A Pair of Dreamers
When Kimberly Boyer and Frank Gilmore met, as teenagers, at a high school dance, each recognized a kindred soul in the other. It was the first dance of their junior year, a homecoming celebration for the football team. Although Kimberly, who had only just moved to Massachusetts at the end of August, was an attractive young woman, Frank was the only boy who took an interest in the new student from New Jersey. The other males had eyes only for the popular homecoming queen and her royal court.
"Having fun?" he asked as he approached her from behind.
Kimberly turned at the sound of Frank's voice and replied honestly, "Not really."
"Me either. I don't know why I'm here. I usually don't come to these things. I'll probably hang around for another half an hour and then go home and play video games."
The two students got themselves a glass of fruit punch—courtesy of the PTA—and sat down on the gym bleachers to talk. After fifteen minutes of conversation, they discovered that they had a lot in common: both enjoyed the same movies, watched the same television shows, read the same books and listened to the same music. More importantly, they were both dreamers.
"Someday I want to live in Paris and become a fashion designer like Coco Chanel. I've always been fascinated with haute couture," Kimberly declared.
"I plan to live in England, preferably in an old thatch-roofed cottage in a quiet country village in the Cotswolds," Frank said. "Or maybe the Lake District."
"And what will you do there?"
"Write mystery novels."
Kimberly was impressed. She had always wanted to meet someone who appreciated the arts as much as she did. Most of the teenage boys she knew were only interested in football or cars.
"What are your plans for college?" she asked.
"I'd love to go to Brandeis; it has one of the best creative writing programs in the country. What about you?"
"I want to apply to Parsons School of Design in Greenwich Village."
"Greenwich Village? Please tell me you're not going to start quoting Jack Kerouac," he laughed.
"No, I'm strictly a Rimbaud kind of person."
Before either of them knew it, the dance had come to an end, but the romance that was kindled that night in the high school gymnasium would continue for years to come.
* * *
Like most dreamers, Kimberly and Frank Gilmore were to discover that real life fell far short of their lofty goals. After high school graduation, both attended the state university and then took jobs working for the local school district: Kimberly as an art instructor and Frank as an English teacher. Still, the two young people were happy. They lived in a nice community, had steady jobs, were in good health and, most importantly, they had each other. And despite not having gone to Brandeis or Parsons, their dreams were still being kept alive.
"We'll work for a few years," Frank would often predict, "and then we can move to England. While we may not be able to afford that thatch-roofed cottage in the Cotswolds or Lake District yet, I'm sure we can find an inexpensive apartment somewhere."
Kimberly had given up her dream of becoming a fashion designer and now aspired to be an artist.
"I still think we should move to Paris. I'd like a garret in the Montmartre district where I can paint. Finances will be tight at first, but I can always set up a booth on the street and paint portraits of the tourists to make extra money."
While the newlyweds did not see eye-to-eye on their proposed future home, they did agree that they were not going to spend the rest of their lives in their small New England town. They were meant for bigger and better things, and until such time as they actually made the transatlantic journey, they had their dreams and their love to sustain them.
Shortly after the Gilmores' third anniversary, however, Kimberly discovered she was pregnant. She had always wanted children and longed to be a mother, but only after she established herself in France. Fate, unfortunately, had other plans.
In order to support his family, Frank accepted a promotion to the head of the high school's language arts department. He also taught creative writing at the University of Massachusetts two nights a week. Despite these necessary changes, he never gave up on his dreams. The cottage in the Cotswolds had not vanished; it simply moved a little further into the future. His wife, meanwhile, became more pragmatic. Her dream of living in the City of Light evaporated in the reality of paying a mortgage, changing diapers and clipping coupons.
While she abandoned the idea of becoming a painter in Paris, Kimberly did manage to put her artistic talent to good use. She quit her teaching job in order to be home with her daughter and took freelance jobs as a commercial artist. While painting signs, illustrating school textbooks and creating silk screen tee shirts would not fall under her definition of "art" per se, these jobs not only helped pay the bills but also enabled the mother to put aside a little money for her daughter's college education.
One night over dinner, Frank began discussing the future—as he did three or four times a week.
"I was thinking I might begin my first novel when the school year ends."
Although he taught a summer writing course at the college, he had a lot more free time on his hands during July and August.
"Um hmm," his wife replied perfunctorily as she tried feeding a spoon of Gerber organic green beans to the baby.
"You don't seem too enthused about my decision," he noted with disappointment.
Frank's comment was ill-timed, having been made at the same moment Savannah spit out her food and knocked the full container of green beans off her highchair tray and onto the recently washed floor. The frazzled mother took her frustration out on her husband.
"You've been talking about writing that book since we were in high school, and I've yet to see you actually sit down at the computer and type anything."
Her words were a blow to Frank's masculine pride, and he finished his meal in moody silence. After dinner he retreated to the family room where he watched an episode of Midsomer Murders on DVD. As Barnaby and Jones investigated the hit-and-run death of a Midsomer Market doctor, the would-be writer dreamed of one day seeing his own fictional detective brought to life on television.
* * *
When Savannah Gilmore turned three, her parents enrolled her in a preschool. With more time to devote to her work, Kimberly was able to land a contract to illustrate books for a new children's author. To her delight and astonishment, the books sold well. After the first book of the series earned both a Newbery Medal for the author and a Caldecott Medal for the illustrator, Kimberly decided to become a full-time artist.
"I'm going to hire a contractor to build a studio above the garage," she told her husband, who was still working two jobs.
"That's a good idea," he agreed. "Space above the garage can only increase the value of the house when we sell it."
Kimberly rolled her eyes.
Poor, deluded Frank still believes he's going to become a novelist and live in some David Winter cottage in England.
Maybe, if they managed their finances carefully, they would someday be able to travel and see the places they had once dreamed about, but she seriously doubted they would ever make a permanent move to Europe.
It was more than a year later that the English teacher put his first words on paper—or rather, in a Microsoft Word file. With some difficulty, Frank created a five-page outline—double-spaced and in a large font—that was long on character names and setting descriptions and short on story details. After more than a dozen revisions of his outline, he was no closer to developing the plot than he had been after writing his initial draft.
"How's the book coming?" Kimberly asked as she prepared for bed one evening.
"I'm still working on the outline," her husband replied.
"Does it normally take that long to do an outline?"
"Cut me a break, will you? I'm a novice at this, a neophyte," he objected, inserting SAT vocabulary words as he usually did whenever he felt his self-esteem dropping.
"When do you think you'll actually start writing the first chapter?"
His self-esteem went down a few more points.
"I don't know. Why? What's the rush?"
"No rush. I just thought you were determined to write the book this time."
Self-esteem reached rock bottom.
"I am. But I don't want to just rush through it. This is my first novel; I want it to be good."
With a barely audible sigh, Kimberly got into bed, turned out the light on her night table and went to sleep.
* * *
After receiving the Caldecott Medal, Kimberly was overwhelmed with job offers. This put her in the enviable position of being able to choose what jobs she wanted to take and to decide how much she wanted to charge for her services. Unfortunately, like most working women, as her career advanced, she found it increasingly difficult to maintain her house and take care of her daughter. There just were not enough hours in the day.
"I need help," she confessed to her husband. "I'm making enough money that I can hire a cleaning lady to come in two days a week, but I still need help with the cooking and with taxiing Savannah to and from school, Girl Scouts, gymnastics ...."
Frank looked at his wife questioningly. Kimberly had hoped he would connect the dots and know what she was about to ask him, but he didn't.
Praying her husband's fragile self-esteem could take another hit, she took a deep breath and blurted out, "I think it would be best for the family if you were to quit your job and become a stay-at-home father."
Silence.
Kimberly held her breath as she waited for her husband to respond. Meanwhile, Frank was trying to assess the implications of his wife's suggestion. Finally, a smile spread across his face.
"This is perfect!" he exclaimed. "I can stop teaching and finally concentrate on my book. Who knows? Two years from now we might be able to finally say goodbye to New England and hello to the Cotswolds."
"That's right," Kimberly said with relief, but she did not think for one moment that her husband would actually write the book that he had been outlining for more than a year.
Surprisingly, Frank took to the new role of househusband like the proverbial fish to water. He woke up every morning at six, prepared breakfast and drove Savannah to school. When he returned home, while his wife was busy drawing in her studio, he made beds, did laundry, washed dishes and vacuumed carpets. The house was cleaner than it had ever been with Kimberly in charge; in fact, it was virtually spotless.
It was not that Frank was fastidious by nature. It was that he wanted to keep busy. As long as he was immersed in household chores, he did not have to sit in front of his computer and face the daunting task of transforming his oft rewritten outline into a full-fledged novel.
With great effort, he finally began his narrative, but it took him three months to write the first ten pages and then another four to rewrite them.
Two more years passed, and Frank managed to churn out five chapters over a total of one hundred and thirteen pages. Even he had to admit what he had written was nowhere near the caliber of Agatha Christie, Martha Grimes or Caroline Graham. Still, he kept faith with his dreams. Although the road to becoming a successful author was proving to be bumpier than he had imagined, he was still confident it would eventually lead to his desired destination.
It was only when Kimberly was nominated for and won a second Caldecott Medal that the clouds in front of Frank's eyes began to dissipate. His wife was a success in her chosen field albeit not the field she had chosen when they first met. And him? He did not even have a job beyond cleaning the house, cooking meals and helping Savannah with her homework.
My life is a joke, he thought as he dressed for the awards dinner.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed and buried his head in his hands.
I'm not a writer, and I'm no longer a teacher. What I am is a total failure!
He was still only partially dressed when Kimberly called up to him, "Are you almost ready?"
"In a minute," he lied. "I'm just putting my shoes on."
Kimberly could tell from the hangdog expression on his face when he came downstairs that something was troubling Frank.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You look like you just lost your best friend," she said as she wrote down phone numbers for Savannah's babysitter.
"I'm okay."
She looked at her watch and announced, "We'd better get going. There's bound to be a lot of traffic going into the city at this hour."
Frank started the car and drove toward the interstate.
"I was thinking," Kimberly said, "maybe we should take a nice vacation next year. We can afford it."
Her husband shrugged unenthusiastically.
"I've been looking online, and there are a number of packaged tours that go to both England and France."
"There's no need to patronize me."
"I'm not patronizing you! Whatever gave you that idea?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why not? Look, Frank, I know when something is bothering you. What is it?"
He turned toward her, but before he could say a word, a car from the opposite side of the highway crossed the median and struck the Gilmores' Subaru head-on.
* * *
"Honey, it's time to get up."
Where am I? Kimberly thought as her eyes focused on the unfamiliar surroundings.
Frank walked into the room, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and two buttered scones.
"Your breakfast, my darling."
Kimberly stared at her husband in awe.
"You look different."
"I do?" he laughed. "By different, I hope you mean better."
Aside from the beard and a slight increase in weight, he looked basically the same, but his manner had changed. This was not a Frank Gilmore who suffered from low self-esteem. This was a man who lived life to the fullest and enjoyed every minute of it.
"I'll bet you thought I forgot what day it is," he said, taking a jeweler's box out of his pants pocket.
"It's not my birthday," she said with confusion.
"Your birthday's in November, as if you didn't know. And it's not our anniversary, which is in June."
"Then why the gift?"
"Don't I always buy you a little token of affection whenever you have a new show opening at the gallery?"
Kimberly ran her hand through her hair.
"Gallery?" she echoed. "What gallery? What's going on?"
"I don't know what delightful little game you're playing," Frank laughed, "but you'd better get up and get dressed if you want to be there on time. You don't want to keep the critics or your fans waiting."
"Where's Savannah?" she asked, suddenly fearful for her daughter's wellbeing.
"Who?"
"Savannah, our child."
"We don't have any children. You must have hit your head harder than you thought. Maybe you ought to have a doctor look at it."
"We do have a daughter. Her name is Savannah, and she attends New Coventry Elementary School."
"New Coventry? Are you having a flashback? Honey, we left America more than ten years ago."
Kimberly jumped out of bed and ran to the window. Outside, the Cape Cods and saltboxes were gone. In the distance was an English country cottage.
"What are we doing in England?" she demanded to know.
His manner abruptly changed.
"Hey, you're serious, aren't you?"
"Yes, damn it! The last thing I remember we were driving to the awards dinner in Boston."
"What awards dinner?"
"To pick up my second Caldecott Medal."
Frank shook his head.
"You're a painter, one of the most promising artists in Europe. Why would you be illustrating children's books?"
"What about you? What do you do?"
"No bump on the head, no matter how serious, could make you forget about my novels. A Death in Chipping Norton? Murder at Oxford? The Stranger from Southampton? Surely you recall my detective, Chief Inspector Timmons?"
"STOP IT!" Kimberly shouted. "This isn't real! This is like one of your dreams."
"Yes, our life has been a dream. One big, beautiful dream-come-true. I've had three mystery novels on the bestseller list, and you're a world-renowned artist. We have a cottage in England and an apartment in Paris. We have everything we've ever wanted."
"No! We have a daughter and a home in New Coventry."
For a moment, the self-assured, bearded, somewhat plumper Frank Gilmore was replaced by the man Kimberly knew and loved.
"We did?" he asked sadly. "Don't you mean you did?"
A sudden pain shot through Kimberly's brain, and her hands went to her head. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was lying on a gurney in the recovery room at the hospital.
"What happened?" she asked the nurse who was changing her IV drip.
"You were in a car accident."
"Where's my husband?"
"He's still in surgery, Mrs. Gilmore."
An orderly took Kimberly to her room where she was given pain medication. Within moments, she nodded her head and fell asleep.
* * *
Kimberly was lucky. With the exception of her three broken ribs, her injuries were mostly minor: a bump on her forehead, several contusions on her arms and a few scratches on her cheek.
The day after the accident she was well enough to sit in a wheelchair and was rolled into her husband's room. She stifled a cry when she saw him lying on the bed, surrounded by life support systems and his head covered with bandages.
"Has there been any improvement?" she asked the doctor who was shining a light into Frank's eyes.
"Not yet, but you mustn't give up hope. It's still too early to tell. He might come out of the coma."
Kimberly took her husband's hand in hers and spoke to him.
"Frank? Can you hear me?"
There was no response.
A week after Kimberly was released from the hospital there was still no change in her husband's condition. Although his body no longer required machines to keep it alive, there was minimal brain activity. Since there was little the hospital could do for him, Frank was sent to a long-term care facility. Kimberly faithfully visited him once a week, although he never opened his eyes and never acknowledged her presence.
"Poor Daddy!" Savannah cried the first time she was allowed to accompany her mother to the nursing home. "How sad to be in that bed all day and not know what's going on in the world around you."
Kimberly smiled and put her arms around her daughter, comforting the child. She, herself, did not grieve, however, for she knew that although Frank's body was slowly wasting away on a bed in a long-term care facility, his mind and spirit were far away, in a cottage in the Cotswolds. She had no doubt he was sitting at a desk, writing his next bestseller and enjoying the view of the English countryside, for unlike his wife, he had never settled for reality, preferring to remain a dreamer for the rest of his life.
Salem is a big dreamer. His latest dream is winning the World Poker Tournament.
