Part III: What Happens a Cappella? (Chapter 60)


V
eronica is fat.

At least that’s how she appears in my latest dream. I can’t believe it, but she’s a dark complected woman with oily skin, rolls of fat, and gray hair poking from...what?

Da-Da-Dah-DAH, Dah, Da, da! You can’t love me, I’m big and fat!

I can recall her rotund shape, but not what she wears.

That’s what I hate about dreams that are not really dreams, the gaps, the mysteries that persist.

Mommy?

Ever since the letter and clippings all those years ago, Veronica has remained a persistent force in my dream life, lurking in the dark edges of my psyche.

Nicole?

I can’t tell you how many times I have been tempted to ask Nana about Veronica, why she has allowed such an important person to slip so definitively through the family cracks.

Mommy? Please, please, don’t leave me.

But I just can’t bring myself to admit to her that I have snooped through her personal papers.

I need you, Mommy...

Still, I can’t help but think how Veronica seems to be an ever-present ghostly figure, a shadowy presence in this family, even if I’m the only one born after 1925 who knows of her existence.

I once told Sheldon about Veronica’s letter and clippings – I thought he might be able to offer a plausible explanation – but he just shrugged it off.

“Probably had a falling out – happens all the time,” he said.

I know it’s more than that; otherwise, why would Veronica persist in trying to send a message through me, a person she has never loved or even met?

Sometimes dreams aren’t dreams at all.

Mommy? I’m so ashamed....

I never know what kind of atmosphere Veronica will bring to me during my sleep: ecstasy or nightmare. Always, though, I become Veronica.

In one dream, I, Veronica’s slender version, soar as I hit the peak of loving with someone whose face I cannot see. I awaken that morning in a glow, which lasts all day.

But last night’s encounter was different, steeped in nightmare and fear, and I am still afraid.

Help me...

I awaken, bolting upright in bed, to the sound of rain pelting the shingles, shadows crouching in the corners, Sheldon gone. All day, I look over my shoulder, looking for a dagger poised in the air, trying to remember what has terrified me so much, but I can’t, not as long as I remain in the world of the awake.

A sudden sleepiness hits me with a thud; I fall onto the sofa and will sleep to come.

The dream continues:

...I walk through a dark hallway, past open doors, the quarter moon shining through each window, following me. I fear how the moon always seems to know where I am.

...Is she your daughter?

I am walking, walking, walking down a long hallway, a hallway so long that the end disappears into a perspective point.

Yes, oh, dear God, is she...?

I must reach the end, something important awaits me there.

You’d better hurry!

She okay?

You’d better hurry!

I don’t feel like myself – yes, I’m fat, but it’s a different kind of fat, most of which rests around my mid-section.

Thin and bony. Fragile.

The rest of me is fat, too – I can feel the mounds of fat sagging downward from my upper arms and legs – but it’s the fat of my stomach that demands all my attention. I hold my stomach – it feels as though my huge burden may drop to the floor and that I must do everything to protect this precious mound from the concrete.

...deathly pale, almost white, no fat, skin sagging, chin jutting out, coming to a sharp point, cheekbones defined, shadows, black hair stringy. Streaked with gray. Respirator, IV drip, brain, heart monitors.



I am so tired, but the end is still miles away. I don’t think I can make it to the end of my journey – I just want to rest – but then I feel a presence behind me, someone who does not want me to reach my destination.

I must run, run, run.

When will she wake up?

I don’t know

Will she wake up?

I don’t know...

I run for what seems like infinity – then, suddenly, a mirror appears before me, and I almost crash into it, but I stop short before impact.

I am afraid.

Light shimmers behind me.

Oh, my God!

Oh, my God!

...sitting on the horse. Merry-go-round. Watching as all the colors blur by in a menagerie of spin-art, and contemplating the folds of fat in my legs...

A dream within a vision: I must come back and confront the person in the mirror, the ugliest human being I have ever seen, who stares back at me. This can’t be me, this has to be someone else, perhaps a devil who has stolen my soul, or maybe a witch?

...stick arms, wrinkled like an old woman’s, knobby bones, fingers long and skinny. Nosferatu.

She is beyond fat – she’s a mound of slick brown flesh, her black gown bursting at the seams and stretching taut over her body – her rolls of fat, piled upon each other like a stack of doughnuts.

...death camp survivor, a thin covering of bluish skin stretched taut over ribs and protruding hipbones.

Her belly, its taut roundness growing larger and larger and moving back and forth in a wave of frenetic jerks, pushes through a tear in her gown, and, beginning at the belly button, splits open, the rip moving both upward and downward, like a fissure in an earthquake.

Crack? Oh, no, not my...

Blood, following the line of the tear, spurts from the wound.

A crown of black hair pushes through the widening wound.

...pubic hair nearly gone, small breasts shriveled and sagging.

Her face, obscured in shadow, is framed in a nun’s wimple, gray strands of hair poking out.

Oh, God, what has happened...?

 

Veronica? Could this grossly obese woman of my dreams really be her? What is she trying to tell me? That she had a baby out of wedlock? What kind of birth was that, anyway? Who was the father?

This might explain her connection with the home for unwed mothers, but whatever happened to the baby? So many questions...

The physical details of such visions from the grave are often metaphorical, reflecting more the dreamer’s state of mind, not necessarily the information being passed on.

True. Life hasn’t been easy, these past few months; Nicole’s troubles have taken their toll on all of us.

Still, I need answers, so I try translating my vision to canvas, but all I end up with is globs of blacks, grays, and yellows, punctuated by thin drips of red, reflecting more, I think, the nightmare of the past few months as I try to make sense of my dreams and present family difficulties.

Another failure, but, just the same, I give it a title:

 

“Veronica LaRue: Prelude to a Family Reunion.”

1989, 2’ x 4’, Oil.


Copyright Notice

Unless otherwise specified, all works posted on The Fat Lady Sings are © 1991 - present, by Jennifer Semple Siegel, the author, webmaster, and owner of TheFatLadySings.comMost of the art artwork has been AI generated specifically for The Fat Lady Sings. Occasionally, combinations (layering) of two or more AI generations have been created for special effects. The prompts used for AI are generic and avoid referring to specific artists, dead or alive. Her works may not be reprinted or reposted without her express permission.

Privacy Notice

Although TheFatLadySings.com does not use third-party ads, this privacy notice is included so that visitors can make informed decisions regarding their internet privacy. Third-party advertisers serve ads when you visit some websites, and these companies may use information (not including your name, address, email address, or telephone number) about your visits to this and other websites in order to provide advertisements about goods and services of interest to you. If you would like more information about this practice and to know your choices about not having such information used by these companies, click here.