Dream Girl

I was having one of those days when the sprites keep moving in and out of your peripheral vision but you can never quite catch one. Interrupted from my work by movement outside the window I found myself staring at the trees in thoughtless distraction. I had an urge to line things up and closing one eye I shifted in my chair until two trees lined perfectly with the window stile. Then I arranged all the things on my desk in secret geometric patterns and looked out the window again. This time the light and shadows were pulsating, the air full of molecules. I closed my eyes and fooled around with the light and dark after-images for a while. Passing clouds changed the contrasts.

I had lost my work completely, shifting back and forth in the chair, opening and closing my eyes. I was trying to find an order that couldn't be discovered with casual observation, an order to things that had no name or definition but lingered near perception in the realm between hope and desire.

The shadow of a large bird eclipsed the sunlight coming through the window and jolted me back to reality just as the phone rang. I picked it up.

"Hello, this is Larry."

"I'm sorry. I think I have the wrong number," said a female voice, not too convincingly.

"I don't think so," I said, adding to her confusion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't think you have the wrong number," I said. "I think you dialed it accidentally on purpose."

There was a pause and then a soft chuckle and the silence of un-phrased curiosity.

"It's one of those days," I said, "powers greater than ours."

"I do believe I have the wrong number," she said, regaining her confidence.

"Give it a try," I suggested.

"Give what a try?"

"See if you might have dialed my number for a reason you have not yet anticipated. Ask me some question. Probe the connection. Draw on your curiosity. Reach beyond the immediate situation. See if there may be things happening in your life that are out of your control, beyond the reach of your self-will."

"Well, I was trying to find out if the library was open this evening."

"That's easy. It's open until six every evening except Tuesdays and Thursdays when it stays open 'til nine. Closed Sundays. You made the right call after all. I practically live there." She chuckled softly again. It was a warm and friendly sound. "Research," I added, not sure what to say next. She was silent.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Chan," she said hesitantly.

"Jen?" I asked.

"Chan," she replied, "C...H...A...N," spelling the name slowly for me.

"Where are you from?"

"Vietnam."

I found it curious she said Vietnam and not North or South Vietnam. It was like someone answering "Carolina" or "Dakota". Perhaps Vietnamese didn't make that distinction.

"Are you going to the library tonight? It's Tuesday. Open 'til nine."

"I'm not sure I should tell you."

"But it's all right. You dialed my number accidentally, remember? What are the chances of reaching some crazed maniac accidentally? Unless that happens to you a lot. I mean if it was a pattern, I'd certainly be suspicious."

Silence again. Her silences were alluring. I could hardly wait to meet her, to discover her oriental mystery.

"Look, why don't you go to the library tonight, if that's what you're planning to do. And I'll see if I can figure out who you are." That would be easy. A demure black-haired beauty shuffling along demurely between the stacks in a kimono.

"Do Vietnamese women wear Kimonos?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Research," I said. "I was just wondering if Vietnamese women wore Kimonos."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand you." Language barrier. More allure.

"Meet me at the library tonight. I'll try to find you. And if I do, then we can sit in the corner and whisper about the mysteries of life, like accidental phone calls."

"O.K.," she said. "Bye."

I hung up the phone and looked out the window. Things no longer lined up. I didn't have the patience for it. The shadows were gone and there was lots of sunshine.

That night I must have missed her. I didn't finish my manuscript until seven-thirty and realizing it was late, I hurried to the library and looked everywhere for her. I even waited by the water cooler outside the bathrooms, but I didn't see her.

And every time I visited the library after that, I did my research with a sense of anticipation. There were the sprites and then there was Chan, just out of reach, ethereal, enchanting me from a place outside my peripheral vision. The light and shadow of life had shifted again with her enticing proximity.

I kicked myself a hundred times for not star sixty-nining the call and getting her number, but it didn't occur to me at the time. I thought I would just go to the library and meet a cute girl from Vietnam. We'd hit it off and I'd ask her out for dinner. We'd become great friends, maybe even lovers. I'd learn all about the real Vietnam from someone who grew up there. Great research. Maybe we'd get married and travel there to meet her parents. I'd fall in love with the country and write brilliant articles about how Vietnam is no longer North or South but wonderfully united, a dreamland, a utopian paradise.

We'd settle into some remote mountain village near her relatives. But not too near, far enough they'd have to walk all day to find our hut. I'd write fascinating love poems and stories of the rural villages and we'd walk for two days with our children strapped onto our backs to the nearest town that had an internet connection where I'd send the pieces off to the publishers of the world who would rave about my mystical simplicity.

Then it happened again. The light bulb at my desk burned out and before I could push my chair back to go get another one, the phone rang. I picked it up in the dark.

"Hello."

"Is this the library?" It was her.

"No, this is Larry. Is this Chan?"

"Yes. Is this the library? I'm calling about my book on hold. This is Chan Michaels.

"Chan, this is Larry. I'm the guy you called accidentally a couple of months ago. We talked. I asked you to meet me at the library."

"Oh, yeah, I remember."

"You did it again. You called me accidentally on purpose again."

"I did? I don't know how I dialed wrong."

"You didn't. You didn't dial wrong. You dialed right. Don't you see? I want to talk to you. Will you stay on the line and talk to me?" I must have sounded frantic. I hoped I wasn't scaring her off.

"Okay, but just for a minute. I have to call the library before they close."

She had this wonderful way of going along with me. I liked that. Was that an oriental trait? I could imagine a hundred American women hanging up in disgust. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I went to the library that night and I looked for you. But you weren't there. I didn't get there until about eight. Did you leave early?"

"No. I was there. I stayed until it closed."

"But I didn't see you."

"How do you know?" She giggled. "You don't know what I look like."

"You're from Vietnam. You're Vietnamese, aren't you?"

She laughed aloud this time. "But I don't look Vietnamese. My father was an American soldier. Sgt. Jim Michaels. He died in the war. My mother and I came here to live with his family."

I was at a loss for words. My images had been so strong. "What do you look like?" I realized I didn't know if she was black or white, red or yellow.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Why not?"

"I'm waiting for those romantic, mystical powers to lead you to me."

"Oh, yeah. I guess I forgot about that. Got all caught up with my own anticipations."

"That happens," she said.

The silence was at my end this time. I couldn't think of anything clever to say.

"Well, see you at the library," she said.

"How will I know you?" I asked.

"Try a little more research," she said, "I'm the girl of your dreams." She hung up, chuckling softly.