The Cure for Dreaming by Cat Winters

“Percy. How the blue blazes did I forget about him?” I massaged the aching bridge of my nose between my thumb and middle finger. “He’s going to think I’m an absolute loon.”
    â€œShall I send another note?”
    â€œNo. Thank you. I need some sort of reward for surviving this day.” I pushed myself off the wall and headed for the staircase.
    â€œOh, Miss Mead—I almost forgot, your mother’s birthday envelope arrived. I put it on your bed.”
    â€œOh? Thank you.” My stomach sank. “I suppose I had better go see what extraordinary adventures she’s undertaken this year.”
    I clambered up to my room with the same withered-hot-air-balloon sensation I’d experienced when Henry pulled me down from the theater’s ceiling.
    Halfway across the bedroom floor, my feet stopped. There wasn’t an envelope waiting for me on my pink bedspread.It was a ticket, a pale brown one with curved edges and the words ONE-WAY PASSAGE TO NEW YORK CITY written across the center in block letters. My skin warmed, and my ears buzzed. I rubbed my eyes and willed away the delusion, for that’s what it had to have been.
    I lowered my hands. The ticket disappeared, and a plain white envelope came into view, return address New York City. I picked it up and ripped it open.
    October 10, 1900
    My Dear, Darling Daughter,
    Can you really be seventeen years old, my funny little lamb? You’re more woman than girl now, which makes your poor mama feel like an ancient crone. My heavens, I was only three months younger than you are now when I became your mother. I hope and pray you don’t follow my same path to early motherhood. Don’t rush into relationships with boys, even if they are as handsome as a certain young dental apprentice who wooed me off the stage eighteen years ago. You know as well as I do about the heartbreak that can result when two fools hurry to play grown-up.
    On a much happier note, I’m giddy with excitement to announce I’m now established in New York City, playing Titania in a little theater production of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.” Oh, you should see my costume, my lamb—gold and purple silk, and a heaping crown of flowers upon my red curls.
    I’m settled in an apartment near Barnard College, and I think of you every time I see those smart young women walking around with books tucked under their arms. I remember you trying to read your little collection of fairy tales to me when you were just four years old and how much I marveled at your intelligence. Does your father allow you to be bright? Or does he still insist young ladies ought to be silent idiots?
    Oh, my darling, I would love to see what you look like as a grown-up young lady. As usual, I’m slipping a little bit of money into the envelope as a birthday present. If you’d care to come east and visit your wicked old mama, I would open my door to you with outstretched arms and hug away all the hurt I’ve caused you. I don’t believe I did you any good when you were a wee little thing, and I still strongly feel our separation was the best for all of us. However, I certainly know a thing or two about being a young woman, and I could take better care of you now than I did back then. I would even let you take a tour of Barnard, and perhaps I’d allow you to watch that delicious play
Sapho
, if the moralists don’t shut it down again.
    Happy birthday, my Olivia.
    Your Loving Mother
    A ten-dollar bill fluttered down to my lap.
    A Midsummer Night’s Dream
must have been paying Mother well—or else she had found herself another wealthy suitor with a fat billfold. I crouched down on the floorboards and slid out one of Father’s bright yellow cigar boxes from thedusty depths beneath my bed. Inside I kept my collection of Mother’s birthday and Christmas gifts, delivered in little envelopes