I'm surprised to see my father sitting on the edge of the cliff at the bottom of 23rd street.
"What are you doing here?" I sit carefully beside him, dangling my legs over and swinging them back and forth. You're not supposed to go so close, Mom always says. A couple of teenagers were messing around in a car once and went over the edge when she was in high school. They both died, and the town never got over it.
But this is a dream, so I figure it's ok.
"What do you see when you look out there?" He's staring straight ahead, his aviator sunglasses obscuring his eyes. It's 1980s Dad, the hearty young one from my memories, with sideburns and blond hair curling around his ears; not the one who died. That version of Dad was unrecognizable to me in pictures. He looked like a decrepit old man, his face ravaged by drugs and hard living.
"You're out there," I say. "But I can't see you."
He turns to me suddenly, his eyes desperate. "Listen," he says and tells me something important. I try, but I can't hear what he says. There's white noise or static in the air, it starts as a low buzz, like a drone overhead, and intensifies by the second. His face is scared, and he grabs my arms, frantic now. The buzzing stops and I open my eyes.
I want to slip back into sleep and catch the threads of the dream, but there's no time. I glance at the clock and realize the alarm is about to go off.
Uncle Rob texted the night before that he'd be sending a car to pick us up. It's a two-hour trip to the resort on narrow, winding roads. I get car sick easily, and I'm not looking forward to it. Part of me wants to bail; stay home in my pyjamas and have a much-needed day of self-care. But then I remember Clive isn't going and the last thing I want is to have him under my feet. I sigh and sit up, still groggy and unsettled.
I shower quickly, making the water as hot as I can stand. I think about the dream as I lather my hair. There was a comforting feeling to it at first, before it got weird. Was my father trying to send me a message?
That's stupid. I don't believe in the supernatural or anything beyond this life. I think that when we die, we just power down and blink off, like an old computer. No other scenario makes sense to me.
This drives Father Jake nuts. He wants me to believe just a little bit and I don't know why he bothers to keep trying to convince me. He always tells me this passage from the Bible about a mustard seed. Something about, 'if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you can move mountains.' He even gave me a bracelet one time, with a tiny charm — a small, glass heart with a literal mustard seed inside. I was touched by the gift and I wear it all the time, but I'm still not sure I believe. He says it's OK that I'm doubtful, the mustard seed-sized faith is all I need but I'm not even sure I have that much.
I put the dream out of my head as I dry off, dress in leggings and a comfortable cotton shirt and pack an overnight bag. I think about the wide expanse of ocean and my father, desperate to tell me something I couldn't understand.
Dreams are just your brain downloading and processing the events of the day, Father Jake says. He should know, he has a doctorate in clinical psychology.
"They're nothing more than a way for your mind to make sense of things as they happen. The rationality of dreams is associative," he said once. "That's why people see signs in dreams, but they're more random than a system of symbols, because the association can be a word, or even the sound of a word."
I asked him to explain, and he reminded me of the big fight I had with Clive one time, when he accused me of lying. Later that night, I had a dream about a lion.
"Dreams have a logic, but it's not the kind of logic where two things always have to have a connection. Your brain in dreams can make associative leaps simply because one word sounds like another."
"Why aren't you a professor at some ivy league university again," I'd asked him. "What, and give up all this glamour," he said, gesturing around the damp warehouse, just as a mouse ran across the floor, and I laughed.
Clive fancies himself a genius, but my friend Jake is the one who's truly brilliant.
I make a mental note to ask Jake about my ocean dream when I get back from the night away with the Douglas clan. All this stuff with Uncle Rob is making me think about that side of the family, I'm sure that's all it is.
I can't believe my uncle is sending a car to pick us up. He obviously has more money than I thought to spend it on something so extravagant.
Mom is in the kitchen when I go downstairs, bag packed and ready by the door. She has her coat on already and her purse dangles from her arm.
"Isn't this exciting?" Her smile is infectious and she's bouncing. "I wish the car would hurry up and get here already!"
"More exciting than my usual Saturday," I admit, pouring myself a cup of coffee and adding a splash of cream. "I've never been to the Skye Inn before. Should be fun." The drink is warm and creamy and gives me the jolt I need to wake up.
"Who can afford to go there? It's one of the finest resorts in the country. Today is going to be a good day," she says, with a firm nod of her head. I believe she's right, despite the tiny bit of trepidation I feel, likely some leftover angst from the strange dream.
"Don't sign anything until you check with me first," Clive says, wandering into the kitchen and pouring himself some coffee. He says it with this dismissive little laugh, like everyone in the world is an idiot except for him.
"My uncle is not selling time shares," I say. With great restraint, I stop myself from adding, 'you shithead.'
"Yeah, well, there's a sucker born every minute," he says, pointing the coffee pot in my direction.
"It's just a family reunion," I sigh. "Try not to burn the place to the ground while we're gone." He gives me a sarcastic salute and I can't wait to be away from this man, even if it's just overnight.
I hear a car pull up and moments later, there's a soft knock at the door.
"That must be the Uber," I say, gathering up my bags. Clive rouses himself to walk to the window and pull the curtain back.
"Holy shit!" He says, mouth agape. "That's a Rolls Royce Phantom!"
Mom is already out the door. I grab my bag and follow behind. Indeed, there is a Rolls Royce in my driveway, a sentence I never thought I'd find myself thinking. My neighbour is standing in his driveway with his takeout coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other, gawking in our direction.
"Nice ride," he calls, and I see him craning his neck to get a better look.
"Good morning, Miss. Can I take your bag?" I didn't notice the driver standing on the doorstep, dressed all in black, his hand extended. This is way fancier than an Uber.
My sister is already in the car, and she pops out of the back seat, huge grin on her face. "Champagne?" she yells, holding an open bottle in her hand.
"It's nine in the morning!" I get in next to her. "What the hell, when in Rome," I say, accepting a glass. I realize I haven't had time to eat anything, but notice a platter of cheese and pastries next to the champagne bucket. The burnt orange leather seats are buttery soft, and I sigh as I sink into mine. I could get used to this.
"Wait!" I hear Clive yelling frantically from the doorway. He holds up his index finger to the driver. "I'm coming too! Two minutes," he says, before disappearing.
"Shit." My mom, sister and I say it at the same time. Mom makes a 'tsk' sound and shakes her head. I feel her pain. We all wanted a break from him this weekend.
"I thought you wanted no part of this, and my uncle was just trying to sell us something," I say bitterly when he jumps into the seat next to me and grabs the bottle of champagne from the ice bucket.
"Hey, I was wrong. Happens to the best of us sometimes," he shrugs. "Road trip!" he yells, right in my ear.
We pull out of my yard and swing out onto the highway. The ride is smooth, and my fears about getting carsick quickly evaporate. We relax and enjoy the trip, snacking and drink mimosas. Thankfully Clive puts his earbuds in, leaving Mom, Julie and me to speculate about the big family announcement.
"Rob's got something up his sleeve. This is going to be big," Mom said. "I always knew that kid was smart. When I was dating your father, he was just a teenager, but he was always inventing something," Mom says. "Computers were new back then; he saved every cent from his part time jobs to send away for parts to build his own. He could fix anything that broke around the house, radios, the TV, anything. The kid was a prodigy. I always knew Charlie'd make something of himself."
"Why do they call him Charlie, anyway?"
She shrugged. "Not sure. Just a nickname."
I start to feel a flutter of excitement as we pass through winding roads along the dramatic coastline. It's a perfect fall day, all blinding sun, red and gold foliage, and sparkling sapphire ocean. As the car approaches the massive gates to the luxury resort, I can feel the anticipation turn to something else. Something like fear.
Maybe it's the dream, but something nags at the back of my mind, like an important task left undone; something forgotten.
Clive lets out a low whistle, impressed by the expansive, emerald golf course as we pull up to the main doors. "This is it," my mother says. Her exhilaration is boundless.
"I've got a feeling our lives are about to change," my sister says as the car rolls to a stop. She gets out and I follow, hearing the low buzz of static from my dream return. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck even as I stand in the warm autumn sun.
I give my head a shake, trying to enjoy the moment and the happy chatter of my family as they collect their bags and enter the resort. Even Clive is laughing and chatting; everyone is flushed with excitement and good humour.
I take one last glance at the sea before I follow them inside.