Notes: It's been a while, I know. Sorry. I won't be surprised if no one remembers this story, XD.

Lyric belong to Billy Joel.

Chapter four- His dreams, her thoughts

It's been so long since we got together
In between it seems to take forever
But I'm a dreamer, I'll be there soon

-Last of the big time spenders

“Isn’t this one just adorable?” Patrischia turns to her with a face splitting smile and waves her hand rapidly in excitement over the tiny attire she is holding up. It is meant for a newborn baby, all soft pastels and cute motifs like ducks and sheep, and Emma’s first thought is something like ‘wow, it’s tiny’. Her colleague waits for a reply, and the smile never falters.

“Yes, it’s cute,” Emma agrees and smiles slightly. This just doubles Patrischia’s enthusiasm, and she adds the attire to the dozen others she found and put in her basket. Emma follows her between the endless racks of clothes and nearly bumps into her when she comes to an abrupt stop by a selection of baby socks. Predictably the woman gasps and dives right in. “But don’t you think it’s a little early to be buying clothes yet?”

“Pish posh, honey. It’s just another five months. They will be over in the blink of an eye,” Patrischia protests and brushes her off.

Emma is the second person to know about Patrischia’s pregnancy, but since the father to be is at work she is the one who gets dragged along for the shopping. The mall feels much bigger than usual now that she is being dragged through every clothing store on the hunt for tiny, cutesy clothes, but Emma keeps her mouth shut and suffers in silence. It wouldn’t be fair to rain on Patrischia’s parade when she is so happy, and the promise of free cake at the café once they are done is worth it.

“Em, you need to go steady with someone.”

The topic of Emma’s missing boyfriend is ever popular, and no matter how many times she tries to assure the woman that she is just fine without one it is always brought up when the two of them are alone.

“I don’t need another repeat of Joe, Patty. Men are such a hassle.” This is what she replies, but it isn’t entirely true. She has always had bad luck with boys, but much of it is thanks to their reluctance to accept Tale or understand the bond she shares with him. None of the boys she has dated have tried very hard, and the moment they bad mouthed him she gave up on them and moved on. Joe had…tried, he really had, but he was much too prone to jealousy. Emma doesn’t like to be single. She gets lonely all too easily.

Patrischia places a hand on her arm and gives her a serious look. “Joe was a nice guy, but he had some anger issues. And men like that start out with shouting, then after you marry them they start slapping you around and beating the crap out of you. They aren’t worth your time, honey.”

“Joe wasn’t like that, Patty.” She gives her colleague a funny stare. “I’m going to stay single for a while. Tale needs me right now, so I have to be there for him.” Patrischia opens her mouth, ready to start another long winded discussion about the man in question, but the warning look Emma sends her makes her shake her head instead and smile.

“That boy of yours is spoiled, I tell you.” After a glance at the contents of her basket she seems satisfied and begins to walk to the counter to pay up. “This is the last store, I promise. Why don’t you go wait outside?”

She needn’t ask twice. Emma is halfway across the store seconds later, happy that her feet can have a rest soon, and outside she sticks her hands in her pockets and leans back against a wall. Today is Friday afternoon, so the mall is a busy place. The people that pass her by range from families to goths to business men, and none of them pay her any attention. She watches them as discreetly as she can, because people-watching is a game she quite likes, and some individuals are really weird.

“Hey, Sharp!”

Charles’ voice booms even in the noise of the crowd, and he approaches her with a lazy smile. In his arms is a cardboard box, heavily secured with tape and full of scribbles in black pen. She returns his smile. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Yeah.” He grimaces. “Had to pick up an International delivery at the post office. I was supposed to do it two days ago, but it slipped my mind.” His good mood is infectious, and soon Emma feels relaxed and at ease. “Pratt dragged you shopping, huh?”

“Yes. We’ve been all over the place. My feet hurt.” She looks down at them and sticks out one so she can wiggle it. Charles laughs. “But she promised me free cake.”

“Never one to turn down cake, are you?”

“Of course not. I’m a girl, aren’t I?” she teases and pokes him on the arm. It is easy to mess around with Charles when they aren’t at work, but sadly they don’t really hang out much together unless there is a stack of tapes and free food involved.

“Very much so, Sharp.” He occupies the wall to her left, and the two of them don’t say a thing for a while. Although he should be hurrying back to his store he is here with her, doing nothing in particular, and Emma can’t decide if she wants to scold him or feel happy about it. A bit of both, maybe.

“So, why don’t you call me Emma?”

It’s one of the things she thinks is strange about Charles; he always calls people by their last names. In the beginning it used to annoy her and make her wonder if he was mad at her, but she hasn’t thought about it for a long time now. Though, the one time she tried calling him Boid he corrected her with a grimace and told her never to do it again. She sneaks a glance at him while he thinks, and she notices that his stubble is starting to resemble a goatie, but it still has a way to go.

“Habit, I guess,” he says lamely and shrugs.

“Most people don’t like that, you know.” She has tried to hint on several occasions that she would like to be called Emma, but either he ignores her or teases her and somehow manages to deflect the whole issue. “It feels impersonal.”

“You think?” He nudges her. “Three of my classmates were named Eric, so we separated them by using their last names. Same with the two girls named Anya.”

That is reasonable, she supposes. They had suffered the same problem when she went to elementary school, but nick names had been used instead. School holds more bad memories than good for her, so she rarely takes trips down that memory lane. “I wouldn’t mind if you used my name, Charles.”

“I know.”

Patrischia emerges from the store before she can ask what that’s supposed to mean, and the woman hands over the latest two bags to her and tries to balance the rest evenly in her hands. “I’m sorry, Emma, I got distracted by the sweetest pair of shoes. Good thing Charles held you company, huh?” She flashes a smile at her employer. “Want to join us for cake?”

“I’m afraid I can’t, Pratt. Need to get back to the store, you know. Friday is a good day to earn money.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Emma wonders if Charles would have been in such a hurry to leave if he’d bumped into just her and not the two of them.

“I’ll see you girls tomorrow. Don’t have too much cake. It goes straight to the belly,” he teases, and Emma chuckles at the smug look on his face. “Bye-bye.” The box stops him from waving at them, so he improvises and half bows instead, something that makes both of them laugh. He quickly disappears in the crowd, and Emma’s eyes keep track of him for as long as they can before she turns to Patrischia.

“Now, that is a fine piece of man, don’t you think? If I wasn’t taken already I’d make a move on him.”

Emma’s eyes are possibly wider than saucers, and her expression is funny enough that Patrischia can’t stop herself from patting Emma’s shoulder. “Why so shocked? You must have realized it too, right? You have worked for him since you were sixteen.”

“Er, I never really thought about it.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Okay, so maybe I noticed every once in a blue moon, but…I don’t know. He is Charles, and Charles doesn’t date as far as I know.” Of course she has noticed that her boss is attractive, but he is ten years older than her, so she hasn’t really put him in the category of ‘potential boyfriends’. Not to mention that he had seen her as the awkward, lonely teenager she was a couple of years back, which makes her doubt that he would ever be attracted to her. One thought has lead to another, and thus she has dismissed the whole thing.

“Sadly, you’re right about that. I don’t think I have ever seen him with a girl or heard him chat about one. Makes you wonder if he doesn’t have a skeleton or two in his closet.” The thought that Charles might be gay is so ridiculous that they share an amused look. “Or maybe he suffers from unrequited love?” Patrischia is ready to have a go at thinking up as many theories about their boss as she can, but Emma only listens with half an ear as they walk to the nearest café, and her colleague doesn’t seem to mind all that much.

They are enjoying a pieace each of chocolate cake from heaven, topped with real cream and strawberry sauce when Patrischia blurts out: ”You don’t suppose he’s living double lives and is secretly married to two different women, with whom he has three kids each?”

This time Emma chokes on her drink, and Patrischia has to hit her on the back to make her breathe properly again.

-

When the phone rings that night Emma is reluctant to pick it up. The only people that call her are salesmen, Tale and her older sister, May, and since Tale is sitting right there in her living room she already knows who the caller is. It rings twice, trice, waiting for her to take it, and she debates whether to leave it or not. The last conversation she had with May ended on a bad note, and she is afraid they might argue again. They aren’t close, but they are family, and Emma does not like to yell at her sister any more than she likes to be yelled at by their mother.

She picks up the phone, breathes deeply and answers: “Yes?”

May’s voice is cracked and thin, and Emma can hear that her sister has been crying again. “Em, don’t hang up on me, please?”

“I won’t.” The unease churns in her stomach.

“You need to come home, Em. Mum’s sick.” The pause that follows is filled with all the words she doesn’t say, but Emma hears the accusation in it perfectly fine.

“Mother is always sick, May. She has been sick since we were little kids.” Emma almost whispers this, because she doesn’t want Tale to hear her. “How is this time any different?”

“Em…” May sounds exasperated. “Please, just come home. You don’t need to help me take care of her. Just stop by and talk to her, okay? She’s been talking about you a lot, and she can’t sleep at night.”

The constricted feeling in her chest is the guilty conscience speaking, but she has long since learnt how to ignore it until it goes away.

When she thinks about her mother there are certain things that come to mind before others, and none of them are pleasant to reminisce about. She remembers the time when she was six and rushed home from school to give her mother the drawing she’d made with her own two hands and the way the woman had stared right through her without recognition. She remembers how her mother had talked about her deceased husband to May and her with such clarity, while everything that happened in the present seemed to slip her mind. The Alzheimer had only gotten worse as Emma grew up, and by the time she reached adulthood there was hardly anything left of the sweet, motherly figure she once had known. May was four years older than her; she’d known their mother longer before the disease deteriorated her mind, and that was also the reason why her sister took care of the woman. The sense of attachment May felt was strong, and it was an attachement Emma hadn’t felt for years.

Perhaps it is cruel of her, but Emma has no wish to see her mother again when she knows the woman won’t recognize her face.

“I can’t.” Her voice is breathless.

“Damn it, Emma!” May croaks. “Why can’t you try to care just a little bit? Mum is suffering, and you won’t even stop by to say hello!” There is so much resentment in her sister that Emma feels like crying from listening to it. She raises an arm and presses the tips of her fingers into the temples of her skull.

“She doesn’t know me anymore, May. It won’t matter if I’m there.”

“That’s not right, and you know it. She’s sick, yeah, but she is still human, Em. She is still our mother.”

“No, she’s not.”

May hisses softly, and the sound makes Emma wince. “Fine. You know what? Just keep living your cosy little life while mum rots away. I don’t know why I bother.”

The line goes flat.

She bites her bottom lip and tries to control her breaths. They are shaky and shallow, close to becoming hiccups and sobs, but she swallows down the emotion and takes a moment to gather herself. Only when she is certain that she won’t cry does she go back to Tale. His eyes stray from the screen and the game he is playing to look at her, and the depths of his brown eyes ask her, without words, what is wrong.

“The monster is kicking your ass,” she informs him, to which he reacts with an outburst and frantic tapping with his fingers on the controller in his hands. His legs instantly tangle up with hers when she sits next to him, maybe because he subconsciously always seeks her warmth. Right now he is warmer than her though, and she snuggles into his side and buries her face in his worn out, blue shirt while trying not to think.

“That was May, wasn’t it?”

She nods. His shoulder is bony and digs into her cheek, but she likes the familiarity of being pressed into Tale.

“She can go screw herself,” he scoffs. “Your mother is just a shell now anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you go see her.”

Emma presses her face a little harder into him, but the arm pulls away then and makes her face him. The corners of her mouth are pulled down unhappily, her eyes wide and wet with tears she refuses to cry, and Tale leans forward to kiss the frown from her forehead. His mouth is dry and warm on her skin and gives her shivers. When he gets up and heads for the kitchen she waits patiently for him.

“You should unplug your phone, Emmy,” he calls.

Her head falls back against the edge of the couch to rest there, and she pulls a blanket onto her lap to chase away the cold from her limbs.

“ Eat.” Tale hands her a bowl of vanilla ice cream as he returns, and he won’t sit down until she accepts it and takes a mouthful. It’s her favourite flavour of ice cream, and though it does nothing to make her warmer she loves she way it melts on her taste buds. “The next time your sister wants to bitch, do me a favour and hang up.”

Tale and she grew up together, but he never did like May. When they were kids they used to snatch dresses from her room to try them on, and May had never forgiven them for ruining her favourite summer dress. She had told on them, and their mother had been lucid enough to ground her and thus keep her separated from Tale for three whole days. Never in her life had Emma experienced three days as boring as those had been.

They rest together on the couch; Tale slips his legs around her and makes her lean back against his chest, and Emma is only content to oblige. Their silence is a comfortable one, but Tale is determined to distract her with questions tonight.

“Did you dream last night?”

“Yes.” She can’t quite remember what she dreamt though. “I remember there were balloons, and that this girl lost hers, but that’s all. How about you?”

“I don’t remember mine,” he says, but they both hear the lie in his words. Tale always has vivid dreams, but most of the time they make him toss and turn in his sleep instead of resting, and Emma knows he had another nightmare the previous night. His restless movements kept her awake half the night. Tale has been stable lately, but it never lasts for long, and the continuous nightmares are a sign of an oncoming depression that might hit at any time now. The change is always sudden, always intense enough to leave Tale feeling helpless and unable to do anything but stay in bed.

“Okay.” She puts away the empty bowl and wriggles enough that she can put her head on his chest. The rhythm of his heart is a little quicker than it should be, because Tale is not in physically good shape. The fluctuations between stable and unstable moods leave him too tired to exercise, even if it might improve his condition a little if he tried. “You haven’t painted anything lately, have you?”

“No. I can’t.” He lets his chin rest atop her head. “I’ve got tons of images in my head, but…They’re stuck no matter how hard I try.”

“Don’t force it.”

“I’m trying not to. It’s just….hard. I want to paint because it makes me feel better, but I can’t.”

Painting is a difficult hobby for Tale. When he feels stable and at ease the art block tends to strike him and leave him dry and hanging, but as soon as his depression drags him back down he can paint canvas after canvas with his strange pictures. Those pictures are so dark and morbid that they scare her, which is why he long since stopped showing them to her. Through the paintings she can glimpse parts of his psyche that she knows of, but is thankful never to have dealt with.

“You’ll paint again soon enough, I’m sure.”

“I know.” His voice thickens a bit.

“When I have kids I want to paint stuff on their walls.” She sits up and brushes the hair from her face. “I’m going to ask my kid what he or she wants to have on the walls, then I’m going to get someone to paint it for me.” This is something she always wishes her parents had done for her when she was little, but her room had remained dull and yellow until she became a teenager and repainted it herself.

The change of topic makes Tale blink a bit, puzzled, but he smiles thinly and nods in agreement. “So, even if they say that they want monsters or unicorns or gay rainbows on their walls, you’re going to nod your head?”

“Of course. It won’t be my room, you dummy.” She nudges him in the stomach. “Besides, rainbows aren’t that gay. There are worse things to paint on your bedroom walls.”

“Ballerinas in pink tutus,” Tale frowns. “Or ponies.”

“Or cars.”

“Ponies are worse than cars,” he protests.

And just like that the ball starts rolling. Their harmless argument escalates into a full tickle fight right there on the couch, and neither gives in until they both are out of breath and too tired to move a muscle.