I often dream about myself barefoot, all dressed up, wearing lipstick, and blush walking in the streets. While wandering in the streets, I suddenly realize I’m not wearing my shoes and I am embarrassed. Then I spend my mornings trying to decode my dreams over coffee.

My mom fixes her gown, lights a cigarette, and sits in a chair. She didn’t say good morning. She knows today is no different than yesterday.

“Quit sucking on that trashy thing.”

She doesn’t hear. The smoke stretches like curtain between us. Her eyes become two distinct lines as she inhales the smoke. She gets up to pour herself tea, shaking off the ash on her cigarette into a plate. She finally talks as she rubs her forehead. She doesn’t look at me, so I’d like to assume she is talking to the cupboard.

“I didn’t have any sleep, again. My head is about to explode.”

I decide to tell her about my dream. I told her about the same dream yesterday and the day before. It’s boring as if we are watching the same movie over and over. She doesn’t care. How long has it been since we listened to each other’s dreams? I try to recall. Since he left. Ten years. Her dull eyes look like they are trying to find an empty space to fill in.

“We drank a lot with the girls last night.”

Who she refers as girls are a group of divorcees in their fifties who had been hushed with money by their ex-husbands, meeting each other on the common ground of loss. They meet at the tavern two blocks down to play poker and drink. Their assumptive, tough masks fade away as the alcohol in their blood increases.

She doesn’t look at my face because I look like him. When she talks to me, she looks at the carpet, the walls, everywhere else but me. I’m happy that I don’t look like her.

I hear the women in the living room whisper the other day. You know, they try to speak in a low voice, to prevent me from hearing, yet they stress every word so I can hear what they are saying.

“Home wreckers don’t end up having homes.”

“He’s been creeping for ten years.”

“He is incorrigible.”

“He is divorcing his present wife, too. She had an abortion.”

My mom tries to look careless, sitting up in her chair on the corner. A dark smile that she tries to hide on her lips. Her eyes burn up, fixed at the wall. I can hear her say “Great, I hope he dies,” inside.

“Drop it,” she says instead reaching for the cup of tea, and sipping, “Let’s talk about something else.”

She sees them off at night. I can hear her talking to herself in the hallway.

“I’ll do the dishes in the morning. I’m worn out from baking cookies and serving tea all day.”

She seems like she is talking to herself again. I clean my throat to remind her of my being and sit in the chair across from her.

“I had a dream last night.”

I tell her about my dream. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t get surprised or want to hear more about it. She looks at the flowerpots next to her chair for a while and talks to the monstera while reaching out to peel off the dying tip on one of the leaves.

“Take a week off from work. Change of place will be good for you.”

I don’t know if she really thinks it’ll be good or she is trying to send me away, but I do what she says. My aunt owns a farm in the country. Her husband talks about the wild duck hunt we will go on and how the mulberries are ripe at this time of the year on the phone. I think they talked to mom. They also say the change of place will be good for me. They all seem to agree that I’m sick. But I’m not. Or am I? I don’t know. The stains from yesterday’s rain are still on the window. The bus rocks like a crib as I lean my head againist the window with rain stains, and my eyelids feel heavier. I try to visualize the ducks and other farm animals and the trees. I’m floating naked in an endless sea in my dream. I smell the seaweed and the sun covers me like a blanket. I’m not embarrassed of being barefoot. Wait, I don’t have feet! I can’t swim. The turquoise turns into a muddy brown. The bus wakes me up entering a sharp bend. Auntie’s farm is in walking distance from where the bus drops me off. Her husband greets me first at the doorstep followed by my aunt who comes out after him. The constrained hospitality and affection. They started building this house years ago planning on their retirement. When I take the path among the corn and wheat fields for about a hundred meters I reach the lake. Uncle in law got a small boat for fishing and duck hunting. On some days, we hide in the reeds for hours as he blows a whistle that makes duck sounds. He points the barrel of his riffle towards the dark spots in the air. First shot is a miss. Every time he pulls the trigger the boat rocks. He laughs. 

“Relax. Nothing will happen when I’m here.”

He puts his big hairy hand on my knee and smiles. His teeth are yellow from smoking.

“I could be your father. You can trust me.”

He moves his hand up to my thighs. A shower of cold sweat runs down my spine.

“Can we go?”

His laughter resonates between the vast sky and the lake. He points the muzzle upwards again. Two cormorants fall down.

“Let’s go!”

His smile fades away as I hiccup in tears. He looks like a child whose playtime has been interrupted because his mother called for him to come home. I hear him and my aunt talk at night as I imagine her fingers plucking the feather on the birds he shot.

“It was predictable. A girl who grows up without a father ends up being either a whore or crazy like her.”

“Both the mother and daughter are losing it without men.”

The female voice pauses and carries on.

“I say we fix her up with Riza’s son. He is educated. Agricultural engineer. He works for the government. He is a little old but she shouldn’t be picky.”

The other voice approves in murmur.

“I talked to the sister. She said okay to it.”

I float naked on the water in my dream at night. Rear sight. Font sight. Trigger. Tomorrow, they will find a cormorant amongst the reeds.

 

*This story was first published in Varlik in Turkish.