There was something wrong with her. A sense of loss that had stunned her five years ago, and had stuck with her since. And there was no precise reason why.
Hence why she was on her back in her therapist’s office, trying to explain it again. The voice of her counselor came through, questioning her.
“Amanda, do you ever feel you are placing too much importance on your notions and fantasies that there is no one out there for you to love in the way you feel that you need to? You work with couples, help them arrange their perfect weddings. Do you think you place romantic love up on a pedestal? Don’t you feel that the fact that you never knew your mother and that your father was a war hero who died in the service is what troubles you? Or do you feel it’s something else?’
Amanda shifted on the couch, closing her eyes. There were birds as well as traffic outside the window. “I love what I do. I’ve become good enough at it that I can choose who I work with. I don’t accept couples who would marry out of convenience or money. My dad’s sister did the very best she could with me. I’ve always had a romantic nature. I was always…anxious to love someone. But I am happy with me. This isn’t some thing where I don’t love myself enough. I mean…”
She sighed. The therapist crossed his legs and coughed.
“Amanda… These sessions have to work for you. And I must tell you.” He cleared his throat. “You are a very beautiful, very successful woman. You would have no troubles finding a relationship. Tell me how you feel about love.”
Amanda opened her eyes and rocked her head from side to side. The skylight in the office made her feel exposed. She wished it was night. Sighing through her nose and splaying her fingers on the furniture’s cloth, she began again,
“I feel that love is taken for granted. That it deserves almost…worship in its own right. I mean, all the evil and all the violence in the world is a result of people who begin to value violence and bloodshed, who value money and power over the sheer, satisfying beauty of mutual love. I think it is a sin not to love.”
Her therapist was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Do you think that you sin? Or are blasphemous for not loving?”
“I…devote myself to making the days of others special. But I can’t get past the fact that I can’t…I haven’t managed to love anyone. Not the way I should. Not the way I was meant to. But I can’t force myself to accept the offers of someone just because. But at the same time…”
This was the worst moment. The awful moment when the tears burned her eyes and she fought for coherent thought.
I am a weak woman full of fantasies and notions that don’t fit in the real world. And I can’t handle it. I’m a dippy, needy cow. I want to be professional and strong. Not like…not like this. Not broken in a way I can’t describe.
But no therapist could get those words out of her.
She swallowed her tears and said in a trembling voice, “Look, for five years I just haven’t been right. I wish I’d known my mother. I wish my dad was still around. I want a husband and a family, but that just isn’t going to happen. Because I won’t accept just anyone. But I know I’ve got to move past it and accept that it might happen on its own. If I stop feeling like this.”
But it won’t. I know it won’t. Something is wrong. Something went wrong. But I don’t know what or who or where or why. And I can’t say that. It’s crazy.
“Amanda, I think our time is up now. I’ll see you next week.”
“Right.”
The ticking clock that had been in the background, unnoticed beside the birds and cars, had stopped.
Later, arriving back at Oxford Road Station where she could walk to her flat, she looked up at the still light sky, despite the fact that it was nine in the evening. The light irritated her. She longed for the oblivion of night.
With a cup of tea in hand, Amanda sat down and went through her meetings for next week. The things she would have to arrange for her clients. She’d have to visit St. Ann’s in town again.
Satisfied that all was in order, she took a sip of her hot drink.
I shouldn’t do this really. It’s like torture. But I can’t not think of him.
Amanda had a habit of cataloguing the specific details of her lover, even though there was never a full picture in her mind. Just flashes and sensations.
The exact way he would hold her hand. The pressure of his fingertips. The texture of his palm. The spot where his shoulder met his neck.
Their wedding day. Not a grand affair, but a simple one. Intimate and binding. That would have been her choice.
There were handsome men who pursued her. Men clever enough to see past her exterior. To see that she was a committing type. They pushed her. But no amount of looks or cleverness lured her beyond a certain point.
The feeling wasn’t there. They didn’t have his face. Their skin wasn’t the right temperature. The tenor of their voice wasn’t right. The rhythm of their breath was all wrong.
It was in this stream of thought that Amanda began to prepare for bed. By the time she got there, the sun had finally set.
“Thank goodness…” she said, slipping into her sheets and placing her hand over her mouth.
Amanda had begun to perspire in her sheets, turning her body in an attempt to get comfortable. She’d finally settled on her back, when a noise quickened her pulse.
There was the sound of fabric rustling. A smell of smoky incense. It made her think of exotic, older places. Hot earth and inky skies. For a moment, her bed was the warmest summery ground.
It was reminiscent of a summer holiday in Greece, where her auntie had taken her one year.
The warmth on her back was soothing. Drifting off, the sights and sounds outside and within her head began to blur.
Amanda turned her head and groaned. The heat of the ground materialized into a cloak. In her mind’s eye, blue-black cloth slid around her and held her still. Amanda opened her eyes.
Standing over her was a woman. The lady’s ebony hair blended with the midnight cloak that surrounded her.
“Well, well, well. No wonder I could feel your appreciation. It isn’t exactly worship, but I felt your admiration. Strong it was too. Sleep, dear one. And may the sweetest dreams comfort you.”
Then Amanda, immobile, watched the woman’s aquiline nose turn away. Her olive skin glowed, haloed by the moonlight outside the window. The lady addressed someone not in Amanda’s line of sight.
“Morpheus, leader of the Oneiroi, come. See what you can do here.”
A man appeared at the lady’s side. Young, with the swarthy handsome features of an Italian or Greek. The type popular with sunshine-starved British girls. Yet inside, Amanda began to panic. He looked down at her with interest.
What are they going to do to me? What’s this?
Fear welled up inside her, crowding her chest with paralyzing heaviness.
The midnight cloaked lady disappeared. Morpheus’ brows lowered over the black opal eyes continuing to study her. Waves of sedation washed over her. Her veins felt as though they were humming, buzzing with a substance other than blood. She was able see him, watch him.
I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake.
At this, the one called Morpheus’ mouth curved up like he’d heard her thought. His voice came through. Focused on her. Like a practiced hypnotist. Some sort of master of meditation.