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Dreaming with Angela
Amber Norwood
She would sing softly to you when she put you to bed. Any song from any
period involving the words "sleep" or "dream" became a lullaby. Now
you know "The Music Man" by heart. Your mother's soft, warm voice
was your introduction to music, and your first love.
You have no children of your own. This is not by accident, or some
horrible twist of chance. Families, as near as you can tell, are more trouble than
they're worth. You'd rather spare everyone the trauma. But, as a result, you
have no child of your own to sing to in the dark rooms. The dogs are not
responsive. The stories about plants growing well to song are lies.
So it is a mixed blessing when your brother 's girlfriend has a daughter.
Julianne is too young to do it, and both families are appalled. Your parents
weren't having any part of it. So you invite Michael, Julianne, and the baby into
your guestroom. This is supposed to be a temporary arrangement. Four years
later, however, small Angela and her moderately employed parents are still
there. Your rational sensibilities want to make them leave. You never got any
free rides. Is this what responsibility means? But at the end of each day, you
look forward to time alone with Angela. Her mother, still not your sister-in-law,
waits tables at night. Michael is exhausted after a full day caring for his daugh­
ter. He spends weeknights passed out with a beer.
So this cannot last. But these are also the kinds of years that you'll
never have again. You love the girl like she was your own. And that is enough.
Though this cuts into your social life, you have someone to sing to sleep.
By age four, she is old enough to request songs from your repertoire.
She wants to start with the one about the butterflies. She wanted to finish with
"Dream A Little Dream." The first time she hums along in her
half-sleep, it almost breaks your heart. And you don't
know why. She is a very demanding little girl. Too much
time with Daddy without any discipline. She needs
attention. At the same time, she is terribly precocious.
Michael, to his limited credit, never speaks to her like she
is a child. Consequently, she is like an adult, speaking from
a child's body.
Sometimes she wants you at the foot of the bed. Other times she
wants you close. You lie beside her; she hums along to songs you'd sing into
strawberry hair. Sometimes she crashes before you hit the second chorus.
Other times she lays awake and calls you back for hours before falling asleep.
She tells you stories.
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