Chapter Four

The Sunday morning after my birthday I woke up with a knot the size of a marble on the crown of my head. It was my mother's real birthday gift. It wasn't the size of a small marble, but the big one, the special marble that everyone at school had their own of. But not me, I hated marbles. I had too many of my own. The spot was throbbing, but it was a pain I was familiar with. My mother would be in shortly to see if it was noticeable, and if it was she would tie my hair up right over the marble, and it was sure to throb all day.

That morning I was distracted from the pain because that night I dreamt the strangest dream. I was used to dreams that were incomprehensible by the time I woke up. They were cryptic and incomplete, and often times scary without me even understanding why.

But this dream was different.

Not only was it a pleasant dream, but I remembered it clearly, so much that I thought maybe it wasn't a dream at all. I looked around for any hints that the dream had taken place for real, right there in my bedroom, but much to my disappointment I saw nothing. That night of sleep made me so happy that I wanted to remember the dream forever, but I was worried that it would fade like any other. I was worried it would be vivid for only that minute after I woke, but then it would start to disappear and soon I wouldn't remember even a tiny bit of it. I crawled out of bed and went to the dresser mirror while concentrating to hold the dream in my head, afraid that if my brain thought of anything else, for even a second, that the dream would slip right out like water through my fingers.

I used the ivory comb that sat on my dresser to untangle my hair, avoiding the marble the best I could, while repeating important parts of my dream so I wouldn't forget them. And I didn't forget them, in fact, I remembered every second of it, just like I remembered the play that the church put on last Christmas. I could just close my eyes and there it was. But just like the buttons, the silver box, the jewelry, the photographs, and all the other treasures we found, I wanted to hold it in my hands. I remembered Samuel Wiltse offering to trade a couple sodas for one of the buttons, and I wondered if that offer still stood. Except I didn't want a soda, I wanted something to write on, something to keep my dream safe. So I changed into one of the few dresses that I owned, put on my only pair of shoes, and headed for the lonely tree to retrieve the only currency I had to my name.

They were still there; my backpack and the treasures. I was so proud of my hiding spot that I had a smile on my face all the way to Wiltse's. I pulled out one button while I was still at the lonely tree, and I held it so tight in my hand that my knuckles were stiff when I opened the door.

Sam was behind the counter reading a newspaper when I walked in. He peeked over the top and said his well-worn line, "Soda for breakfast?", like he always did to anyone who came in before noon.

"No, Sir," I said, making my way towards the section of his shop that had general goods.

"A malt, then? A sundae?" He said, but I just smiled at him and shook my head.

When he realized I wasn't interested in breakfast, he went back to reading his newspaper, and I walked in circles until I finally found what I wanted. It was all by itself on the long shelf, a small red book that said Diary 1929 on the cover in black writing. It was exactly what I needed. I took it to the counter, and reached up as far as I could to set it next to the cash register.

Samuel looked down at me and said, "That'll be ten cents, kid."

I reached up again, this time leaving one silver button on the edge of the counter.

His eyebrows raised, and he said, "That'll do."

He came around from the back of the counter and handed me the diary, and I was in awe. It was another thing I could finally call my own. As I turned to leave, Sam stopped me.

"Mollie," he said calmly, and I turned around.

He handed me a pencil. "And how about a soda for the road?"

"Okay," I said, and he fixed me a cherry soda.

I struggled all the way back to the lonely tree, trying to hold the diary, the pencil, and a glass full of soda that I had to be sure to return to Samuel. But it was worth it.

I sat down in the shade of the lonely tree and opened the cover of the diary. It started with January 1, but that was long past. Maybe Samuel gave me the pencil and the soda because he felt bad selling me a diary that was over half useless, or maybe that button was worth more than just a diary. Either way, I had a diary and twenty-two more buttons, so I think I got the better end of the trade. I had to get used to the pencil in my hand, as we hadn't done much writing in school yet, but it came as easy as the dream, like I had done it before. I wrote in shaky script on the inside cover, This diary belongs to Mollie Mae Cutright. I scribbled out January 1 on the first page and wrote September 16, 1929, and wrote down my dream as quickly as I could.

At first I thought she was an angel. Her long hair wrapped around my shoulders like a blanket when she hugged me, and I felt loved for the first time. Her skin was fair and her eyes were light, but what I noticed first was her hair. It was the same vibrant red as mine, but she made it beautiful. I sat at a worn wooden table, on a chair atop a stack of books. A handsome man of the same age as the angel, walked in and placed a small cake in front of me, from which stood five lit candles. The angel whispered to me, "Happy birthday, sweet girl," and blew out the flame of one candle. I made my best attempt to blow out the flames of the remaining candles, with help from the man and the angel. Then she handed me two gifts wrapped in newspaper. One was wide and flat, the other was small and rectangular. They helped me open the gifts, which revealed a book of pictures and a box of crayons. I enjoyed my moment of happiness until I woke up.

The dream was a stunning snippet of vivid realism, and if anyone else could have witnessed it, they too would have had a hard time separating it from reality. When I went back to my bedroom later that day, I checked again for any evidence of the dream. It had seemed so real that I was sure I would find torn newspaper, the box of crayons or the coloring book under my bed. I even checked the ceiling to make sure the table and cake and everything else hadn't just dropped from the sky like the set of a play. I wanted to find them. I wanted it to be real.

And the next night I dreamt again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And for the first time ever, I looked forward to going to bed.

The dreams remained consistent. Every night I would dream and every night was a continuation of the previous night's dream. But at a mere seven years old the dreams and reality became a confusing blend. I didn't have friends named Marjorie or Eleanor or Henry or Victor - not in my real life anyway, and once the rumor of my "imaginary friends" spread, it didn't take long for things to change.