Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine
Author's note: In this chapter, I introduce a character whose hair and coat are based on someone I saw and chatted with in a vintage store. About an hour after I finished writing this chapter, I went to a write-in event, and who should walk in but the lady from the vintage store...

It was Sunday, and as was Patricia's usual Sunday habit, she was at one of her favourite tea shops. It was raining, so she had picked one of the ones with the best interior atmosphere, and she smiled as she realised she was back at Trees, where she had overheard those girls mentioned “National Novel Writing Month”. Then, of course, she had been outside, and she had chosen it because she had wanted one of their delicious pumpkin chai lattes, but this week she was there because of the tree branches and music selection, not to mention the interesting people who usually frequented the cafe. She had her notebook out on the table and, instead of writing the next section of her novel, she was jotting down bits of dialogue. She hoped they would come in handy later on.

So far she didn't have a lot. There was a group of five university or college students crowding around a table on one side of her, and the few things she had heard them say were about some cryptic computer process or program or something. Patricia could use her computer well enough, but it sounded like this group was far more interested in the inner workings than she had ever been. Sentences laced with “python” sounded half-promising until they broke into “algorithm” and “big-endian” and Patricia doubted she would get much of use from them.

The pair on the other side of her were discussing politics, and she had no real interest in that, especially since there wasn't much chance it would be relevant to the 1940s situation. They were beautifully dressed, though, she thought. Again, not exactly relevant to the era in which her novel was placed, but perhaps she could throw some time travelers into the background where they would puzzle her characters but have no impact on the plot.

Describing them would at least give her practice, she thought, then smiled at herself, realising she just wanted an excuse to write about them.

The woman, who looked to be in her mid- to late- twenties, was much more brightly decked out than the man. To start with, she had bright purple eye shadow that set off her gorgeous green eyes – Patricia had twice already forced herself to look away to keep herself from staring. Her bold red lipstick also made a statement of independence and sensuality. Her hair added to the statement: a wonderful short pixie cut, with most bleached blonde, but at the front, framing her face, were two longer pieces in a vibrant fuschia. Her glasses, with quirky wings at the edges of her eyes, were a nearly identical shade of fuschia.

And then there were her clothes. Casually hung over the back of her chair was a leather trench coat of softest lavender. Patricia couldn't remember the last time she had seen a leather coat with such a brightness to it, and she wondered where the woman had found it. Not that she needed a new coat: she had more than enough clothes and coats to last her the rest of her life. But something bold and new would be lovely. Perhaps she could budget something for herself as a reward for this month's adventures in novel-writing.

The woman was wearing clothes which were just as bold and wonderful. She wore a simple shirt in bright blue, nothing fancy, just cotton with a round neckline and cap sleeves. Over it, however, she wore a delightfully patterned vest, in a purple so deep as to be almost black, and Patricia wished she could touch it, wished she knew what the fabric was. The large paisley pattern looked as if it were embossed into the cloth, but it gave an elegance and a richness that brought the plain shirt underneath to a much higher level of formality. Her long loose skirt was slightly lighter than the vest, but just as purple, and Patricia couldn't help herself thinking how that purple must coordinate with the softer purple of the jacket over the back of her chair. And beneath the table Patricia could just see the bottom of what looked to be white leather cowboy boots with lovely embroidering in – of course – purple thread. The entire ensemble made her wish to be young again, and Patricia wondered if May would ever consider anything similar herself. She would have to send her an e-mail with the description she had written down and find out what May thought about it. The vest, in particular, seemed like it would suit May's taste.

The man's outfit was plain by comparison, a simple navy pant and jacket over a striped grey dress shirt, everything exquisitely tailored, everything understating intelligence in the very good-looking Asian man's face. He looked to be of age to be the woman's father or professor or something, and Patricia enjoyed that the two had minds thoroughly engaged in conversation despite the difference in age. She smiled at the thought, wondering if perhaps other people thought the same when she and May were out for tea or dinner in public.

Well, Patricia acknowledged, glancing down at her nearly finished chai tea latte. It was time that she headed for home and did some cleaning. She had written her day's word count before coming out here, but had felt the need for something to fortify her alertness before moving on with her regular chores, and had hoped as well to find some inspiration for the coming days of her novel. That part had not worked, but she was definitely feeling more alert. Patricia picked up her big white cup and finished the last of the latte.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” a woman's voice broke in just as she started to gather up her purse and coat.

Patricia looked up, surprised, to find the woman she had just described addressing her. “Yes?” she asked.

“I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to have quite a bit of interest in us these past few moments,” the woman said. “Was there something you wanted at all?”

“Oh no,” Patricia smiled. “I'm writing a novel this month as part of a crazy endeavour and I came here to find some inspiration. Unfortunately my novel is set in the 1940s, so nothing I've seen or heard today has been much help, but I thought I would describe your beautiful outfit both for the sake of writing something today and so that I could send it to my granddaughter – I think she would love it.”

“Ah,” the woman said. “You're writing a novel in a month, you said?”

“Yes, indeed,” responded Patricia. “It's a world-wide event, called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. I'm told that all of us who try it are crazy, but apparently there are quite a few thousands of us around the world, and over a thousand just in Vancouver.”

“Very interesting! I love meeting crazy people,” the woman smiled, and the man across the table from her appeared to bite back a laugh. “Are you leaving, ma'am? You looked like you were getting ready to leave, but I would love to hear more about your novel, if you have a moment.”

Patricia laughed. “I was getting ready to go, but I would be happy to chat, if you are both interested in talking,” she said, glancing at the man, who nodded with a broad smile. “In that case, I'll just pull my chair closer to your table,” Patricia said, doing so. “I'm Patricia, by the way.”

“Kara,” the woman said, offering her hand and a firm shake.

“And I'm PJ,” the man told her.

“So how do you know each other?” Patricia asked, settling into her chair again.

“PJ is my dream reader,” Kara explained. “Which makes it incredibly amusing that he calls himself PJ, and which is also why I sometimes burst out laughing inexplicably when he starts talking shop about dreams.”

The man rolled his eyes.

“How fascinating,” Patricia said. “I've been having strange dreams lately, but I don't remember any of them. Just that they are quite powerful and that if I could only remember them I would learn something incredibly important.”

“Really,” said PJ. “May I see your hand?”

“My hand? Alright,” Patricia said, offering her hand as if to shake. PJ's soft dry fingers took hold of her wrist and turned it over, so that he could look at her palm. His fingers traced the spidery lines from her wrist towards her fingers.

“Tell me what you remember,” he said, gently putting pressure on the pads of the fingers of one hand.

“I don't -”

“Don't tell me you don't remember. You remember that it's somehow important. Tell me how that feels to you. How do you know?”

“I wake up convinced that I've just let something crucial slip my mind,” she said thoughtfully. “Like someone has just told me something.” The slight pressure on her finger pads increased. “Something about Alfred...”

The pressure eased. “Who's Alfred?”

“My husband,” Patricia said. “He died four years ago.”

Pressure increased again. “What about Alfred?”

“A message for him. Something important.”

“Who is it from?” A slight squeeze, and PJ's fingers moved from all her finger pads to the top and bottom of her index finger.

“I... don't think I know,” she said. “But I know the messenger somehow.”

“Who is the messenger?” Again a shift in pressure on her finger, slightly decreasing, then increasing again.

“There was a familiar pose he used...”

“The messenger is a him?”

“Yes.” How did she know?

“Where do you know him from?”

PJ released her hand, and suddenly she knew. The rabbit. “The rabbit,” Patricia said wonderingly. “He had the same pose, sitting up on his haunches with his ears upright, staring straight at me, except in the dream he was asking about Alfred.”

“A rabbit?” PJ asked, resting his hands face down on the table and looking Patricia in the face, rather than down at her palm. He had very good looking grey eyes, she thought, reminded of Alfred's eyes of the same colour.

“Yes, the rabbit,” Patricia laughed suddenly. “Thank you – I don't know how you managed to pull that out of me, but I think that might actually help!”

“You are most welcome,” PJ said. “But now that I have, please do explain the rabbit! I've never had that reaction before. Sometimes it's a fictional character, of course, but I've never had someone tell me an animal was sending a message about or for her dead husband, nor with such conviction that the animal really is the one with the message.”

“Yes,” Kara added her interest. “First you're writing a novel, and now you're getting messages from rabbits. I'm fascinated! Please tell us more, Patricia.”

And so Patricia found herself explaining about the arrival of the rabbit on her balcony, and then had to backtrack to the rabbit ears at the kick-off party, and again ahead to May and the write-in.

“Wow,” said PJ after Patricia had finished. “So how do you think your dream fits in with this?”

“I'm not sure,” Patricia said. “But when I've spoken to the rabbit, he has sat up on his haunches, just the same as I saw in the dreams, and acted as if he were listening. And I've already accepted that there is something strange going on with rabbits and this whole National Novel Writing Month thing, so I might as well just go with whatever comes, right?” She paused. “My husband would be proud of me. He always wanted me to be more open with whatever happened, rather than what I thought was happening. So when I get home I'll tell him about Alfred, and then I'll see what happens.”

"If you do actually wake up remembering your dream, write it down," PJ said seriously. "It's very easy to forget within a couple hours, or forget details that might be important later even though you might not think them important at the time, or think that you couldn't possibly forget anything because the dream was so fascinating. It's also easy to make up details in your head afterwards. Oh, and don't forget to include how you felt and how you feel thinking about it after - every detail can be important."

"Thank you PJ," Patricia said. "I'll be sure to take that advice."

“Will you be here again next week?” Kara asked. “I'd love to hear about whatever happens next with this rabbit.”

“Sure,” Patricia answered. “I could be here at the same time next week. It fits with my Sunday schedule.”

“Besides, you haven't told us anything about your novel yet,” PJ added. “Sorry to disappoint you ladies, but I need to head out. I have another appointment later.” He stood up and pulled on his coat, and Patricia instantly revised her earlier opinion that Kara's clothing was more fascinating than PJ's, for PJ was now wearing what looked like Joseph's Technicolour Dreamcoat. The fabric selection was impeccable and again, the tailoring was fantastic – and Patricia felt she could fall into a reverie just seeing it.

“Wow,” Patricia breathed, and PJ laughed at her expression.

“Bye ladies,” he said, and swept out majestically.

Kara smiled at Patricia. “Isn't his coat fantastic? That's how I met him – he pulled it on at another coffeeshop – the other Trees, the one on Water Street – and I was drawn as if by magnets to talk to him about his coat.”

“It is absolutely glorious,” Patricia agreed, and checked her watch. Whoops – if she was going to be home and have eaten dinner before May made her usual Sunday call, she would need to head out now as well. “Sorry to run, Kara,” she said. “I need to get home pretty soon. Perhaps I'll see you next week.”

“Thank you for the enjoyable discussion,” Kara said. “And for telling me about this National Novel Writing Month adventure – good luck with yours!”

“Thank you,” Patricia said with a smile as she wrapped herself in her wool coat and picked up her purse. She had planned earlier to bus her own mug, but it looked like one of the baristas had been by without her noticing. She smiled at the girl behind the counter, thanked her, waved to Kara, and stepped out the door on her way home.




Patricia made herself eat a quick dinner, salad and a bowl of leftover soup, and make herself a pot of creme brulee-flavoured honeybush tea before she let herself move to the rabbit cage. She needed to get the day's necessities out of the way before she got distracted by the rabbit and the phone call from May and so on.

But now she had finished all that boring stuff, and she could talk to the rabbit. She wondered if it had a name. She knew it had been talking to her in her dreams – surely if she asked it would tell her its name, but would she remember?

Well, it couldn't hurt.

She moved the blanket from the top of the cage over to the side facing the living area, in order to shield the rabbit from the lights she had turned on in her living room.

“Hello, Mr. Rabbit,” Patricia said, and waited while the brown rabbit lifted itself up from its nest in the far corner. He came to the side closer to her and sat up on its haunches, and now she was certain that this was what she remembered from her dreams. She smiled at him. “I'll feed you first, but then I'm going to have a little chat with you.”

She scooped a bunch of small rabbit pellets into the dish in the cage, noticed that the level of liquid in the water bottle was getting low, and detached it from the cage to fill it. She re-attached the bottle, noticing the rabbit was still in the same pose. She settled herself into her chair and poured herself a cup of tea, then looked at the rabbit again.

“Well, Mr. Rabbit. I feel like you might know me better than I know you, so I'm going to introduce myself,” she said as a way to get started. “My name is Patricia. I would appreciate it if you could try to tell me yours tonight, since I believe you're communicating with me via my dreams. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but I had a little help this afternoon.

“I think you've been asking me about my husband, Alfred. He died four years ago, so if you wanted to get in touch with him, I'm sorry, he isn't here. However,” she paused and gave the rabbit a long look before taking a big sip of her tea. “I also believe you are somehow involved in what is happening with the novelists for this National Novel Writing Month thing, as well as with whatever has been affecting my granddaughter, which means that I'm involved too. I think there's something about plot bunnies involved, but I don't really know what that means. I'm trying to learn more, but I don't really know where to start.

“So Mr. Rabbit, whatever it is that you want, whatever it is that you hoped my Alfred could help you with, please give me some more details tonight. I'm afraid I won't be able to pass them on to my husband, but I will do the best I can to help you as well.”

And Patricia nodded to the rabbit, and settled back in her rocking chair, nursing her lovely cup of tea.

Patricia had just finished her second cup when the brrrrrt of the phone broke into her thoughts. She glanced at the clock: just after 6o'clock.

"Hi May," Patricia said as she picked up the phone.

"Guess what grandma!" May said excitedly, but before Patricia could answer, she kept talking. "I've wanted to tell you since I found it on Friday, but I made myself wait until tonight. Also I finished my homework before I let myself explore it, which makes me quite proud of myself." She ground to a halt.

"So what is 'it', dear?" Patricia asked with considerable amusement. Sometimes May surprised her with her maturity, but other times, she was exactly like a teenager.

"The forums!" May's voice exploded with glee. "On the NaNoWriMo website."

"Forums?" Patricia echoed.

"They're like... virtual meeting spaces or noticeboards where, on these ones - they have them for other topics and things too, but not on the NaNoWriMo website, obviously - anyway on these ones they're for people in NaNoWriMo to talk about things," May explained. "There are sections of the forums for specific regions, so there's one for Vancouver, for example, and one for Victoria, and lots of other ones, and ones for people with specific topics, or just for chatting, or for gaining plot ideas, or for doing research."

"Interesting," Patricia said. "I think that must be where I found out about the kick-off party for Vancouver, but I didn't realize people could converse there."

"It's so cool, grandma," May told her. "If it's too complicated for you to figure out on your own, or if you don't have time, I can show you when I come visit next." She paused. "I guess if I come up again this month, anyway."

"Figure out if there's a time that won't interfere with your school work too much, probably a weekend, and ask your mom, then, dear," Patricia said. "I'd be happy to have you, and I'd love for you to show me these forums that have you so excited."

"Okay!" May answered, and Patricia could almost see the grin on her face.

"And how is your novel going?" Patricia asked.

"Oh... well... not so good," May answered. "My murder mystery keeps turning into a romance with a love triangle, and then I think about that siutation with Alex and Chrissie, and I get frustrated and stop, and then when I open it up again later or the next day, it's all the same problem all over again. So... yeah. Not well."

"That's funny," Patricia said thoughtfully. "Not that you're having trouble writing, I mean, but that you're stuck on a love triangle. I've been having a similar plotline trying to sneak its way into my novel. I hadn't thought before... we thought the rabbit issue was mixed up in what was happening in your head... Maybe this whole situation with you and Chrissie and Alex is related to the plot bunny or whatever which is trying to get us to write it into our novels..."

As she spoke, Patricia leaned to her right so that she could see past the back of her rocking chair into the rabbit cage. As she had half-expected, the rabbit was scrabbling at something in the bottom of the cage, looking agitated. Patricia wondered if he was trying to find something in particular, or if he simply knew they were discussing something important and that he had had some part in - of which she was now convinced. "Also," she added. "I think there's something about your grandfather mixed up in all of this, but I don't know how just yet. But he also used to write stories with love triangles."

"Grandpa?" May asked. "I had no idea he was into writing, grandma."

"I'll see if I can find you some of his old stuff, dear. Maybe after I finish writing my own novel. I'm sure there are a few notebooks around."

"Thanks grandma," May said. "That would be awesome!"

"Consider it done, then," Patricia said with a smile.

"That's strange, though, grandma," her granddaughter said thoughtfully. "Isn't it a bit unlikely that the one plot that strikes me personally, as well as both of our novels, in a way, is the plot that grandpa apparently liked best?"

"Yes..." Patricia said. "It is strange indeed."

"I just get the feeling that we don't have all the pieces yet," May said.

"I know what you mean, love," Patricia said. "But I might have a way to find out a little more. I'm not sure yet - I can let you know in a few days - but it has to do with this rabbit."

"With the rabbit?" May asked. "Sounds interesting, grandma. Let me know how it turns out!"

"Alright, May. Thanks for calling."

"Talk to you soon, grandma!" May said, and Patricia settled her phone back on its cradle. She poured herself another cup of tea and glanced at the clock. It was early yet; she would do the day's crossword, check her email, then go to bed.

She smiled in anticipation of a night with interesting dreams.