dad meant so much to her; she meant so much to him. They had a wonderful relationship, Wendy. I don’t think I ever really spoke of it to you before. They were completely devoted to each other. Except for us children, they seemed to have need for no one but each other. Not that they didn’t see people. People liked them and wanted to see them, you know that; they were great friends with your Mom and Dad. But togetherness meant more to them than anything .

It’s funny. I’ve talked to lots of kids and almost all of them have trouble visualizing-even conceiving of-their parents making love. I suppose that feeling is universal .

It was never any trouble visualizing Mom and Dad. Often, we’d see them standing together-in the kitchen, the family room, their bedroom, anywhere-holding each other closely, not speaking, like a pair of young lovers. Sometimes, they’d stand like that in the pool even. And, always when they sat together-whatever it was for, talking, watching television, anything-Mom would lean against Dad, he’d put his arm around her and her head would lie on his shoulder. They made such a sweet couple, Wendy. They-sorry, tears again .

Later. Another delay to dry my eyes. Anyway, it was easy to think of them making love. It seemed completely right. I remember all the times-after I became old enough to be conscious of it, of course-I’d hear their bedroom door shut quietly and hear the discreet click of the lock. I don’t know about Louise or Richard or Ian but it always made me smile .

Not that they never fought. They were real people, vulnerable and both had tempers. Dad helped Mom to let hers out, especially after her breakdown-and, oh, Wendy, all the years he supported her through that! He helped her to release her anger instead of keeping it bottled up: told her, if nothing else, to scream at the top of her lungs when she was driving along in her car. She did and once Katie got so frightened she almost had a heart attack; she was on the back seat and Mom had forgotten she was there when she screamed .

Even though they fought, their fighting never turned them against each other. It always ended with them embracing and kissing, smiling, laughing. They were like children sometimes, Wendy. There were times when I felt like the mother .

You know something else? I’ve never mentioned this to anyone before. I know Dad loved us and Mom loves us. But there was always this “something” between them, this special rapport we could never touch. Something precious. Something beyond words .

Not that we suffered from it. We were never “left out” or anything. They never deprived us of anything, always gave us love and support in everything we tried or wanted .

Still, there was this strange element in their relationship which kept them a unit of two during all those years when the family was a unit of three to six. Maybe it doesn’t make sense but it’s true. I can’t explain it. I only hope I have the same thing in my marriage. Whatever it is, I hope you have it in yours .

Proof of what I say is that I started this letter talking about Dad but ended up talking about Mom and Dad. Because it’s impossible for me to talk about him without talking about her as well. They go together. That’s the trouble. I just can’t visualize her without him. It’s as though something complete has been separated and neither half is right now. As though-

I started as I realized something.

For about a quarter of a page of her letter, I’d been picking up her words before she wrote them .

The idea came abruptly.

Marie, I thought. Write what I tell you. Write these words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist .

I fixed my gaze on her and kept repeating the words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist . Again and again, directing them to Marie’s mind as she wrote. Write them down, I told her. I repeated the words I wanted her to write. Write them down . I repeated the words. Write them down . Repeated the words. Write . Repeated. Write , repeated. A dozen times, then more and more. Write: Ann this is Chris. I still exist .