To See Through a Glass Darkly

Chapter 13

Sasha dozes off to find himself dreaming dreams of what he's lost and what he's gaining.

The scoreboard indicated 3-3 at the top of the seventh inning. My buddy Tom would lead off at the plate and our friend Bill was on deck. I would bat third that inning.

"Ball one..."

"Ball two..."

"Strike one!..."

Tom hit a low line drive sharply down the third base line...

"Fair ball!"

Tom was on base with a single.

Bill, a left-hander, moved to the batter's box and I made my way to the on deck circle.

Tom and Bill had been practicing the hit-and-run and were getting good at it. So, I was not surprised when Jeff, the third base coach, signaled the hit-and-run. Against their right-handed pitcher, this had a reasonable chance of success.

"Strike one!..."

"Ball one..."

With the next wind-up, Tom sprinted down the baseline toward second and the shortstop moved to cover the bag. Bill whacked another low line drive that bounced once through the vacant position left by the shortstop. The centerfielder was to the ball as quickly as he could get there, but Tom and Bill were already safe.

I was up to bat next and took my position on the third-base side of the batter's box.

The first-base coach, Jim, signaled to both me and the third-base coach. Jeff signaled to Tom at second base. Jim needed something special. I was never a long-ball hitter, but I could be very quick. I signaled to Jim that I was ready to bunt. He agreed and passed signals over to Jeff and Bill. Jeff signaled Tom again. Jim signaled for me to take one strike.

"Ball one..."

"Ball two..."

"Strike one!..."

That was the green light. Tom and Bill were already running with the wind-up; the pitch was a low and outside fast ball that I bunted to the perfect infield spot for indecision: equidistant to home plate, first base, and the pitcher's mound. The catcher fielded the ball and looked at me on first, Bill on second, and Tom on third.

Bases loaded. No outs.

Next, our clean-up hitter, Gordie, was up. Batting left, he's a big guy and easily slams the long ball off right-handers. I glanced over at the Home team's bull-pen. They only had relief pitchers starting to warm up now? That was not very smart, not at at all!

"Ball one..."

"Ball two..."

"Ball three..."

"Strike one!..." on a fast ball, down the middle.

The next pitch was a poorly thrown curve ball. Gordie slammed it out of the park.

I awoke suddenly and felt myself relax. Gordie's grand slam, I guessed, had aroused me from my nap. Even though I hadn't turned my conscious thoughts to the baseball season yet, it would be starting up soon. So, here I am thinking about baseball while sitting on the sofa wearing my sister's dress. As pleasant as my sister's clothes felt, as much fun as I had wearing them that morning, I was still a boy. Not surprising that I had dreamed of baseball and what it would be like if Tom and Bill were still in town and on the team. I really missed my friends.

We had grown up together, the three of us. They were such great guys. We all played baseball, soccer, and ice hockey together as far back as we could remember. At baseball, I usually played at second base, Bill at short, and Tom at center field, where he would always be backing up one or the other of us on any defensive play. We invariably batted in sequence, usually Tom first, Bill next, then myself.

While we were still together, we presented a formidable line on the hockey rink, Bill at left wing, Tom at center, and myself on the right. We had made just about every kind of scoring play there was. Our coaches had always kept us together as a line. We always could anticipate one another and communicate very effectively with little more than glances. That was how hockey should be played!

After they left and our line was broken up, I became more of a utility player, substituting sometimes on right wing, sometimes as a right defenseman, but most especially an "enforcer." Bigger players often would try to take me out, but I had learned all sorts of tricks to knock them to the ice. Since I was smaller than most other aggressive players, these moves were almost like jiu-jitsu. Now I was noted for leaving the bigger players on their butts. Yet this behavior was all because I had so badly missed Tom and Bill.

I guessed that I still needed to work through my friends moving away. I wondered what they'd think if they saw me now? What would they think if they knew not only that I was wearing my sister's clothes, but also that I liked it.

What I really wanted to tell them was about the illusions or hallucinations or whatever. I wondered what they'd think of that? I could tell them about everything by email. That's how we'd all kept in touch, anyway. I hadn't even looked at my email today! I should be sure to do that.

I liked just sitting here on the sofa, sipping my tea. But it seemed strange. I'd seen Sis sitting at this corner of the sofa sipping her tea or coffee or cocoa many times. What did she think about when she did? Now I found myself in the same position. Was I now copying even how Sonia sits? Yet I felt calm and peaceful, as if it were an ideal posture to sit and relax. I had never felt quite so easy-going and settled. Taking another sip of my tea, I was fully aware of its taste and the strawberry jam sweetening it.

Then I knew.

I started to cry— and to smile!

Now I understood what Sonia, my sister, wanted me to experience— to know and to feel. She wanted me to learn a girl's perceptions. Sitting here, enjoying my tea, I let my mind rest. Beautiful. So simple.

I needed this.

That was so strange, but so certain, a fact.

Of course, I would anticipate Sis coming home so that I could hug and kiss and thank her for teasing me into this. But it wasn't any "can't-wait" anticipation— it was of the "can-wait" variety. That would be another happiness, different from what I was doing now and no less enjoyable. Yet meanwhile, the most pleasant activity that I could possibly do is just to sit on the sofa, nestling as a girl, sipping my tea.

The handbag that Sis had given me was on the end table next to the sofa, so I picked it up and opened it. The twenty dollar bill that Mama gave me earlier was still intact, so I took it out and put in on the end table. Because I had befriended Marjorie, I didn't need to spend it. She had both bought me lunch and driven me home. Usually Mama would just let me keep it, but I was always careful to offer it back to her.

Under the banknote was my pillbox. It was almost time for my afternoon dose.

Afternoon dose? Since when did I take an afternoon pill for anything? (Since when did I have a pillbox?) But somehow I knew it was mine. Then I noticed my French manicure again.

Again.

Wedding rings on my left hand, too.

Taking the pillbox from my handbag, I also put it on the end table beside my glass of tea.

"Honey, is it time for your pill?" Tina asked me.

"Uh-huh," I answered her. Somehow I did know that I had to take it now, but I could not recall how I knew. Nor did I know why I was taking it?

I extracted one pink pill from my pillbox, popped it in, and drank it down with my tea .

Then suddenly, I remembered Tina's strange remarks on the bus Wednesday morning: I hope it's not the pills you've been taking for me. … You're so brave to be growing them for me.

Now I understood why I was taking them.

I was growing breasts. Girl's breasts.

"I've been wondering if the pills might be causing your headaches," Tina worried aloud. "I know it's important for you— and for us— but I'm more concerned about your headaches. Women get migraines more than men do, so I'm still thinking yours might be caused by the hormones."

"We don't know that these are migraines, sweetheart," I reminded Tina. "They might just be from stress. Or maybe I need a new shoulder rest for my violin? Or even a concussion from one of those hits I took on the ice? We don't know. Besides, Nurse Banner scheduled me with Dr. Bennett for next week."

"Who's Dr. Bennett?" Tina asked me.

"Paula Bennett's a neurologist," I told her. "I heard that she's an internationally recognized expert at diagnosing neurological illnesses and injuries. She's also a personal friend of Nurse Banner. That's why she was willing to see me next week."

"That's nice of her," she said. "I hope she can help with it."

"Seriously, though," I said, trying to console Tina, and perhaps myself as well, "I don't think it's the pills. If it was, then the headaches should've begun when I first took the pills. These only began Wednesday morning when I woke up."

And now, somehow, I began to remember having the headaches.

"Why am I so sleepy, Tina? I haven't felt this tired since the hockey season was over."

"Maybe Sonia and me waking you up at five this morning?" she reminded me, giggling.

"Oh yeah, there was that. I think you two enjoy girling me up altogether too much!"

"Why shouldn't we?" Tina teased, throwing a small sofa pillow at me. "You're certainly enjoying it more than any boy should!"

She giggled again, so I picked up the pillow to throw it back at her. But she was not there.

I don't know how many times I dozed off that Friday afternoon. Every time I did, my nap involved me in some kind of a dream. This time, I was seated in a small chamber orchestra, two desks each of violas and cellos, and a single double bass. Kevin Hightower was playing oboe and I myself was on English horn. Dr. Malcolm Flynn was about to conduct.

He waved the upbeat with his baton and the violas first sounded their rapid legato figure in triple meter then quietly underneath, a slower, bouncing duple meter emanated from the deepest range of the cellos. The tempo was maybe andante or andantino. The triple and duple meter motives alternated over and under, almost as if in an antiphon. Then Kevin played a few long, clearly sustained tones on the oboe. I seemed to recall the music, but I wasn't sure. There was no part on my desk. Glancing over at Kevin's, he had none either. He was intently focused on an empty music stand. I noticed that the string players' desks were also empty. Dr. Flynn's desk had no score. Apparently he was conducting from memory. Everyone was performing from memory.

Then he cued me.

I'm not sure how I knew it, but I played along with Kevin and took up the triple rhythm on the English horn. I knew the music, but I couldn't quite recall the title or the composer. I couldn't recognize the form because we hadn't played far enough into it for any form to be recognizable. But somehow I knew this work, especially the fluid, over-and-under triple versus the bouncing duple meter motives.

Of course! The music was "Façades" from Glassworks by Philip Glass. I loved that work. This was the next-to-last movement, with its slowly mesmerizing, contrasting bass rhythms dancing a ghostly dance creeping up from their subterranean lair. Meanwhile its simple, haunting melody would float amidst the mysterious terpsichorean fantasy, now entwining within, then emerging from its eerie rhythmic motives.

Suddenly, Sonia was playing the melodic line on her flute at what had been Kevin's desk and I was playing along with her instead. And I was wearing a black dress, nude hose, and black high-heeled pumps. This was not how we'd rehearsed this— Kevin and myself. But he smiled at me, soaking a reed in the corner of his mouth, and gestured a mock salute. Whenever he did that he'd always be just amusing enough for me to lose my embouchure in the midst of playing. But somehow I resisted my newly girlish tendency to giggle just then and there.

Then I noticed Tom and Bill sitting in the front row of the audience. Bill was swaying to the beat of the music and Tom performed the same mock salute as did Kevin. Tina and Deb sat in the next row beside Mama and Papa. On the other side of my parents were Fr. Andrei and his wife from church. Why were they here?

Yet something more changed— I was now playing the melody on oboe instead of English horn. When did I change? I didn't remember rehearsing this switch. It seemed just to have happened. Sonia smiled at me as she let me take over the melody. And now Kevin was playing English horn instead. When did he rehearse it? I couldn't remember any of changing instruments in rehearsal. Did Dr. Flynn know?

This time I awoke in a cold sweat, shuddering as I did. There was something more to this dream than others that I'd had recently. Why this one, though? But there was also nothing there any weirder than what I was actually living right now.

Then I remembered something in the dream very much unexpected.

I had to see Fr. Andrei.

Links to recordings of "Façades" from Glassworks by Philip Glass:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wJWQc_Drrm0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YsOrPX3NOTs