Chapter One

By the time I was fourteen I had spent most of my days sitting under the lonely tree. When the dreams began it became a haven for me; a place to be alone, escape the hell I called home, and better hide my secret.

August 29, 1937 was no exception. I squeezed my old leather backpack out from the hollow trunk and sat down at the base of the lonely tree, like I had done nearly every day over the past eight years. My backpack was like the heart of the lonely tree, and it kept growing. I now had forty six diaries. But the first one held a special place in my heart, and like the hollow trunk of the lonely tree, the more I dreamt, the more my heart filled. I remembered the first dream perfectly. I remember them all perfectly, but the first one was particularly meaningful. It was the first entry in the diary I traded for a silver button, and the basis for every entry after that. It was where I met the people who would eventually play a large and important role in my life. Something that no one else could see, but me.

Once I began high school the teasing subsided, but it didn't quite stop. No matter what, I was teased for something. If it wasn't an old story about my "imaginary friends", then they teased me for being the loner they forced me to be. Since I had very few friends, I spent most of my time at school alone, reading, so it didn't take long for me to realize that I could read a book one time and practically have it memorized word for word. It was stored in my memory like a picture show that I could play back at any moment, just like my dreams, just like everything. This gift made school much easier for me, but then, of course, I was teased for being smart.

Throughout my schooling in my hometown of Buckhannon, West Virginia, there was only one classmate who never teased me: Howard Flynn. That August morning I waited for him at the lonely tree like I did nearly every morning. I found a particular comfort at the lonely tree, a comfort that took me back to the summer before Howard and I began second grade, the summer we found the treasures, and the summer my dreams began. Coming to the tree felt like a different world while I was there, under the cloak of its leaves, as if it turned me invisible for just a short while while my thoughts and memories took me away.

I dug to the bottom of my backpack, and a smile spread across my face when my hand touched the small silver box. It never failed to amaze me no matter how many times I looked at it. I set the photographs out in front of me.

"It's been, what, ten years, and you're still looking at those photographs?" Howard said, startling me. He was walking up to the lonely tree holding that same old metal lunch pail. Except he was now much taller, and the lunch pail looked miniature next to his large hands.

"You said I'd be here forever, I guess you were right," I teased, as he handed me the metal lunch pail. I took it and opened it out of habit.

"You know you don't have to bring me breakfast anymore, I'm capable of cooking now that I'm old enough," I joked.

He paused, and I thought for a moment that I may have offended him.

But he smiled my favorite smile, the kind that reaches your eyes and means more than words ever could.

"I know," he finally said, "but I want to. It's kind of habit, you know, I'd feel strange if I left the house without it."

I kept my face towards the photographs while I blushed, hoping he wouldn't see. There were very few days that Howard didn't bring me breakfast, and even through the teasing and ridicule, it was nice to know that he did it because he wanted to, not because he felt bad.

So I ate his mother's famous biscuits and gravy, which somehow managed to get better each day. He sat down cross-legged next to me and picked up the photographs one by one while he waited, and looked at them closely.

"Do you think they're still alive?" he asked.

I shrugged. I hadn't thought about it. He picked up one of the photographs and studied it closer than the rest.

"This girl looks like you," he said, "like an older you."

He handed the photograph to me. It was of the girl, maybe twenty or so, posing alone against a background of dark foliage. She wore a pin on her collar, the same pin that was in the silver box.

I could see what Howard meant, she did sort of look like me, and sometimes when I put that same pin on my own dress, I felt like her. Beautiful and happy.

"And that looks like you!" I teased, pointing to photograph of the young man who posed with her in the third photo.

"Maybe they were like us," he said. "Maybe they were best friends."

I smiled. "Maybe."

Howard cleared his throat. "Well, since you've got forever to look at these photographs, can you spare some time to go fishin' with me?"

I thought about it for a second, but I had a new entry to write, a new dream to record.

"No, thanks," I said, "maybe next time."

Howard laughed, but I could tell he was disappointed.

"You've been saying that for years, Mollie, I'm starting to not believe you."

"I mean it," I said, "next time for sure."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Alright, then," he said, as he started to walk away slowly, giving me a chance to change my mind.

Once he realized I wasn't going to, he turned around and reminded me that I could meet him at his house for lunch at high noon, as if I would forget.

I pulled out my newest journal, and very much like the first one, it had the word Diary impressed on the cover in gold lettering, with the year 1937. All of the diaries were similar in this way, except this year the cover was a dark blue. Every year the color was slightly different, but the cover meant very little to me, it was the content of their pages that was most colorful.

Even though it said it on the front of each of them, I never liked the term diary when it came to writing down my dreams, because it suggested that I write down my deepest secrets or most fragile thoughts and feelings, but I wasn't writing about me at all. I wrote things as I dreamt them, and any thoughts and feelings were through the eyes of another girl, a girl that everyone in my dreams called Emeline.

I dreamt every night and wrote down my dream every morning. When I recalled them in order they become a story of a girl with a life much like mine, except the girl in the dream was happy. She had everything I wished I had; a loving mother, father, brother, and loyal friends. Just those simple things made her life worth living, and during my sleep I got to be in her shoes and feel what it was like to be happy. But when I woke each morning, I was reminded that the happiness wasn't truly mine, and all I wanted was to meet this girl that people called Emeline and tell her just how lucky she was.

Sitting at the tree and writing my dreams down brought back that happiness, even if just for a few minutes. I had more people in my dream life than I did in my real life. Part of that fact made me sad on the days that I sat in school, daydreaming about dreaming, wishing it were nightfall. Then the dreams came and the sadness left.

And then I met Ben.

I first met him in my dreams on the night of January 8, 1934, and dreamt about him ever since. I dreamt about him in the way that all the girls in town probably dreamt about Howard. I dreamt about us walking side by side, and that feeling you get when your arms touch. I dreamt about him bringing me flowers, and calling me sweetheart, and finally, holding my hand. On the days I had to record my dreams of Ben, nothing was more important, not even fishing with Howard.

August 29, 1937

The only thing that made walking home from school in the winter better was Ben. He made the cold a little warmer and the walk a little shorter. This winter afternoon he met me at the front of the schoolhouse later than usual, and our other friends had already gone home. But I waited for Ben because I knew he would wait for me. He finally showed when I was all alone on the front steps.

"There you are!" I said.

"Sorry. I...I had to talk to Mrs. Hinkle...about something," he mumbled.

"It's okay," I said, "But we better get home before the snow starts again."

And we started off on our nearly two mile walk in the thick snow, and neither of us spoke a word for the first mile.

"Is everything alright?" I finally asked.

"Are you cold?" he answered right away, as if he hadn't even heard my question at all.

"Well, yes, I'm cold," I said, laughing, "it's the dead of winter."

But Ben wasn't laughing. His face was pale and serious.

"Ben, are you alright?"

He cleared his throat and swallowed nervously. I had never seen Ben like this before. He stopped and turned to me, staring me right in the eyes. And slowly he reached his left hand out and took mine, his eyes blinking, asking permission. I squeezed his hand in response, telling him it was fine. It was more than fine, actually, it was exactly what I wanted. He finally smiled and I could see him relax.

We walked the next mile hand in hand, keeping warm by the heat of each others hands and our blushing faces.

As I looked up from my journal, I could tell that I was blushing, too. But the lonely tree kept all my secrets. I sat there with my eyes closed and I could feel it all over again, that feeling that Emeline felt towards Ben. And it made me think of Howard, like it always did. Howard was my Ben, but he didn't know it, and I wasn't sure he ever would.

I arrived at the Flynn's at high noon, just like I said I would, just like I had everyday so far that summer and the summers past. Howard always acted surprised to see me, but I hadn't ever missed a lunch. I joined him, his older brother Ray, his younger sister Cecelia, and his mother and father for Mrs. Flynn's chicken soup in a bowl of bread. If there was any real life family that I could compare to the family in my dreams, it was The Flynn's, and they meant more to me that I could ever express. Thanks to my mother taking me to Weston when I was seven, there wasn't a soul in Buckhannon that didn't know about my "imaginary friends". But they all knew the version of the story that Mrs. Kettering told them. They believed the story that my parents had no choice but to seek help from doctors to fix me. The Flynns were the only ones who looked past that. They still treated me like a normal human being, not like a sick person. They were the only ones.

After lunch, Howard and I spent a couple hours gathering supplies from the farm for supper, and his mother cooked while Howard and I read to Cecelia. Just like every night, we gathered on the porch after supper and the entire Flynn family played music. Howard played the guitar and his father played the banjo, while Ray played the fiddle and Mrs. Flynn shook the tambourine. Cece would give her best attempt at the harmonica, but usually she and I would flatfoot dance until dusk was upon us and our feet were covered in dust. I would always see Howard watching us dance and admiring the sunset on the horizon, and just before it dipped below the trees he walked me home.

Howard's friendship brought me the only happiness I had ever known that wasn't a dream. Naturally my mother objected to such things; me being happy, that is. What truly bothered her was that his family liked me, heaven forbid. Not to mention the Flynn family's line of work: hard, physical labor was very low on the societal hierarchy according to my mother, who earned her riches by being married to the son of a crooked, yet rich, politician. Part of me wanted to build a stronger relationship with Howard just to spite her, but eventually I realized I wanted that relationship because I truly felt something for him. But everything I knew of love I learned from my dreams, and I wasn't even sure I was capable of loving someone in real life, I wasn't quite sure how. I knew what it felt like through the eyes of Emeline, but that was easy because Ben loved her back.

That night when I went home I was offered supper for the first time in months, but I was already full from supper at Howard's. After I was upstairs and in bed, I could hear my mother in the kitchen complaining about how ungrateful I was. That was the thing about our house; sure, it was big, and quite beautiful compared to the other houses on that never ending gravel road, but the walls were thin and I could hear everything. I can't remember a time that anything good passed through my mother's lips about her only daughter, and I could count on one hand the number of times my father even uttered my name.

The time between crawling in bed and falling asleep was full of things I didn't want to hear. But that night I heard a tap at the front door and my mother let someone in, and I just couldn't help but listen. They kept their voices low but I heard every word.

"Hello, Peg," a woman's voice said in a pitiful attempt at a whisper, and just by those two words I could tell by her high pitched tone that it was Mrs. Kettering. I had only seen the woman in passing since my dreams began, because I was no longer invited to church once word spread that I had visited a doctor about the imaginary people in my head. Despite Mrs. Ketterings attempt to keep me going, my mother said I was an embarrassment to the church for talking about people who didn't exist. But I didn't forget that it was she who spread the word around town about my visit to Weston when I was seven, and because of that, the thought of my mother socializing with Mrs. Kettering put a knot in my stomach. Most of the folks in Buckhannon were religious, but Mrs. Kettering topped them all. Her answer to every problem was, "There ain't nothin' a little holy water can't fix!" and recommended the church to heal all things. But my mother didn't take her advice before, and I hoped she hadn't changed her mind. I didn't know what my mother knew about holy water anyway. If I had to bet, I would be all-in that she was the devil herself.

"Have you gotten word from Elouise?" Mrs. Kettering asked.

"Well yes, I received a letter this morning," my mother said with a snarky tone, as if she should have already known.

"That's great, Peg! I've heard nothing but wonderful things about Elouise. This is great news! " Mrs. Kettering said enthusiastically.

My mother paused and I could hear her pacing the front room.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she finally said.

"It is great news, dear, I assure you. It's the better option," Mrs. Kettering said, lowering her voice even more, "You don't want everyone to think she's crazy now, do you? Gifted. Gifted is what you want them to think."

By this time I was as close to my closed bedroom door as I could possibly get. I desperately wanted to know who Elouise was and why my mother was receiving a letter from her. I wanted to know what Mrs. Kettering meant by better option. And almost more so, I wanted to know what the worse option would have been. But most importantly I wanted to know why Mrs. Kettering knew anything about either of them.

"I know, I know!" My mother said sternly, "I know what I want them to think. I just wish it wasn't there. Then no one would have to think anything at all."

If there was anything my mother and I could agree on, it was that: I wished I wasn't there either.

That night I barely slept, and because of that I barely dreamt. My stomach was in knots as I tossed and turned, and their conversation haunted me as I replayed it in my head, trying to decipher its meaning.