“I want my dad!” Charlie cries and begins to breathe hysterically.
I put both hands on Charlie’s shoulders as he cries. “Charlie. Charlie. Listen to me.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Joy is standing there, full of shame, her shoulders and arms raised, as if she’s trying to be inside a turtle’s shell. She’s ashamed. She’s taking personally the fact that Charlie apparently can’t ever dream of his father again, as if it was her fault.
Meanwhile, Master Mind, our watcher and protector in other people’s dreams, has melted back into the scenery now that there is no danger that Charlie’s father will return.
“Are you listening, Charlie?”
He looks up at me and nods, sniffing his nose.
I am thankful that at least in this instance there is no snot when you cry in the dream. The snot days are far behind me.
“Do you remember your father?” I ask him.
He nods.
“Did you have great times with him when he was alive?”
He nods.
“Did you play together?”
He nods.
“Did he…” I run out of things to say. “Did he… did he read stories to you?”
He nods.
“Did you maybe go places together?”
He nods.
“A lot of good memories?”
He nods.
“Okay, then. Charlie, whatever happens in the dream, you will always have him, because he is part of your memory now. Do you understand what I mean?”
He stops crying.
“You can always remember him. It’s too bad that you can’t dream about him, but that also means you can’t turn your father into a killer. Your father was never a killer, was he?”
He shakes his head.
It looks like he’s feeling better now.
I look at Joy.
She seems like she is about to explode from trying to make herself be smaller and smaller.
I wish I knew how to fix that. But I don’t. I say nothing and let her be.
—Told by Grampa Walt