Is It Safe? Ch. 04

His slippers were by the side of the bed, left there by an optimist, which was what I struggled to be. They were inviting and I slid both feet into them. They were enormous compared with my feet and, as I gazed down at them in the half light, a long forgotten memory returned.

I was a kid, an infant of six, and was sliding along the grass in his size ten barges, looking like an uphill skier. I was trudging across the lawn as fast as my short legs could take me. Dad was chasing me with the tips of his toes barely encased in an old pair of Mum's high heels. He kept falling over as he tried to catch me and, every so often, I stopped and turned to laugh at him. I laughed so much, I wet myself and began to cry, expecting to be punished.

Of course, he wasn't angry. Instead he held me close, despite the dampness of my knickers fouling his shirt. He was my protector, forever my hero.

I studied his features in the pale glow of the night light. My poor, helpless hero. Where are you now?

I tasted the salt tears in the corner of my mouth and, without warning, I was sobbing out of control. The cries I'd managed to fight back were too powerful and they exploded from me. I collapsed on the bed and, alongside his inert body, pulled myself close.

I stayed with him as I wept.

I must have dozed.

There was a hand on my back. It was the nurse. "Are you alright, Sam?"

I sniffed.

"Do you need more time? I can come back."

I forced a smile. "No, I'm fine. Thanks. I'll go to my own room." I pulled myself to my feet.

"He's going to be alright," she soothed, as she heeded my swollen eyes. "He's healthy. You shouldn't worry."

I sighed. "I know. I'll try."

With care, I replaced the slippers in the exact spot. Ready for his return.

----

Monaco

I opened my eyes and half expected to hear Sonny and Cher singing I Got You Babe, as they greeted another Groundhog Day. In the film, the daily events never changed and, although I was grateful I didn't have that problem, each morning I retained the recurring riddle of Monté-Carlo.

From my balcony, the calm coolness of the day should have been a pleasure, but I'd had enough. I wanted my home.

An early morning yacht was skippered out of the harbour. All of this was for me - everything, my own creation. It was my third day and any lingering doubts disappeared - this was a permanent dream. If I pushed credibility to its limit, I could accept two days in Monaco as a coincidence. Three was not plausible.

That morning there was to be no more messing around. I was determined to leave. I returned to my bedroom and lay in bed, as I attempted to terminate the dream. I used a mix of logic and will power. I thought of every possible reason not to be there, mentally listed every incentive to be home and used them as the impetus to force my way out. Each stage of the thought process was undertaken with my eyes firmly shut as I cajoled myself into a state of meditation. I'd learnt that was a method to enter a lucid dream, so why not leave in the same way? I resolved to be in England, but on each occasion when I flashed open my eyes, the silence of the room sneered at my failure.

I broke for lunch, and afterwards, I began again. Mid-afternoon, I abandoned the effort, dressed and wandered through the town. I was depressed and my hope was to find the consolation of Giselle, although I knew it was useless. It was rare for dream girls to visit more than once and, true to form, I never saw her again. My subconscious created and destroyed her.

Late evening, I lay in bed and resolved that the next morning I would wake in the UK. I recapped on the reasons to leave, the ones I'd worked out that morning. I was close to sleep when a desire akin to obsessive compulsive behaviour compelled me to jump out of bed. I checked my hair in the mirror. It remained blond! My eyes? Still blue!