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

together—in the kitchen, the family room, their bedroom, anywhere—holding each other closely, not speaking, like a pair of young lovers. Sometimes, they’d stand like that in the pool even. And, always when they sat together—whatever it was for, talking, watching television, anything—Mom would lean against Dad, he’d put his arm around her and her head would lie on his shoulder. They made such a sweet couple, Wendy. They—sorry, tears again. Later. Another delay to dry my eyes. Anyway, it was easy to think of them making love. It seemed completely right. I remember all the times—after I became old enough to be conscious of it, of course—I’d hear their bedroom door shut quietly and hear the discreet click of the lock. I don’t know about Louise or Richard or Ian but it always made me smile.
    Not that they never fought. They were real people, vulnerable and both had tempers. Dad helped Mom to let hers out, especially after her breakdown—and, oh, Wendy, all the years he supported her through that! He helped her to release her anger instead of keeping it bottled up: told her, if nothing else, to scream at the top of her lungs when she was driving along in her car. She did and once Katie got so frightened she almost had a heart attack; she was on the back seat and Mom had forgotten she was there when she screamed.
    Even though they fought, their fighting never turned them against each other. It always ended with them embracing and kissing, smiling, laughing. They were like children sometimes, Wendy. There were times when I felt like the mother.
    You know something else? I’ve never mentioned this to anyone before. I know Dad loved us and Mom loves us. But there was always this “something” between them, this special rapport we could never touch. Something precious. Something beyond words.
    Not that we suffered from it. We were never “left out” or anything. They never deprived us of anything, always gave us love and support in everything we tried or wanted.
    Still, there was this strange element in their relationship which kept them a unit of two during all those years when the family was a unit of three to six. Maybe it doesn’t make sense but it’s true. I can’t explain it. I only hope I have the same thing in my marriage. Whatever it is, I hope you have it in yours.
    Proof of what I say is that I started this letter talking about Dad but ended up talking about Mom and Dad. Because it’s impossible for me to talk about him without talking about her as well. They go together. That’s the trouble. I just can’t visualize her without him. It’s as though something complete has been separated and neither half is right now. As though—
    I started as I realized something.
    For about a quarter of a page of her letter, I’d been picking up her words before she wrote them.
    The idea came abruptly.
    Marie, I thought. Write what I tell you. Write these words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist.
    I fixed my gaze on her and kept repeating the words. Ann, this is Chris. I still exist. Again and again, directing them to Marie’s mind as she wrote. Write them down, I told her. I repeated the words I wanted her to write. Write them down. I repeated the words. Write them down. Repeated the words. . Write. Repeated. Write, repeated. A dozen times, then more and more. Write: Ann this is Chris. I still exist.
    I became so absorbed in what I was doing that I jumped when Marie gasped suddenly and jerked her hand from the desk. As she stared at the paper in stunned silence, I looked down at it.
    She’d written on the paper: Annthsiscris—istilexst.
    “Show it to Mom,” I told her excitedly. I concentrated on the words. Show it to Mom, Marie. Right now. Quickly, repeatedly.
    Marie got up and moved toward the hall, the paper in her hand. “That’s it, that’s it,” I said. That’s it, I thought.
    She went into the hall and turned toward the doorway of our bedroom. There, she stopped. Following eagerly, I