The Dream Cast

By Erin Artfitch

November 9. The best and worst day of my life.

I paced my minuscule apartment, plagued by a frenetic excitement that made my fingers twitch and gut clench. Outside, a frigid torrential downpour assaulted Portland, obscuring the cityscape.

Dad’s ringback music played in my ear. On the last note, he picked up.

“’Ello?” He sounded almost… groggy.

I frowned and held out my phone, quadruple-checking the time. “Were you asleep?”

Dad grunted, and I imagined him smoothing his bald head. “Yeah.”

“But it’s seven o’clock. We present the Dream Cast in two hours.” To Portland’s National Science Foundation panel. For official, generous grant funding. But Dad knew all that.

“I’m sorry, Lily-bear.”

I bit my lip, forcing back my irritation. “Look, can I run through my elevator pitch again?”

“Lily—”

“The Dream Cast projects one person’s consciousness into another’s during the REM cycle of sleep. But our most groundbreaking development? We can cast into the past, present, or future. A unique form of time travel—”

“Lily, stop. You’ve rehearsed this a dozen times. You’ll do great.”

“We. We’re going to do great.”

Dad didn’t answer, and I checked the connection. “Dad? You okay?”

His exhale made the line crackle. “I’m fine.”

“Just don’t be late, okay? I need you to explain the physics side.” I shivered as the rain crescendoed as if it were already seeping into my galoshes. Winter usually hit Portland early, but never before Veterans Day. Yet, if the temperature kept dropping, I’d face more than rain on my excursion to the panel.

“Thank you,” Dad said.

“For what?” Pressing the phone between my ear and shoulder, I gathered my files, notes, and presentation board.

“For caring. For being my daughter. For never giving up.”

I paused, unsettled for some reason. That feeling didn’t dissipate during the entire miserable walk to the panel.

Or when Dad didn’t show up for the presentation.

When my phone rang afterward, I answered on the first ring, eager to scold him—after I shared the good news.

Except, the call wasn’t from Dad. It was from the hospital.

***

I clutch a gleaming metal helmet connected by a mass of wires to my laptop. The Dream Cast might look like something out of a comic book, but it has the power to change the world.

Or, at least, my world.

A stampede of little feet thumps across the floor. Marc is watching our boys while I perform the Dream Cast’s first field test. My heart flutters as I type the date: November 9, 2015. I’ve dreamed of this moment since Dad’s car spun off the Casco Bay Bridge.

“This is for you, Dad.”

He smiles back at me from the crinkled picture taped to the bottom of my monitor.

Today, I’m finally getting my father back.

I don the helmet. It’s designed to instantly knock me out and synchronize with my father’s past dream world. I’ll have only two minutes.

Apprehension shivers through me, but I ignore it. Air rushes from my lungs as my mind is sucked through space and time. When the world stops spinning and my vision clears, I’m surrounded by wood-paneled walls and outdated brown shag carpet. Dad stands in front of his stove, pan-searing a fish.

Tears burn my eyes. Of course, he’s dreaming about frying fish in his own kitchen. I’ve missed him.

“Dad?”

He startles, but by the time he faces me, he’s already smiling. “Hey, Lily-bear. Good timing. You hungry?”

Minus the voicemail I’ve replayed over and over, I haven’t heard his voice in nine years. I stumble forward and grip his arms.

“Dad, y-you’re alive. You’re…”

He frowns. “So it seems.”

“Listen to me. We have only two minutes before I’m disconnected.”

“Disconnected? Sweetheart, what are you…” He analyzes his surroundings, eyes widening. “I’m dreaming.”

I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

A wide smile stretches his lips, and he pulls me to him. “Are you kidding? You’re real, and you’re here from the future?”

“Yes.” My voice is raw.

His excitement dies. “What’s wrong?”

My wristwatch vibrates. One minute left. I tell him about the bridge, the weather, and the car crash in half that time. When I’m done, he stares at me, probably trying to process. To understand the shrill desperation in my voice.

In the distance, a phone rings. My call, all those years ago. He’s waking up.

Dad shakes his head. “Lily, we agreed that we wouldn’t try to alter the timeline—”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Doing so could have unforetold consequences on the universe.”

“The universe will be fine. I won’t. I can’t live every day knowing I’ll never see you again. That my husband will never know his father-in-law. My sons will never hug their grandpa.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

Dad tilts my chin upward. “Lily-bear, I can’t outrun my fate. I don’t want to.”

“You should—”

“Think about what you accomplished because of my death. The Dream Cast. Your marriage. My grandkids. Will you even meet your husband if I don’t pass?”

I want to deny him. To claim the universe will rearrange itself to allow us this happily ever after. But the truth silences me. I met Marc at a GriefShare meeting.

Dad squeezes my shoulders. “Tragedies shape the future.”

Ringing echoes again, louder this time. The kitchen disappears and I slowly become aware of my fingers gripping my office chair. The dream is disintegrating.

Dad smiles. “Live for me, Lily-bear.”

I jolt awake to Marc and the boys scrambling down the basement steps. Leo leaps into my arms first. “Did it work, Mommy?”

My throat tightens because his smile is identical to Dad’s.

For the last nine years, I’ve cycled through the stages of grief—all except for acceptance. As that feeling settles on my chest like a warm blanket, I realize Dad’s right. Tragedies shape the future. They make us who we’re meant to be.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Erin Artfitch is a writer, photographer, and editor. She loves writing stories with moody characters, surprise endings, and a healthy dose of magic. You can find more of her work in Havok Publishing’s Legendary Anthology and Quill and Flame’s Mermaid Anthology. When she’s not writing, Erin loves exploring the countryside with her husband and daughters.

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