Scarecrow and Mrs. King
“Dreaming of Dragons”
A filler scene for the episode “Mission of Gold”
Written by Anne Riener
“Dreaming of Dragons”
A filler scene for the episode “Mission of Gold”
Written by Anne Riener
Reaching cruising altitude, the airplane levels out and I begin to relax, somewhat. Color begins to return to my fingers as I slowly release the white-knuckled grip I had held on the armrest only a moment before. I always hated that part of flying; the take-off, as well as, the landings. Ironically, I date an airline pilot, but even flying with him, I cannot relax when it comes to departures or touchdowns as Captain Curt calls them. I draw in a deep breath and slowly let it out, resting my head against the coolness of the cabin window. Maybe I’ll try to catch a little sleep. Cramped, I shift in my seat. The person sitting in the middle seat next to me is a rather large man and is taking up not only his seat, but half of mine. I sigh, it’s going to be a long flight.
Nevertheless, once we are in the air, I can usually look out the window and marvel at the sight before me. It’s like soaring with the dragons; swooping and zooming through thin, silvery wisps across the sky. “Heaven’s pillows,” Curt calls them. A small, strangled cry escapes my lips and I look up at the ceiling lights, swallowing hard several times. I won’t, I can’t, lose it here. I close my eyes, rubbing my aching temples. I know I will feel better, if I just let myself cry, but I have to stay strong. Strong for Amanda. Strong for Phillip and Jamie. And even strong for Lee. He sounded so lost, so hurt when he called me on the telephone, breaking the news about Amanda’s accident. My Panda. My late husband Carl, and I, had tried for years to get pregnant. Finally, after multiple tests, we were given the devastating news that we could never have a child. Then along came Amanda. She was our little miracle. I send up a silent prayer for one more miracle.
Why is it we call a woman who has lost a husband a widow and a husband who has lost a wife a widower, yet there is no word in the English dictionary for a parent who has lost a child? The pain is too great, I think. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. I choke back tears once more. I can’t bear the thought of losing my only child. "She's going to be fine, just fine," I tell myself. I then think about the boys back home, no longer little boys, but barely sitting on the cusp of manhood. Sure, they have their father but they are just getting reacquainted with him and getting used to a new stepmom. The boys need their mother.
The airplane hits a pocket of turbulence and I think about the enigma of one Lee Stetson. He has sure brought turbulence into our once peaceful home. Amanda running off with him because of some preposterous security mix-up. Federal agents all over the place, keeping the boys and me prisoners in our own home. Her being on his beck and call whenever he calls her. All night sessions in the editing room. Documentary films, my foot! It’s ridiculous! Still, I have never seen her so happy, so in love, not even with Joe.
Bone-weary fatigue has set in. I haven’t been able to sleep a wink since I got the phone call. A friendly stewardess stops in front of the row where I am sitting. She asks if I would like something to drink. “Alcohol, a stiff drink,” I think. Anything to numb the pain. But I am too numb already. “Water,” I finally manage to croak out. She returns a couple minutes later with a glass of ice water and a small bag of pretzels. I offer the pretzels to the man sitting next to me. There is no way I can hold anything down anyway. “Thanks,” he smiled briefly, and then returned to reading his book. Normally, I love to chat with people, but today I do not have the energy. I am grateful for small blessings.
I lean the seat back and close my eyes. I must have dozed off for a second, as I jerk myself awake listening to the sounds on the airplane. The gentle hum of the plane’s engines, people milling around and getting up to use the restrooms, low conversations, even the sound of an infant crying and a mother trying to calm her baby. The man next to me gives me an apologetic half smile as he sits back down, before becoming engrossed in his Tom Clancy novel again.
Alone with my memories, my mind wanders back to all that has happened to our little family in the past six years. The sudden passing of my beloved Carl, and not soon after Amanda filing for divorce from Joe. I knew it was for the best. A family needs stability, something Joe wasn’t willing to provide. Yes, as a lawyer he offered financial stability, but he was never home, choosing to gallivant all over the world instead. Amanda needed a partner, and he didn’t seem to be willing to fill that role. I helped fill in that missing gap, especially the first couple years. Helping Amanda with raising my grandkids. We took care of each other. We helped each other stay strong. Then she began to date this wonderful man, Dean. He was crazy about her. I pressed her about marriage. A mother wants to see her children happy. She scoffed about it being too soon. Not soon after, she began a new job at IFF and she lost all interest in him. I suspected an affair with someone at her office. My suspensions were confirmed when I finally met the mysterious Lee Stetson.
Lies. I’ve grown weary of the lies. My Amanda never used to lie to me. It’s so unlike her, I don’t want to believe it. Fishing. That’s what she said Lee was up to this week. It appears he did catch something. . . my daughter. Mentally, I give my head a shake. Accident. A car crash is an accident. Falling off a ladder is an accident. Getting shot, well, getting shot is not an accident. It’s absurd! Lee told me over the phone it was the wrong place, at the wrong time. I just don’t understand. A million questions run through my mind.
Dragons. "Amanda, you would tell absurd stories when you wanted something. Once it was a bicycle so dragons wouldn't catch you.” “Mother, I’m a spy. . . bomb in Washington. . . information to find the bomb;” suddenly the lines between fantasies and fabrications blur. “No,” a soft gasp escapes.
The man next to me, closes his book and gives me a look. “Are you alright?”
Frowning, I shake my head. A wave of dread has washed over me. “My daughter’s dying.”
“That’s rough,” the man said sincerely.
I turned away from him, blinking fiercely to force back the tears that had suddenly sprung to my eyes, but the floodgate had been opened; my whole body shook. It takes a moment for the tears to subside. I’m sure I am a mess with my eyes swollen and my face tear streaked. A feminine hand pops up in the seat in front of me, holding up a small travel size packet of tissues. I take them from her and wipe my eyes. I try to hand them back to her, but she tells me, “Keep them.” I nod my head in thanks. She continues, “I’ll say a prayer for her. . . and you.” I dab my eyes once more.
I turn to look outside the window once again and send up another prayer. I would give anything to get off the emotional rollercoaster I am on, but for now I let myself soar high above the cirrus clouds, dreaming of dragons.
Nevertheless, once we are in the air, I can usually look out the window and marvel at the sight before me. It’s like soaring with the dragons; swooping and zooming through thin, silvery wisps across the sky. “Heaven’s pillows,” Curt calls them. A small, strangled cry escapes my lips and I look up at the ceiling lights, swallowing hard several times. I won’t, I can’t, lose it here. I close my eyes, rubbing my aching temples. I know I will feel better, if I just let myself cry, but I have to stay strong. Strong for Amanda. Strong for Phillip and Jamie. And even strong for Lee. He sounded so lost, so hurt when he called me on the telephone, breaking the news about Amanda’s accident. My Panda. My late husband Carl, and I, had tried for years to get pregnant. Finally, after multiple tests, we were given the devastating news that we could never have a child. Then along came Amanda. She was our little miracle. I send up a silent prayer for one more miracle.
Why is it we call a woman who has lost a husband a widow and a husband who has lost a wife a widower, yet there is no word in the English dictionary for a parent who has lost a child? The pain is too great, I think. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. I choke back tears once more. I can’t bear the thought of losing my only child. "She's going to be fine, just fine," I tell myself. I then think about the boys back home, no longer little boys, but barely sitting on the cusp of manhood. Sure, they have their father but they are just getting reacquainted with him and getting used to a new stepmom. The boys need their mother.
The airplane hits a pocket of turbulence and I think about the enigma of one Lee Stetson. He has sure brought turbulence into our once peaceful home. Amanda running off with him because of some preposterous security mix-up. Federal agents all over the place, keeping the boys and me prisoners in our own home. Her being on his beck and call whenever he calls her. All night sessions in the editing room. Documentary films, my foot! It’s ridiculous! Still, I have never seen her so happy, so in love, not even with Joe.
Bone-weary fatigue has set in. I haven’t been able to sleep a wink since I got the phone call. A friendly stewardess stops in front of the row where I am sitting. She asks if I would like something to drink. “Alcohol, a stiff drink,” I think. Anything to numb the pain. But I am too numb already. “Water,” I finally manage to croak out. She returns a couple minutes later with a glass of ice water and a small bag of pretzels. I offer the pretzels to the man sitting next to me. There is no way I can hold anything down anyway. “Thanks,” he smiled briefly, and then returned to reading his book. Normally, I love to chat with people, but today I do not have the energy. I am grateful for small blessings.
I lean the seat back and close my eyes. I must have dozed off for a second, as I jerk myself awake listening to the sounds on the airplane. The gentle hum of the plane’s engines, people milling around and getting up to use the restrooms, low conversations, even the sound of an infant crying and a mother trying to calm her baby. The man next to me gives me an apologetic half smile as he sits back down, before becoming engrossed in his Tom Clancy novel again.
Alone with my memories, my mind wanders back to all that has happened to our little family in the past six years. The sudden passing of my beloved Carl, and not soon after Amanda filing for divorce from Joe. I knew it was for the best. A family needs stability, something Joe wasn’t willing to provide. Yes, as a lawyer he offered financial stability, but he was never home, choosing to gallivant all over the world instead. Amanda needed a partner, and he didn’t seem to be willing to fill that role. I helped fill in that missing gap, especially the first couple years. Helping Amanda with raising my grandkids. We took care of each other. We helped each other stay strong. Then she began to date this wonderful man, Dean. He was crazy about her. I pressed her about marriage. A mother wants to see her children happy. She scoffed about it being too soon. Not soon after, she began a new job at IFF and she lost all interest in him. I suspected an affair with someone at her office. My suspensions were confirmed when I finally met the mysterious Lee Stetson.
Lies. I’ve grown weary of the lies. My Amanda never used to lie to me. It’s so unlike her, I don’t want to believe it. Fishing. That’s what she said Lee was up to this week. It appears he did catch something. . . my daughter. Mentally, I give my head a shake. Accident. A car crash is an accident. Falling off a ladder is an accident. Getting shot, well, getting shot is not an accident. It’s absurd! Lee told me over the phone it was the wrong place, at the wrong time. I just don’t understand. A million questions run through my mind.
Dragons. "Amanda, you would tell absurd stories when you wanted something. Once it was a bicycle so dragons wouldn't catch you.” “Mother, I’m a spy. . . bomb in Washington. . . information to find the bomb;” suddenly the lines between fantasies and fabrications blur. “No,” a soft gasp escapes.
The man next to me, closes his book and gives me a look. “Are you alright?”
Frowning, I shake my head. A wave of dread has washed over me. “My daughter’s dying.”
“That’s rough,” the man said sincerely.
I turned away from him, blinking fiercely to force back the tears that had suddenly sprung to my eyes, but the floodgate had been opened; my whole body shook. It takes a moment for the tears to subside. I’m sure I am a mess with my eyes swollen and my face tear streaked. A feminine hand pops up in the seat in front of me, holding up a small travel size packet of tissues. I take them from her and wipe my eyes. I try to hand them back to her, but she tells me, “Keep them.” I nod my head in thanks. She continues, “I’ll say a prayer for her. . . and you.” I dab my eyes once more.
I turn to look outside the window once again and send up another prayer. I would give anything to get off the emotional rollercoaster I am on, but for now I let myself soar high above the cirrus clouds, dreaming of dragons.