Where in the World is Monica Wilkins?
1997 – June
The plane hit a pocket of air and bounced its occupants. Monica Wilkins blinked her eyes open, a bleary fuzz distorting the low lighting of the cabin around her. Wendell was lightly snoring beside her. She had the sense that she’d left the kettle on at home, but that couldn’t have been right. The kettle was packed and in a shipping container heading toward the Gold Coast.
They were finally, finally making the jump they’d been dreaming of for so long now. She couldn’t even recall who brought it up first, but she can’t remember a time now that she and her husband, Wendell Wilkins, hadn’t wanted to move to Australia. Something had been holding them back in one way or other for the last fifteen years, and so one bland Tuesday morning they reckoned “something” would always be there so they might as well get on with it or give it up.
Thankfully, tenacity ran deeply in both their veins. It was a quick process once they’d made up their minds.
Which is how, after giving all their patients a month’s notice, they’d promptly packed their whole lives into one medium-sized shipping container and set off for a house they bought, sight-unseen, in the Gold Coast Region of Queensland.
The barest glint of sun shone through the window beside her, and Monica yawned herself more awake. Best to greet the day and get on with it, as much as one could do from a Quantas flight. She shook Wendell lightly, wanting to talk to him and hear his reassurances again that this was the right move. One last, loud snort and Wendell wiped his face and rubbed his eyes vigorously. “Yeah, darling? Everything all right?”
“Yes, just nearly there…” she trailed off. She actually wasn’t sure if they were nearly anywhere, and she wasn’t sure if she was all right. Nearly as soon as they’d boarded the flight Monica felt a growing sense of separation. “Nearly there and missing home already, I think. Just a bit. Do you think we’ve done the right thing?”
Wendell’s face softened toward her, understanding her need for gentleness. Her favorite thing about Wendell was his kindness and ability to be warm and tender, despite his dizzying intellect and ability to voraciously dissect information and ideas. The man could have written a treatise on the ideals of logos, pathos, and ethos. (“And never the twain shall they meet,” and all that). Even still, he remained steadfastly gentle in spirit and his love for her was a calming draught in her most anxious moments.
“Darling, this was definitely the right thing to do. We’ve been plotting ‘our grand adventure’ for ages now. We got it all wrapped up rather quickly, I’ll grant you, but it’s been in the works for so long that it’s not a shock we managed that. We’re very adept at going after what we want, and we want this. We’ll be able to stay in touch with everyone, and soon they’ll all be knocking down our door to get away from the drab English weather and steal some of our sunshine. I hear you, Hampstead has been home for so long. It’ll be natural to miss it. But we’re going to blend right in and before you know it, we’ll be home again right where we are.”
Monica nodded. “You’re right, love. I know you are. I just have this feeling that I’m missing something rather significant that’s right… right in front of me.” She scrunched her nose. “We haven’t left the kettle on, have we?” She chuckled, shaking her head at herself, “I know it sounds silly but something feels amiss. I suppose I expected to feel nothing but naked excitement for this and instead I’m feeling rather wrung out.”
Wendell squeezed her knee, “well if it’s naked excitement you’re after…” he waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly, “I think the loo in the front might be big enough for two.” Monica slapped his hand lovingly. "Not on your life, Mr. Wilkins.”
“Ah, nothing for it but to try.” He shrugged gently. “The rest of it’s just your neuroses, Mon. It’s a big move, but you checked off all forty-seven of your checklists. Twice. I counted.”
1998 – March
Her mind raced through visions she couldn’t hold onto and her eyes fluttered rapidly as she ascended to consciousness. Another night, another dream she couldn’t remember; it was becoming problematic. She drew ragged breaths as tears fell; fat, hot, heavy rivulets of salt flowing down her cheeks. She did not want to wake Wendell up again but she hurt so, so much. Her heart felt like it was cleaving in two inside her chest and she just … needed a hug. She reached a tentative hand out to shake him but pulled it back before she could touch him. There was nothing he could do, she reasoned. It was just another stress induced nightmare. They couldn’t both sleep poorly and see patients all day.
Monica looked to the window as weak grey light filtered in, dawn was close enough that she could shower and put the coffee on and it wouldn’t be too ungodly early to start the day. She would brew it strong this morning. She sighed and flung the covers off, slowly rising out of bed.
As the just-this-side-of-too-hot water poured down over her head, Monica tried to remember the dream again. There were snatches of feeling, a deep aching grief coupled with a sort of horror. It was like staring into The Abyss whilst the Abyss bored itself into her soul. She snorted aloud at herself. If anything, her dramatics were the issue, not so much the dreams.
She closed her eyes and considered them; the dreams were a problem, but maybe not the problem. She hadn’t slept well since they got here last year, and Wendell was close to asking her to take a sabbatical from the practice for it. Her work wasn’t suffering, but she was. When she wasn’t waking in the middle of the night sobbing for no reason, she was slipping closer to mania during the weekends and even once, at work.
She had walked out of an exam room and to see a young girl with her mother, a pitiful scowl on the girl’s face as she pouted and a few tears crept down her cheeks. She couldn’t have been older than seven and she had wild curls on top of her little head. Monica dropped her patient file and stood there, frozen, staring at the duo. She stood there until they left, and then after, following their retreating figures with her eyes. There were tears silently streaming down her face, staining her top in dark circles where they landed. Wendell found her like that long after the girl had gone and sent her home for the day.
Later that night he came home with her favourite take away and a rare sweet treat, wanting to talk. But by then, Monica had forgotten what she was so upset about. That, of course, did not assuage Wendell’s concerns. Only perhaps deepened them. Monica understood why, of course. Well-minded people did not cry silently, unable to move, and then not remember why. She wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but they mutually decided it was the stress of the move that had done it.
Even though it had been nearly a year, and even though they were up and running their new practice and enrolling new patients and settling into their new home just fine, it was still a huge change to move continents. That was the only explanation.
Wendell took her on a long, lovely trip to explore Alice Springs and the surrounding areas to try to invigorate her sense of adventure and leave her stress behind. They saw so many grand and beautiful things on their trip, but the dreams came whether she was exhausted or not. She didn’t wake up crying in the middle of the night while they were there, though, and even for a few weeks after. So they reasoned stress was the only reasonable conclusion.
That had been only a few short weeks ago, and she had thought maybe things would be tapering off by now. No such luck, it would seem. She could hold out telling him until it happened again, at least. She could.
Monica sipped her coffee and waited for Wendell to come downstairs. She wanted to see him and touch him and talk to him, to know that her strange anxiousness wasn’t driving him away. He never faltered in his love for her, but she could tell it was bothering him that she was slipping into depressive states when they were living out their dream. His footsteps sounded on the stairs and she looked up to smile and greet him. “Morning, love.”
“Good morning my darling!” He swooped in for a kiss with his cheery words, she smiled and took another sip. He was a silly man. Her silly man, but silly nonetheless.
“Still feeling ok then? The trip still stirring up that old familiar sense of joie de vivre?” His tone was still light, joking, but she knew his question was genuine.
“I think yes, love. All seems well.” He beamed at her across the counter as he poured his coffee. They both preferred it, over tea, in the mornings. Possibly their cardinal sin.
The rest of the day passed typically. Patients came, Monica inspected mouths and prescribed clinical strength mouth washes, referred people to endodontists, and fitted crowns. It felt so normal that she dared to believe that she was actually improving, despite the way she woke up. Maybe, she thought, she just needed time. And that couldn’t be rushed.
She didn’t tell Wendell that she’d been unceremoniously dragged from sleep again.
Monica was screaming. There was a young woman on the floor in front of her screaming, too. There was … so much blood. The light was weak, the late afternoon light in England filtering down through windows she could not see. The air was thick, stagnant, and heavy. A woman was cackling wildly before her voice dropped too low for Monica to hear, but it sounded like the dangerous taunts of the mad. Monica was there, her knees bruising on the hard checkered tiles. She wanted to crawl to the girl, to stroke her matted head, comb through the bloody hair and comfort her. The girl whined and whimpered as a blade made its way back to her arm. “No .. no please! I don’t know! I don’t know!” Monica screamed again and reached out her hand to cup the woman’s face, her honey brown eyes boring straight into Monica’s own. For a moment, the girl’s brow furrowed, and then collapsed into tears. She whimpered mum, please… mummy… Monica almost made contact with the woman’s cheek as she writhed and screamed again, this time as she was yanked away.
Monica’s throat was ragged and dry as she woke up, the words “NO! HERRR------” escaping in a panicked shout. Wendell was gripping her arms, and she became aware that she was viciously kicking her feet. She was sweating, crying. As she sat up, a wave of nausea so strong hit her that she flung herself sideways out of the bed to keep from emptying her stomach onto the mattress, as she instead heaved on the floor.
“Monica! Oh my god, what’s happened? Are you alright, love?”
Monica simply wiped at her chin with the back of her hand, slowly nodding. She clasped her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes tightly. The sobs forced their way out as she sat there, fully broken apart.
Wendell insisted that it was time that she take a sabbatical from work, and that she call a doctor to see if there was anything she could do to reduce the dreams.