74. A Dream of Michael
There is no doubt in my mind that I’m being visited or nudged from the other side. There’ve been little hit and run flashes of people who shared my life, people who I spent long periods of time with, and who mattered a lot when they were on this side of living. My stepfather, and both of my parents-in-law, and the mother of my first serious boyfriend have all flitted through a dream sequence. And then there was the Meme dream — a full memory dream that left its mark.
But, what does it mean when you dream about someone you didn’t really know?
This is going to take some explaining.
You all know by now that Tim’s best friend is Kevin Mullaney. They met at Ludlow Street elementary school and remained besties from first grade through twelfth grade. Kevin and Tim attended Woodland Prep, an invitation-only middle-school for smarty-pants students. I was invited to attend, but Don Sneade didn’t think it was necessary for me to leave Columbus Park before the eighth grade. I sort of cared, sort of felt I was missing out on something, but I wasn’t included in the decision-making process, so I stayed behind. As it turned out, I met my writing mentor, Dave Shea, because of my father’s decision, so I guess things happen for a reason.
Anyway, I didn’t meet Kevin Mullaney until high school. Categorizing our association as anything more than casual would be a long-stretch. We didn’t hang together, and mostly shared ‘passing in the hallway’ hellos. Still, he was Kevin Mullaney and every girl knew who he was. Kevin was the 70s cool guy. He had an ease about him — a no muss no fuss effect. He was athletic, intelligent, had a great smile, and held an easy space amongst his peers.
Now for an introduction to the ‘other’ Mullaneys. Kathleen was a drop-dead-gorgeous teen queen. She was a couple of years older than I which means she was a classmate of Donnie. I’m not sure how, but my brother scored-big when he took ‘the babe’ to one of his proms. I said, “Good for you,” back then and still consider it a feather in his cap, today. Colleen was the kid sister in the Mullaney family, so I didn’t really know much about her back then, but she and I have become friends, bonding over this shit fest I’m in. She has sent several messages to me, all of them beautifully written, all of them with a deep insight into the pain of losing loved ones, and a willingness to share tender support for the painful journey I am on. Maureen was a classmate of Marchrie’s at South High — I think. In any event, they were the same age(ish) and traveled in and out of one another’s lives for many years. One reconnection had Maureen living with Marchrie and me in a three-decker on Houghton Avenue. It was right after Meme passed away, the two Sneade sisters got an apartment together and for whatever reason, Maureen moved into the third bedroom.
Michael
I didn’t know him — or even about him — until my cohabitation with Maureen. I’m not sure who told me that Michael was sick, but I learned that my new roommate’s brother had cancer and that he was in the hospital. I have absolutely no idea why I did any of the following things — honestly, my actions were unusual to say the least — and I didn’t share them with anyone while I was doing them.
Time
I was still out of work because of the neck injury and so I attribute some of what I did to having time on my hands and because I was feeling adrift from the life I’d been living prior to my accident. Mostly, I was off-kilter because I’d just lost someone really important. All of that may have influenced these actions.
I woke one morning. I took a bus downtown. I went to the Ben Franklin bookstore. I purchased my favorite book, The Prophet. I got onto another bus. I went to Memorial Hospital (if memory serves me correctly). I asked the person at the Information Desk for Michael Mullaney’s room number. I knocked on the door jamb. I went in. I introduced myself as someone who knew his brother, Kevin, and his sister, Maureen. I told him I had a book that I thought he might like to read. I said it was nice meeting him. I left.
It’s forty years later and I still don’t know why I did any of that.
A few days later, I made a second trip to the hospital. This time, I spent a really long time with Michael. He’d read the book I gave him from cover-to-cover, and then again and again. He said he was moved by Kahlil Gibran’s writings, and more so that I would bring the book to him. He wanted to know why I had. I told him I honestly didn’t know why — and I didn’t — and I don’t.
I saw Michael one other time before he was discharged from the hospital, and then I never saw him again. I never told anyone about my visits or my very brief association with Michael Mullaney. I never followed up on his medical journey with Maureen before she moved out, and I went back to doing whatever I was doing at the time.
I didn’t think about the Mullaney family until Tim and I became a couple. That’s when I got to know Kevin — a little bit. In rapid succession, Tim and Sheryll married, and Kevin and Barbara married. They went off to live on the Cape, and we moved into our starter home. I told Tim the story and asked what he knew about Michael. Tim said he was a really great guy, had done a stint in the Army, had graduated from a music school in Boston (Berklee), was very involved in the music industry, and was associated with Long View Farms, a recording studio in North Brookfield, MA. That impressed me given that The Farms was a highly-regarded music facility.
Many years after his first bout of cancer, the dreaded disease made a second attack on Michael Mullaney. He passed away in 2012.
Why am I telling you this?
After my diagnosis, I told Kevin the story about Michael and Sheryll. He had no idea about any of it, but he seemed very moved that it happened — and contemplated why neither party ever said anything about it.
Ever since that conversation, I’ve wondered why that is. Why is it that neither of us ever said anything? Michael may have told someone, but he didn’t tell his brother, and they were tight. So, I’m assuming he was like me, and he kept our interaction quiet. The question that begs to be asked is why? I mean, it’s sort of a noteworthy story.
Right?
The other night I had a dream about Michael. A man I don’t really know. He was sitting at a bar having a brown soda over tons of ice, an empty pretzel bowl was nearby. He was listening to Jagger’s Sweet Thing on the jukebox and drumming his fingertips on the cover of The Prophet. In all honesty, that’s the only reason I knew it was him. He was enjoying his space, but he also had this impatience about him, like he was waiting for something. Was he waiting on me? Is he waiting for me?
That’s it. That’s the dream.
I had Tim ask Kevin if it would be okay for me to write about Michael. His response was quick, “Absolutely, she should write whatever she likes. I asked Colleen her thoughts on the subject, she wrote: Oh honey I’m a writer, too. Nothing is off limits. We write. I’m looking forward to it.
I wish I had more of a story to tell, but I do not. I do not know why I did a hit and run into Michael’s life. I do not know what he got from the experience — if he got anything. I do know this. There’s another chapter in the Michael and Sheryll story. None of you will ever know what our future holds, what words we’ll share, what answers await each of us.