What Dreams May Come by Richard Matheson Read Free Book Online Page A

there nothing I could do to let her know? I tried in vain to pick up objects from the bureau. I stared at a small box, trying to concentrate my will on moving it. After a long while, it hitched once, but, by then, I felt exhausted by the effort.
    “Dear God.” I left the room in sorrow, starting down the hall, then, on impulse, turned back toward Ian’s room. His door was closed. No big deal, as Richard likes to say. I went through it in an instant and the loathesome realization struck me: I’m a ghost.
    Ian sat at his desk, doing homework, his expression glum. “Can you hear me, Ian?” I asked. “We’ve always been close, you and I.”
    He continued with his homework. I tried to stroke his hair; in vain, of course. I groaned with frustration. What was I to do? Yet I couldn’t force myself away either. Ann’s grief held me. I was trapped.
    I turned away from Ian and left his room. Several yards along the hall, I walked through the closed door of Marie’s room. Now I felt repulsive to myself. Passing through doors seemed like a distasteful party trick to me.
    Marie was sitting at her desk, writing a letter. I moved there and stood looking at her. She’s such a lovely girl, Robert, tall and blonde and graceful. Talented too; a beautiful singing voice and definite presence on a stage. She’d been working very hard at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, intent on a theatrical career. I’d always had confidence in her future. It’s a difficult profession but she’s persistent. I’d always planned to make some contacts in the business for her after she was finished with her training. Now I’d never be able to do that. It was one more regret.
    After a while, I looked at what she was writing.
    We never saw a lot of one another. I mean just the two of us, especially in the last few years. My fault, not his. He tried to get us together—for a day, an evening. He and Ian spent days together, playing golf, going to ballgames, movies. He and Richard spent time together, eating out and talking for hours, getting to know each other. Richard wants to write too and Dad was always helpful and supportive to him.
    I only went out with him a few times. Always to something I wanted—a play, a film, a concert. We’d have dinner beforehand and talk. It was always enjoyable but there was never enough of it, I see now.
    Still, I always felt close to him, Wendy. He always took good care of me, was always tolerant and understanding. He took my teasing with good grace and had a wonderful sense of humor. I know he loved me. Sometimes, he’d put his arms around me and tell me directly, tell me that he had great faith in my future. I sent him notes and told him he was the “best Daddy” in the world and I loved him—but I wish I’d told him in person more.
    If only I could see him now. Tell him: Daddy, thank you for all—
    She stopped and rubbed her eyes as tears dripped on the letter. “I’m going to ruin it,” she mumbled.
    “Oh, Marie.” I put my hand on her head. If only I could feel it, I thought. If only she could feel my touch and know my love for her.
    She began to write again.
    Sorry, had to stop to wipe my eyes. I may have to do that several times before I finish this letter.
    I’m thinking about Mom now. Dad meant so much to her; she meant so much to him. They had a wonderful relationship, Wendy. I don’t think I ever really spoke of it to you before. They were completely devoted to each other. Except for us children, they seemed to have need for no one but each other. Not that they didn’t see people. People liked them and wanted to see them, you know that; they were great friends with your Mom and Dad. But togetherness meant more to them than anything.
    It’s funny. I’ve talked to lots of kids and almost all of them have trouble visualizing—even conceiving of—their parents making love. I suppose that feeling is universal.
    It was never any trouble visualizing Mom and Dad. Often, we’d see them standing