Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come

Turning onto my back, I closed my eyes and lay in the cool cradle of the water, beginning to think about the times Ann and the children and I had enjoyed our pool together. Every summer-especially on Sundays-we’d enjoy “family days” as Ian used to call them.

We had a slide and Ann and the children loved to come hurtling down it, crashing into the water. I smiled, remembering Ann’s hoot of half-scared delight as she shot down the curving decline, holding her nose, her legs and body arching out into space, landing in the water with an enormous splash, her bright face surfacing.

We had a floating volleyball net and played long games, lunging and splashing, laughing, shouting, kidding each other. Then Ann would bring out dishes of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of juice and we’d sit and talk, then, after a while, play volleyball and slide again, dive and swim for hours more. Later in the afternoon, I’d light the charcoal in the barbecue and grill chicken or hamburgers. Those were long and lovely afternoons and I remembered them with joy.

I recalled that Ann had been unable to swim for a long time after we were married. She was afraid of the water but, finally, braved enough swimming lessons to get herself started.

I remembered the time she and I were in the Deauville Club in Santa Monica; we’d been members for a while. It was Sunday afternoon and we were in the basement, in the huge, Olympicsized pool, Ann practicing.

It had been a terrible month for us. We’d almost gotten a divorce. Something to do with my career, Ann’s anxiety not permitting me to travel. I’d lost a sizeable screenwriting assignment in Germany and been more upset than I should have been. Financial insecurity had always been a dread to me; something from our past, Robert-Dad and Mom separating, the depression years. Anyway, I overreacted and Ann overreacted, telling me she wanted me to leave.

We actually went out one night to discuss the details of our separation. It seems incredible to me now. I remember the night vividly: some French restaurant in Sherman Oaks, the two of us sitting and eating dinner, both getting indigestion as we calmly sifted over the particulars of our divorce. Item: would we keep the house in Woodland Hills? Item: should we separate the children? Item: no, I can’t go on. Even as I transmit these words, I feel the crushing nausea of that evening.

We came so close; within a hair’s breadth. Or so it seemed. Maybe it had never been that close. It seemed inevitable at the time however. Until the penultimate moment. The moment past the calm discussion, the moment to actually separate, me packing clothes and driving off, leaving Ann behind. Then it collapsed. Literally, it was inconceivable to us; as though, by divorcing, we would voluntarily permit ourselves to be torn in half.

So this day at the Deauville was the first day after we had reconciled.

The pool seemed enormous because, except for us, it was unoccupied. Ann started across the width of it near the deep end. She’d done it several times already and I’d hugged her when she’d made it, congratulating her-no doubt ten times as effusively as I might ordinarily have done because of our reconciliation.

Now she was trying it again.

She was halfway across when she swallowed some water and started to choke and flounder. I was with her and grabbed her quickly. I had flippers attached to my feet and, by kicking hard, was able to keep us both afloat.

I felt her arms go tight around my neck and saw the expression of fear on her face. “It’s all right, honey,” I said. “I have you.” I was glad I had the flippers or I couldn’t have supported her.

Now memory went wrong again. I’d felt a bit uneasy at first but basically confident because I knew, somehow, that this had already happened, that I’d helped her to the side of the pool where she’d clung to the coping, frightened and breathless but safe.

This time it was different. I couldn’t get her there. She felt too heavy; my legs were unable to move us. She struggled more and more; began to cry. “Don’t let me sink, Chris, please.”

“I won’t, hang on,” I said. I pumped my legs as hard as I was able to but couldn’t keep us up. We both submerged, then bobbed up again. Ann cried out my name, her voice shrill with panic. We sank again and I saw her terrified face beneath the water, heard her cry out in my mind: Please don’t let me die! I knew she couldn’t speak the words but heard them clearly nonetheless.

I reached for her but the water was becoming murky now, I couldn’t see her clearly anymore. I felt her fingers clutch at mine, then slip away. I clawed at the water but couldn’t reach her. My heart began to pound. I tried to see her but the water was dark and cloudy Ann! I thought. I thrashed around in desperate anguish, feeling for her. I was there . That was the horror of it. I was really in that water, helpless and incapable, losing Ann again.

“HELLO!”

I raised my head abruptly, shaken from the dream. On shore, I saw a nimbus of light by Katie. Standing, I gazed at it until it faded and I saw a young woman standing there, wearing a pale blue robe.

I don’t know why I said it. Something about the way she stood, the color and shortness of her hair; the fact that Katie seemed so pleased to see her. “Ann?” I asked.

She was silent for moments, then replied, “Leona.”

My eyes saw then. Of course it wasn’t Ann. How could it be? I wondered, momentarily, whether Albert had sent this woman because she might remind me of Ann. I couldn’t believe he’d do that and decided that the thought was unjust. Anyway, she didn’t look like Ann, I saw now. The dream had made me see her as I’d hoped, not as she was.

I looked down at myself as I walked onto the beach. The water was flowing from my robe. It was dry before I reached the woman.

Straightening up from stroking Katie’s head, she extended her hand. “Albert sent me,” she said. Her smile was very sweet, her aura a steady blue, almost the color of her robe.

I gripped her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Leona,” I said. “I guess you know my name.”

She nodded. “You thought I was your wife,” she said.

“She was in my thoughts when you came,” I explained.

“A pleasant memory, I’m sure.”

“It was when it began,” I answered. “It soon became unpleasant though.” I shivered. “Terrifying really.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She took hold of my hands. “There’s nothing to be terrified of,” she assured me. “Your wife will join you before you know it.”

I felt a flow of energy from her, similar to that of the water. Of course the people would have it too, I realized. I must not have noticed when Albert took my hand-or else both hands had to be held for the flow of function.

“Thank you,” I said as she released her grip. I had to try and think more positively. I’d been told by two different people now that Ann and I would be together again. Surely, I could accept it.

I forced a smile. “Katie was happy to see you,” I said.

“Oh, yes, we’re good friends,” Leona replied.

I gestured toward the lake. “Quite an experience being in the water,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” As she spoke, I wondered, suddenly, where she’d come from and how long she’d been in Summerland.

“Michigan,” she told me. “Nineteen fifty-one. A fire.”

I smiled. “This reading of minds will take some getting used to,” I said.

“It isn’t really mind reading,” she responded. “We all have mental privacy, but certain thoughts are more accessible.” She gestured toward the countryside. “Would you like to walk some more?” she asked.