Once Upon A Dream

By Maureen McCauley

A witch's brew of maltreatment creates a Cinderella. Surviving that abuse requires believing someone will love you one day. But finding that love against impossible odds and without a fairy godmother is the trick.
"I only love good girls" her mother tells Emily. But no matter what Emily does to earn her mother's love, the brass ring is always out of reach. Like everyone who is powerless, Emily believes in fairy tales—maps to happily ever after.
At a ball, Emily meets Will who love bombs her with attention, gifts, and declarations of undying love. Everything she's dreamed of but never thought she'd have. Emily believes she is on the glidepath to happily ever after.
Full of twists and turns, this tautly written tale questions what love is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667898506

Book preview

She

1

It Doesn’t Take a Caul to See What’s Obvious

She fought her birth. Through the milky membrane of the caul cloaking her in clairvoyance, she saw the future: this mermaid skin she floated in would be the last protection she’d know. With the valor of the desperate, she resisted any twisting, turning, or squeezing. But the mechanical advantage of steel forceps could not be overcome. Down, down, down she went.

Her father awoke the minute she entered the world. As if summoned, he traveled to the hospital nursery. Even in a throng of bassinets, he recognized her immediately; he was staring at himself as an infant. He watched her tiny hands curl into fists and her legs kick as if she was protesting something. He immediately loved her fierceness.

Her mother had different feelings. This child, this girl, had made life difficult from the moment she was conceived. Morning sickness, swollen ankles, protruding belly—all constant reminders she no longer controlled her body. The baby’s gender compounded that distress

Certain the baby would be a boy, she hadn’t even thought about girls’ names beforehand. Michael was the only name she liked. It had been her father’s name and his father’s before him. It would have been her name as well if she had been a son instead of a daughter. No matter. She’d continue the family tradition with the boy she had prayed for. She was sure her favorite saint, who had never denied any of her requests, would come through for her again. But he hadn’t.

We could name our baby Michaela, her father suggested.

We can’t do that—it’s a boy’s name. It amazed her that someone with a PhD could be such an idiot.

It’s not. Besides, you like the name so much. He wanted to make her happy, not yet realizing how impossible that would be. He loved his wife, he loved his baby girl, he loved having a family. That was more than enough for him. It didn’t matter to him what formal name they gave their baby; he knew the many terms of endearment he bestowed on his daughter would be truer identifiers.

But something had to go on the birth certificate. We can’t let you leave until your baby has a name, a nurse joked.

I’m okay with not leaving. I’m getting a good rest while you take care of the baby.

Nurses tried to persuade her to breastfeed (you’ve got to be kidding), or keep the baby beside her in the room (how will I get my beauty sleep?), but she wouldn’t budge. They bottle-fed the baby they called NoNa for No Name, holding and rocking her between feedings, talking softly as they did, sensing that would end when baby and mother left the hospital.

One of the most beautiful babies they’d ever seen, the nurses said. A first-class baby, her father crowed. We’ll see is all her mother would say.

When NoNa was still unnamed hours before leaving, one of the nurses suggested choosing the name of someone who had been admired—a relative, a friend. She remembered a prom queen from high school days, an Emily.

How about naming your daughter Emily? the nurse asked.

Her mother shrugged. Fine.

2

If You Can’t See Something, Does It Exist?

When Emily was three, a garden snake slithered past her while she was sitting on a blanket in the yard. Stay still—it won’t hurt you . Since she could remember, a voice had advised, encouraged, and listened to her. Emily believed in things she couldn’t see.

She trusted this voice but never told anyone about it. Adults ridiculed children who communicated with the unseen, the Invisiblati. Imaginary friends they called them, relegating them to fantasy. Don’t listen to anyone but us.

Some of Emily’s playmates named their invisible friends; she did not. Her voice didn’t need a name—it was part of her, a wise, kind self, maybe one of the old souls she had overheard her grandmother talking about.

Alone in her bedroom, after she’d locked the door against intrusion, Emily talked to her voice about what had happened during the day: what she’d seen, who she’d played with, what she didn’t understand. When Emily spoke to her voice she felt she wasn’t alone; someone was there for her, a friend. She could say anything without fear of being shamed or blamed.

Will you always look out for me? Emily asked.

I will always be your friend.

Like the angel on the holy card I got for winning a spelling bee whose wings protected a little girl from falling into a river?

It doesn’t work like that. I can warn you of danger but only you can decide whether to heed the warning.

Whatever frequency Emily used to communicate with her voice became an Invisiblati beacon. Even as a tartan-skirted Catholic schoolgirl walking in line from classroom to church for daily Mass, it wasn’t unusual for someone Emily had never seen before, and would never see again, to fall into step with her and tell her things never spoken to another person. She listened as she walked, hands folded in prayer as prescribed, eyes down. If she could think of something to say that might lift the sadness she heard, she spoke. If not, she just listened. She sensed that listening was the important thing.

3

Learning to Navigate

When Emily was five, her father left his academic job to work for a company that launched satellites. The family’s fortunes improved, but he worked long hours and was away for weeks at a time during launches. When he was home, he’d take Emily to a nearby playground after dinner and then for ice cream or a popsicle afterward. Sometimes they’d walk past a pond with resident geese and watch them swim and dive for food.

Mommy, Mommy, Emily said after one of those excursions, Daddy let me feed the geese and he pushed the swing as high as I wanted to go.

Her mother looked up from the fashion magazine she was reading.

This has to stop, she told him. You are spoiling her. You are making it impossible for me to deal with her when you are not here. Which is often. No more trips to the playground. Do you understand me?

Fine.

From then on, Emily understood she shouldn’t mention any joy or happiness that came into her life to her mother.

I want you out of my hair, her mother told Emily after she decided that Emily could navigate the neighborhood by herself. Go anywhere, do anything, don’t come back until dinner. Emily loved being outdoors where it was quiet. No yelling, carping, berating, questioning. Her favorite place was a nearby wood where there was a creek she could wade in or sit beside. The sound of water finding its way past stones and fallen tree limbs allowed any chaos that had accompanied her to settle gently, leave quietly.

If for some reason she returned to the house during the day, her right to be there was questioned: What are you doing here? I told you that I didn’t want to see you until dinner. Emily learned that if she wanted anything, even a drink of water, she should ask another mother in the neighborhood. Sometimes the other mother offered Emily lunch or a snack.

Even when her father wasn’t away working on a launch, he was gone from the house before daylight. He had no idea what took place when he wasn’t there. Frequently, he brought work home with him and went immediately to his study and shut the door so he wouldn’t be disturbed. But he always took a break to read Emily a story and kiss her good night. My little wiener schnitzel he called her as he kissed her blonde head.

What’s a wiener schnitzel?

I’m taking liberties with German, he told her. It’s a cutlet and so are you. We are cut from the same DNA, wiener schnitzel. It also means that I love you a lot.

After he discovered that Emily could read Dr. Seuss and Winnie-the-Pooh by herself, he started on Grimm’s Fairy Tales. We’ll go through the Grimm Brothers and then Hans Christian Andersen. You can decide which you prefer. And why. Emily was familiar with Cinderella and Snow White from Disney movies, but there were other dark and gruesome tales like The Robber Bridegroom that she wasn’t acquainted with.

Emily’s eyes widened and she clutched her teddy bear as her father read the part in Robber Bridegroom about the severed finger. After her father finished reading, he asked, What do you think the moral of that story was?

Don’t get married.

That’s what your mother would say. But I think the story was written to teach that appearance and reality aren’t always the same thing.

I don’t understand.

"Remember that rock you found by the creek with shiny veins? You thought it was gold. But it wasn’t; it was pyrite, false gold. Real gold is rare and precious, Emily. Pyrite is common and worthless.

4

Sometimes a Catch Isn’t What You Thought It Would Be

Every year on Emily’s birthday, beginning with her seventh, her mother removed the silk gown and fingertip lace veil she had worn at her wedding from a box stored in the hall closet. The box also contained the orchid bouquet her mother had carried to the altar, formal wedding photographs of her dark-haired, dark-eyed mother and blonde curly-haired father, and black-and-white 3×5s of people Emily didn’t recognize. Mostly nurses in