Charly found herself re-reading her dreams over the next few days with a totally different perspective. To read them over to herself was one thing, but to have McKinnon reading them and knowing what they meant to her was going to be like letting him into her innermost thoughts. But then, he was willing to let her see his.
She sorted out some of the best for learning purposes, going back over several years. She was thankful now that she had kept them in loose-leaf form, so that she could be selective. To have him privy to all of them was just too threatening for the moment.
She found herself watching for the mailman on Monday morning and again on Tuesday. As soon as he pulled away from the mailbox, she would hurry out to retrieve her mail, hoping for the package from McKinnon. She was burning with curiosity to see what he had been dreaming.
When the package did arrive, it came in the night, and was tucked in between her front doors. She found it when she went out to check the weather Wednesday morning. Rushing inside, she poured a coffee and sat down. With trembling fingers, she tore open the large manila envelope and pulled out the typewritten sheets of paper.
Clipped to the top of the first page was a note, scrawled in his distinctive, firm handwriting.
"Here they are. This goes back to the first one I remember after our conversation on the subject, and includes every dream I've had since. Will keep on writing. Happy translating! T.G."
Charly had mailed some of hers off to him and expected that he would have received them already. Just knowing that he would be reading them made her feel very close to him.
She settled down more comfortably and began scanning the pages in front of her, images and sensations flooding through her as she allowed herself to drift with his dreams. A very strong sense of his personality began coming through to her and she read quickly to the last page.
Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back against the sofa and let the feelings flow for a few moments. Uppermost was a sense of pleasure at the quality of the self-awareness evident in his dreams, and the encouragement he was being given to continue. She roused herself and began writing swiftly, giving a brief outline of the general theme of his dreams, then a more specific translation of some of the symbols.
Time passed, with only the sound of the pen against the paper and the occasional rustle as she began a fresh sheet. When she finally ran out of words, she arched her back and rubbed the nape of her neck.