The Dangers of Dreams

If there was ever any doubt in Mama’s mind that I was bein’ too influenced by Grandma Odette, what came next sealed it for her.

Mama didn’t leave Daddy like he feared she might. No, she clung tighter to her faith; held it like a shield against everything she couldn’t understand. It became her mission to erase every trace of Odette’s touch. Whatever worldly thing I might’ve known, Mama cut it off at the root.

Music? Only gospel. Television? Only the channels that preached the Word. Books? Only the Bible.

She said she was protectin’ me, but it felt more like she was buryin’ me alive under scripture. The house grew quieter, holier, and colder all at once. The smell of Odette’s herbs was replaced by the scent of lemon polish and old hymnals. Mama kept the curtains drawn, said sunlight made her headaches worse, but I think she just didn’t want the world lookin’ in.

If I’d known that my dream of Papa Charles would change how Mama saw me, I might’ve kept it to myself. I might’ve swallowed it down like a secret too heavy to speak. But I was a child then, six years old, still thinkin’ dreams were just stories the night told me.

Papa Charles was a good man. Kind, gentle, never wanted for much except to love his family. He had a laugh that filled a room and a way of talkin’ that made you feel safe, like nothin’ bad could happen while he was near. But he was sickly; heart trouble, sugar trouble, all kinds of ailments that kept him in and out of hospitals. Before we left Mississippi, he’d had open‑heart surgery and was recoverin’ at home. Mama called back every week to check on him and her brothers.

The day before it happened, she’d talked to him on the phone. He sounded fine. Laughin’, talkin’ about how he’d be back in his garden soon, how the tomatoes were comin’ in strong. Mama smiled that day; the kind of smile that made the house feel lighter.

That night, I dreamed of him.

In the dream, Papa Charles was walkin’ down a long white hall, smilin’ like he was ready to go home. The light was so bright it hurt my eyes, and the air smelled like hospital soap and rain. He turned to me, said somethin’ I couldn’t quite hear, then kept walkin’ till he disappeared into the light. I woke up cryin’ silent tears, heart poundin’ like it was tryin’ to warn me. I crept into Mama and Daddy’s room, whisperin’ what I’d seen.

Daddy sat up, rubbed my back, told me it was just a dream. Mama turned over, voice sharp and tired. “I ain’t got time for this foolishness, Anaïs.”

It was three in the mornin’.

Not long after, the phone rang.

I remember Mama gettin’ up, her robe draggin’ across the floor. She answered, and I could see the words I’d spoken turnin’ in her head, “Papa went walkin’ down that long white hall, smilin’ like he was ready to go home.”

Whoever was on the other end told her Papa Charles had passed.

Mama fell to her knees right there in the hallway, cryin’ like the world had cracked open. Daddy tried to lift her, but she pushed him away, hands tremblin’, eyes wild. I stood there frozen, the echo of my dream still hummin’ in my chest.

We went back to Mississippi for the funeral, but Mama wasn’t the same woman anymore. The grief twisted her faith into somethin’ hard and mean. I thought she’d divorce Daddy after that, but that wasn’t Marlene’s way. Instead, she blamed Odette, said Grandma had turned me toward the devil. And she blamed me, too.

She said my dream had called death into the house.

From then on, Mama set out to punish us both. She denounced everything Odette held sacred, the herbs, the candles, the quiet prayers whispered to the ancestors. She smothered it all with the Word of God.

She became sharp, bitter, and cold. The woman Daddy had fallen in love with disappeared beneath her own righteousness. Her laughter vanished, replaced by sermons and suspicion. She prayed over me every night, hands heavy on my head, whisperin’ for deliverance from “evil spirits.” I didn’t understand what evil she meant; all I knew was that every time she prayed, I felt smaller.

She kept her distance from me but made sure every part of me that reminded her of Odette was buried under hymns and sermons. I was baptized in fear, not faith.

And as a child who only wanted her mama’s approval, I did everything she asked. I prayed harder. I sang louder. I tried to be holy enough to make her love me again. I memorized verses till my throat hurt, sat through revival meetings till my legs went numb, and smiled when she said, “See, the Lord’s work is changin’ you.”

But in the end, it still wasn’t enough.

I see that now.

Dreams can be dangerous things not because they lie, but because they tell the truth too soon. They show you what’s comin’ before the world’s ready to see it. And sometimes, the truth don’t just scare people it breaks ’em.

Mama’s faith became her armor, and I became her battlefield. Every time I closed my eyes, I feared what I might see. Every time I dreamed, I woke up prayin’ it wasn’t real. But the sight don’t care about prayers or fear. It comes when it wants, and it tells what it must.

That was the danger of dreams, not the dream itself, but the way it made people see you once it came true.