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.She was thin and demure and held herself upright, almost rigid, scarcely casting a glance to the right or to the left but always looking straight ahead at some indeterminate spot on the horizon— facing the future.Jillian couldn't clearly see the face but knew it was her own.She was the main character in this dream.Her friends were looking on, mouths gaping, in wide-eyed disbelief as she approached.The dress came into focus, elaborate in detail, embroidered with pearls and rosebud appliqués and sequins.Was she a bride; and if so, whom was she marrying? The answer to this question was not even clear to Jillian.A veil suddenly appeared over her head and trailed down to her feet.There were whispers and laughter, distant hollow sounds and voices that seemed to emanate from a cavernous place, echoing in her ears, “The bride is late.” And like one of those incomprehensible shifts in scenes in a movie, suddenly she was looking straight down into a church; it could have been St.Michael's Cathedral.In the front pew, along with a few dignitaries, she caught sight of her parent's solemn, anxious faces.The high altar glittered with gold and was lit with rows of candles and adorned with an abundance of flowers such as daisies, lilies and yellow roses.In the centre stood a priest, austere in his ceremonial robes, reading the sermon in a language that might have been Latin; standing at his side was a shadowed figure that she could not identify for certain.She looked towards the back of the church and saw many anxious waiting faces.Then she looked up to the gallery, and there mounted on the wall was a large round-faced clock; the red second hand was quickly marking time's rapid advance while the minute hand appeared stopped.According to the clock it was twelve noon.The notes of a large choir sounded, but no one was there; the music was coming from an antique wooden gramophone that skipped and crackled as the needle made its bumpy way around the crevices in the vinyl.Although faint and dream-like, the sound was a beautiful rendition of Pachelbel's Canon: angelic voices reaching notes so high she could never have dreamed possible.At the rear of the nave, a side door slowly opened and a shy timid girl with long flowing hair entered.Gradually and carefully she made her way up the centre aisle, but there was some confusion; heads were looking up to the gallery.The gramophone needle was skipping, playing the same note over and over again.People began to murmur; there were whispers and laughter.Jillian began looking frantically about the church, wondering what the commotion was all about.Then a high shrill voice, sounding very much like her mother's, called out sharply “Do you mean to sleep all day, Jillian? Jilly-Bean?”*****Ruth Crossland's voice travelled up the stairs: “Jilly-Beeeen?”After waiting a few moments she rapped lightly on the door, then turned the knob.Her pallid apprehensive face peered into the dim bedroom, which smelled of stale socks and perfume, and whispered “Jillian?” Her eyes darted quickly around the room as she stealthily and quietly made her way in, careful not to trip on the books and shoes that were scattered about, and picked up stray pieces of clothing that had been thrown haphazardly on the rug the night before.She placed these articles on a side chair, went to the window and drew aside one of the heavy curtains to let in the morning light.She then tugged to open one of the casement windows, just a crack, to let in the fresh ravine air.She cast an awkward glance back at her daughter, who was still sleeping at 8:30 a.m.on a Saturday morning.No sound or discernible movement came from underneath the covers.Nothing.She walked over to the dresser and glanced in its mirror at her own reflection; she adjusted a loose strand of hair that had fallen over one eye, revealing a raised forehead of small worried lines and creases.She had a worried expression on her face, as if expecting the worst.Her image was subtly blurred and ghostly due to watermarks on the inside of the mirror; the antique repairman she had consulted had told her that there was no way to clean them and re-silvering the mirror would be far too expensive.The dresser was from the 1930's, considered an antique now, purchased at a country auction in Stoufville long before Jillian and Adam were even born.Lying on the dresser was the necklace that her daughter had worn the night before; rays of morning light hit the beads from different angles, radiating deep yellow and blues.Beside it were pictures carefully preserved in silver metal frames: photographs of Jillian suddenly three years old again, running barefoot through grass and purple cornflowers that towered like trees high above her head, not even stopping to pose for the picture, her face turned away from the camera.The bed creaked.Now there was some movement under the bedcovers.“Time to get up, Jilly!”No answer.“Jillian, don't you think it's time you got up?” and then she added with an ironical note, “The day's almost over, honey.” She looked anxiously over at the bed: “How late was it when you got home?”Jillian blinked her eyes open.Bright sunlight was pouring in from the windows and through eyes still half shut she saw her mother standing by the dresser, her dark hair and form outlined by a white diffused light from the window.“What time is it?”“8:30 a.m.Time to get up.”Jillian sighed heavily and sank back down onto her pillow.She was worn out from her dream and its unsatisfactory conclusion.She turned over abruptly and pulled the covers over her head.Her voice sounded weak and strained, “It's too early, Mom.”“Nonsense! What time did you get in?”“Mmmm.very late.”“Some fellow with a deep voice rang up twice within the last hour; said he wanted to talk to you but didn't leave a name.I said you were still asleep, and who would call at such an ungodly hour? I didn't want to wake you, considering the late hour you got in last night.”Jillian's eyes popped open.Her heart was racing and she immediately identified the caller as Matt.But how had he known her number? Did he know her last name too? How? It seemed a bit forward of him to ring her up so soon.She felt that she was losing control and being dragged into something she wasn't prepared for.Certainly she was not ready for romance; that was supposed to come later, much later.She wanted to stay true to her ideals.She was now sitting up in bed with her arms wrapped around her legs and her chin resting on her knees as she murmured vaguely, not meeting her mother's gaze, “The caller didn't want to leave his name or number?”“I'm sure whoever it was,” replied her mother reassuringly, “will call again.” She walked over and sat by the edge of the bed.“Did you have a nice time last night?”For a moment Jillian's mind was blank, but then the events of the evening raced through her mind.Matt had kissed her.Oh geez, how had she let that happen? Had she drunk too much? Could she really tell her mother about her encounter with Matt, the evening, the kiss? Her mother would not understand or, even worse, would leak it out to friends and relatives.She could just see her Aunt Jean's beaming face as she found out, her hands clasping for joy: “Oh, Jilly-Bean has a boyfriend?” She turned to her mother and said seriously, “It was all right, I guess.” Then she saw her mother's face turn quizzical, with raised eyebrows, and she had to laugh.She tried to keep her voice calm and steady as she cast her mother a furtive glance: “Well, what else do you want to know, Mom? There's nothing to tell.Absolutely nothing [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]