Brooke | The Dreamweaver

I flew to Chicago to see Brooke, an old friend, after she sent me an ambiguous text message saying she needed to see me urgently.

I was too intimidated to respond to her message but I booked a ticket and arrived in Chicago the next day.

I knew she lived in the northern suburbs--–Wilmette, Winnetka or Highland Park--–and rented a car at the airport and drove towards Sheridan Road.

I knew what her apartment building looked like as she had recently posted photos of it on Facebook––a shot I particularly remembered was of her sitting in front of a large picture window at a counter in her kitchen drinking her morning coffee.

I drove around until I came to the building––part of a complex of attached, modern structures that looked nothing the Northshore homes I'd remembered growing up when my mom and I would take long Sunday drivers down the winding roads, stopping for a few moments of silence and reflection inside the Baháʼí Temple in Wilmette.

I parked my car and walked around the grounds a bit trying to decipher which entrances belonged to which buildings; in my observation, it appeared that Brooke's house was either an eight-story mansion, or part of a series of interconnected structures; either way it was clear that she had amassed a fortune as one of the most respected funeral directors in Illinois.

I followed a group of older women who seemed to know where they were going, judging by the authority in which they walked and carried themselves.

When I veered off course following a sign that read "ENTRANCE," one of the women called to me and said the entrance was the other way.

I finally entered the building and managed to get into the secured front door by merely staying with the group of women.

It seems the building's theme was mortuary science, as it looked like a museum adorned with funerary embellishments and even its own cemetery in the courtyard gardens. I imaged Brooke either owned the building or it was a thematic residence conceived for funeral directors.

I quietly broke away from the women and managed to find the building's mailroom, laundry facilities and storage area.

Looking at the mailboxes I found Brooke's apartment number––3B––and then walked into the storage room area and found her locker, which had a small refrigerator that when I opened it, saw a box of Hostess HoHos and I proceeded to open the box, take two of the snack cakes and placed them quickly into my backpack.

I made my way to the elevator bank and went up to Brooke's apartment and rang the bell. She answered the door wearing sweatpants and a black, nondescript concert t-shirt of a band I'd never heard of.

She seemed to have been awaiting my arrival as she was unfazed at the sight of me standing in her doorway having come from thousands of miles away.

Without as much as saying a single word, she took a step towards me, wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tighter than I'd ever been hugged. I stood there silently enveloped in her embrace.

Then I woke up.