Isabel Sutter
“I know. Pass the pepper.”
“The night before I dreamt that I was studying at a table in the
library. I had headphones on, my arms were crossed, my eyes were
down—”
“In other words, precisely what you’re not supposed to do if you
want to make friends,” Grace interjected pointedly.
“Exactly! But someone sat down at my table! They tried to talk to
me!”
“In your dream?”
“In my dream! Doesn’t anyone know anything about body language?”
“You call these nightmares?” Grace questioned, tasting a spoonful of
soup before pursing her lips. “Are there any bay leaves in the cupboard?”
I thumbed through the spice cabinet to locate the jar. Handing it
to her, I explained, “With the library nightmare, I had it over and over
again. I would wake up with my heart racing and then fall back asleep
only to repeat the cycle. If that’s not a symptom of a nightmare, I don’t
know what is.”
Mixing in a bay leaf, Grace stared into the soup thoughtfully. A
twinkle of a smile danced at her mouth. “You know, Ruthie, when
other people have nightmares, they dream of falling off high buildings
or being chased by monsters. Not of new friends.”
“But has a monster ever really chased them? Have they ever fallen
off a tall building?” I stood up, grabbed a Clorox wipe from the canister
and began polishing the countertop. Lemon-scented chemicals crept
under my fingernails as I scrubbed at a spot of dried up tomato sauce.
“I suppose not. Try the soup.” Grace lifted the wooden spoon to my
mouth. “It needs something.”
“Salt.” I licked the broth from my lips. “I bet that every one of those
people who dream of gargoyles and skyscrapers has been sabotaged by a
human being. I bet every one of them has regretted that day they were
partnered up in chemistry.”
“That’s a little dramatic.” Grace cautioned. “How much salt?”
“Just a pinch. And it’s true!” I insisted.
“I don’t regret the day your family moved into the house next to
mine,” she mused, placing the lid on the soup.
36