In a Sea of Strangers – Prologue

PROLOGUE

 “It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.” – Virginia Woolf

 “A dream is an answer to a question we haven’t yet learned how to ask.” – Fox Mulder, X-Files

I stood at the back door gazing into the darkness. A million blades of dewy grass sparkled silver, like a blanket made of stars. The full moon had begun its descent in the early morning hour, but still gave off so much light that I could see almost as well as if it had been daytime. Inside, the house was cool and silent.

I stood at the back door, my nightgown (one of my dad’s old t-shirts) hanging down below my ankles. My bare feet sunk into the knotted cotton rug just inside the door. It was soft beneath my toes. Across the yard, our red Chevy Blazer was parked under the carport that stood to the left of the garage. In front of it sat two wooden deck chairs. At one time, the chairs were painted a dark reddish-brown, but the sun and the rain had wore them down and chipped away the varnish to a dull dirt color.

There, in the moonlight, I first saw her.

She was dressed all in white—the fabric loose and flowing, the bottom of it skimming just above the ground. Her blonde hair shone under the bright August moon, falling just below her shoulders. From that distance, in the darkness, I could not clearly see her face.

As she walked, she seemed to be studying the ground around her feet, gliding slowly through the half-light. A restless apparition. When she reached the first chair, she ran her fingers along its arm. Then, I watched as she bent down and looked beneath it, her cheek just inches from the pavement.

What is she doing? I wondered.

I pressed my nose to the cool glass window while she continued on her way, her eyes still roaming over the ground as she walked. Every now and then, she would pause and turn to look behind her, as if expecting someone else to be there. When she reached the second chair and stopped to look beneath it, the thought erupted in my brain. I heard it, as if I had actually spoken it aloud.

My mother is looking for me.

I reached for the lock on the door and turned the deadbolt with a snap.

I tried desperately to call out to her, “Mom! Mom, I’m here!” but my jaws seemed welded shut. No sound could escape.

I was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of urgent desperation. I fumbled with the handle of the screen door, my clumsy four-year-old fingers unable to release the stubborn latch. Clutching it with both hands, I squeezed with all my might, grinding my teeth together in panic. Suddenly, there was a loud click, and the door popped open.

I could see her turn and walk away from me.

My heart thumped wildly in my chest and I struggled to take even the smallest breath. I still could not speak, though in my mind, I was screaming.

I stepped into the still August morning. There was not a sound, not even a whisper as the world slumbered. The pavement was rough and cool beneath my feet.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed me firmly by the shoulder and spun me around.

“Lori, honey, what are you doing?”

I stared at my mom’s face, blinking in confusion. Her old bathrobe was tied hastily over her blue cotton nightgown. Her short brown hair stood crazily on her head where she slept. Behind her round glasses, her eyes looked worried and tired.

“Come on,” she said, ushering me back inside and locking the door behind us. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

I turned and looked out the window, but the woman I saw was gone.

Mom tucked me back into bed and kissed my forehead. On the bunk above me, Lindy rolled over with a sigh.

“Good night, sweetheart,” Mom said. She turned out the light and retreated to her bedroom where Dad snored loudly.

Lying in the darkness, hot tears burned my eyes as the thought played itself over and over in my mind. She’s gone. My mother is gone.

* * *

I thought about that night often over the years, initially fascinated by the fact that I was sleepwalking. The journey from my bedroom to the back door, where I first remember standing, was no small feat. To get there, I had to get out of bed and leave my bedroom without stepping on any of the toys Lindy and I often left lying on the floor. Then, I had to walk through the living room, passing my parents’ open bedroom door. Mom was always a light sleeper and our dog Tu-tu, who slept at the foot of Mom and Dad’s bed, was a virtual motion detector, growling and barking at even the slightest of noises.

Next, I had to weave my way through the kitchen to the back porch. The door itself where I first remember standing was down several stairs on a landing that turned 90 degrees to the left, and led down more stairs into the basement. How I made it to the door without waking myself or anyone else is a miracle. Later Mom told me that the only reason she woke up and found me when she did was that Tu-tu started to bark when I opened the door.

The dream itself would not capture my attention until later. It wasn’t until I finally learned I was adopted that the contents of the dream took on significance. I thought it was strange that I remembered it all so clearly when I had not even celebrated my fifth birthday. Ultimately, I assumed I remembered it because I awoke from it so suddenly, my mind able to recall the details because they were new and fresh. Later, after being told I was adopted, I began to wonder if the dream was my subconscious mind acknowledging a truth my conscious mind was unaware of.

Still, I was puzzled. How could this woman in my dream possibly be my mother? I had never even seen her, at least not that I could remember. And why on earth would I dream that my mother had blonde hair? My dark hair and skin tone were the most striking features that set me apart from my adopted relatives, always making me feel out of place. There was even a point during my childhood that my sister and my cousins, Tonya and Shelly, refused to let me join in any of their secret games because I did not have the same flaxen blonde hair they did.

Chalking it up to a mistake made by my dreaming mind, I did not think much more about it, until November of 2002, when Momma Dawn contacted me for the first time and emailed me some photographs. My stomach churned with nervous anticipation as I opened the email and waited for the photographs to load on my computer screen. My jaw dropped, and my breath caught in my throat when I saw her that first time. I stared at the photographs, mesmerized by the long blonde hair, falling just below her shoulders.