I go to the wine-drinking place and peek through the door, but I can’t see her, and a big man meanly tells me I can’t come in. Where is she? I look around and around and all I see are tall strangers. I move from one exhibit to another. I can’t find her. I start crying and running and the lights are getting too bright and the music from the rides is getting too loud and my shirt is suddenly snagged by a stranger’s hand that takes on the dimensions of a horrid claw, and I scream and scream.
It’s okay Taylor. The deep, warm voice stops me.
I look up with my five-year-old eyes and see Ryder, large and protective, his intense green eyes full of concern, which is very addicting to be around. People don’t usually show concern for me. Anger? Yes. Disappointment? Yes. But not this concern that makes me feel warm inside.
No one’s going to get you here. Look around.
And I do. The fair is bright and colorful once again. It has lost the frightening dimensions. Families with kids are walking by, talking and smiling at each other. Ryder bends down and picks me up, so I ride his hip, and he shields me from the whirlwind of bodies and motion. We walk around the different booths. He grabs a cotton candy and hands it to me.
Don’t we have to pay for that?
It’s just a dream. Can you see that?
A dream? Happily, I take bites of it, not really paying attention to what he says, but he stops walking, forcing me to listen.
Does it still look scary? His deep voice has a surprising softness and patience to it that draws me in, allows me to trust him to help. I look around and see nothing amiss. No one is out to hurt me.
No. It’s just people.
So why are you so scared?
I can’t find my mom. She’s going to be mad and tell me what a bad girl I am for not listening to her and staying right there on the wall. Then she’s going to make me live with Grandma, and I don’t want to live with Grandma. She’s mean, I confided.
In dreams, we can do whatever we want, Taylor.
We can?
Are you really five years old right now?
I think about it and suddenly remember that I’m not five. I’m nearly twenty-five.
No. I’m not.
When I look down at myself, I’m magically standing on my own two feet with my adult body. It’s amazing. I look around, in control of my dream fear for the first time ever.
Wow.
So what really happened?
I stare at the wall, the beginning of the real-life nightmare I experienced that day, and shake my head. I’m not sure I’m ready to share yet.
It was a misunderstanding.
What happened to you?
Miscommunication, I reply, though the truth of what really happened flashes through my brain.
Eventually, the fair closed at ten o’clock, and the security guard took me to the police, who then tried to call my mother and grandmother. My grandmother picked me up, and when my mother got home, my grandmother tore into her. Here’s the kicker: my mother told my grandmother that I ran off and that she couldn’t find me.