Lost Potential

She woke up at the pink of morning when the clouds look like cotton candy mixed with marmalade. The woman quietly got out of bed, careful not to step on the squeaky floorboards. It gave her extreme pleasure whenever she could get up and not wake up any of the other light sleepers in the house. Today was a success.

            Wrapped up in a fake Japanese styled bathrobe, the woman made her way downstairs to start breakfast. When she made it to the kitchen, the light coming in through the blinds were more orange than pink. It reminded her that she needed to buy some tangerines next time she was at the grocery store. She took a rubber band that was lying on the counter and put up her bleached hair. Now, she was ready to make breakfast.

            She could never say she was a good cook. Most of the time, she’s get stuff in a can and put warm it up on the stove. But when it came to breakfast, nobody could beat her pancakes. She put the frying pan on the stove with a dollop of butter and let it warm up while she made the batter. The woman grabbed all the dry ingredients up and mixed them together. Then she placed a handful of blueberries (one of the few fresh ingredients she had), and poured the milk. Her arms were a blur as she mixed everything in with whirlwind strokes. By the time she got the batter to just the right consistency, the frying pan was hot and ready. Four perfectly round pancakes were made in no time, giving off a delicious aroma. Her mouth watered, tempting her to eat them right off the frying pan, but instead she put them on the plate and placed them in the oven to keep warm. She had more pancakes to make.

            This was never how she imagined her life to be like. She remembered the summers as a young girl where she would sneak out, drink, smoke, and dance to the best rock music around. In those dark sweaty holes where the bands would play, she could feel the electricity in the air, the beats pound in her soft flesh, and bodies everywhere pressed against hers. It was exciting, dangerous. She never even needed the drugs to make it so out of this world (though she did experiment with pot and such). She was a wild child; a white picket fence should be nothing more than a cage to her.

            Soft footsteps could be heard coming down the staircase. In through the kitchen door walked in a sleepy-eyed girl no more than six years old. Her hair was dark brown with honey colored highlights, just like the woman’s original hair color before she bleached it.

            “Good morning sweetheart!” The woman abandoned the pancakes to grab the girl up in her arms. The child giggled as her mother twirled in circles and planted kisses on the little girl’s face. Setting the child down on a chair at the counter, the mother gave her a plate full of still warm blueberry pancakes and syrup. The child hungrily began devouring her special breakfast. When she was done, she held up her plate, blueberry stains all over her mouth and asked, “Could I have some more, mommy?” It was her birthday after all. A few more pancakes wouldn’t hurt.

            This may have not been the life that the woman had dreamed of, but looking into those big blue eyes"she was happy. The life she had, the life she had created, filled her soul with more joy than anything concerts and late night wild parties could offer her. This was her life.

            And yet, this wasn’t the woman’s life. This wasn’t her daughter. In reality, the woman died; overdosed the first time she tried ecstasy at a concert. The potential life this woman could have had drifted away into nothingness.

 

            Miranda woke up to a gray overcast morning. Fumbling around in the dark, she found the light switch and turned it on. Before even putting on her bunny slippers, Miranda walked to her desk where an old leather bound journal lay. She turned the next available blank space and wrote down her dream. This wasn’t a bad dream at all. It was a happy life that the woman could have had if she hadn’t died. Sometimes Miranda would have nightmares where she woke up glad the person had died before experiencing so much pain and misery. Or worse, it was the person who became a monster and spread the pain around like butter. Miranda would rather pity those who could have had a good life and be glad that person was dead.

            After writing down as many details as she could remember; the girl’s hair, the blueberries, the fake Japanese bathrobe, Miranda put her pen down and took a deep breath. She knew she didn’t have to do this, these people wouldn’t mind. And yet, Miranda knew it was the only thing she could do for them. Honor the life they could have had. She knew that these people were real. They once lived and they died before any of these events could have happened.

            Miranda flipped back to the pages until she came to the very first entry.

 

            I’m sitting in the living room with my granddaughter.  She’s so beautiful, one day she’ll probably break boys’ hearts with those dark lashes and bright hazel eyes. But right now, those eyes are red with tears. She tells me that she had a nightmare. A young man became a father of twins and bought them matching pajamas with little panda bears on them. But then she told me that it never happened; the young man was hit by a car before he could see the birth of his children. And that’s why she’s crying.

            It hurts me to know that I passed this gift to her. I sit her down and dry her eyes. I tell her all about our shared gift, but I can’t tell her why we have it. All we can do is honor the lives that could have been.

            But this scene itself is a potential life, a dream I had just last night. But I can’t tell whose life this could have been. I pray to God that it’s mine and that I don’t have to see the death of my granddaughter. I want her to live a full life, even if she may have these dreams.

            My dear Miranda, if you are reading this, then I am happy.

Author's Note

Critiques are welcomed and appreciated!

Reviews

[bob, small b. aka invs]

i want to thank mark for sending me to read this. right now my brain is a bit addled trying to make sense of it, but the premise of a person having the gift of seeing potential lives is a fascinating one. i think maybe i'd like to see this expanded into a longer story or screenplay so that it's not as.... dense. if that makes sense. it reminded me a bit of the movie Inception. dreams within dreams within dreams. in all, it was an amazing little story. i look forward to reading more of your writing.

[Mark]

VERY convoluted and challenging! Let me see if I got it right, starting from the end. The actual protagonist, parenthetical, has had a dream of her own granddaughter as a grown woman, who has in turn dreamed of Pancake Lady and HER daughter who share the gift of prescience...or IS it a gift? There is great novel potential in this traipsing back and forth within and between various realities and protorealities. How came the Gift to them all, and was it intended as a blessing or a curse? Are the Dreams sentient, and aware of the Dreamers in their own way as well? So much meat, in such a brief tale!! I am going to RR this tale to several of my friends here, and Welcome To WC!!