Out of a Dream, into Mine ...An Impossible Tale
conspired to help me find you.
— Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist
This can't be happening, I was telling myself, but couldn't deny what I was seeing.
I was sitting with Jessica Skye, a 1930's screen actress and we were alone in her apartment. Outside the windows there stood plain evidence that I was somehow transported backwards in time, almost a hundred years.
Jessica felt my forehead to see if I were feverish. "I've never touched ectoplasm before— it feels just like flesh."
It was my turn to flare into anger. "I told you, I'm not a ghost. You are not a medium channeling some departed spirit. I'm alive and well and live in the 21st century."
"Well, hon, if that's the case, then what are you doing here with me?"
It was a very good question and I didn't have an answer, so I simply sat and glowered and wondered what the hell kind of mess I got myself into.
"Aha, so you see? You're caught." she exulted, "I belong here and you don't―that's the long and the short of it. So, what do you say now?"
"I think I need a drink," I groaned.
"So does half of America," she laughed. "We're in the midst of Prohibition, but lucky for you, I do have a mickey of rye."
She went to a cupboard, retrieved a small pocket flask and poured us each doubles.
"I suppose you don't have ice cubes?"
She looked at me as if I were new. "This isn't a bar, you know. I have an ice box―you're welcome to try to shave off some slivers from that 50 pound block in the top compartment."
"Oh my God," I groaned, "I suppose this was delivered by way of horse-drawn cart?"
"Of course not, silly. It was under a tarp on a stake truck. Only milk and bread are delivered by horse drawn wagons. We're not in the 19th century, you know."
"You're not that far removed," I grimaced, swallowing the room temperature rye.
The amber liquid lit a small fire in me and within minutes I was feeling mellow.
I glanced around the room trying to figure out what was left of hers and parts of the same apartment that were mine. The windows were the same and the fireplace was modernized and in its rightful place, but apart from that, nothing else remained.
I got up and began to browse. She had a fold-down writing desk against one wall and on it a poem she had been writing.
"What's this?" I asked.
She blushed and grabbed the sheet of paper from my hand. "You shouldn't pry into a woman's heart, Ryce."
"I'm sorry―it looked like a poem. I love your poetry but didn't recognize the words. Is it new?"
"It is, but it's not a poem but the lyrics to a song that's been going though my head so I decided to write it down."
"I'd still like to read it," I implored.
"You do that well―the way you use your crooked little smile to make women melt. Okay, if you must."
She handed me back the sheet, a bit crumpled now, but I put it on the desk and smoothed out the creases.
"Did you write this song for anyone in particular?" I called over my shoulder.
"For you, actually, when I first began seeing you."
I read the lyrics and my heart stopped. I knew the song from one of those Forties musicals that my landlady watched endlessly.
I want to take you away,
Away from the crowd,
And have you all to myself,
Alone and apart,
Out of a dream…
Safe in my heart.
I knew the song was never attributed to Jessica but someone else.
"Are you going to finish this?" I asked casually.
She shrugged. "I have no rules. It's more or less how the spirit moves me."
"It's good, Jess―it'll be a hit."
She gazed at me, lips apart. "What did you call me?"
"Jess―short for Jessica. Maybe, I shouldn't have presumed..."
"No, please do. That's what you always called me in my dream."