Dreams Read online

  SERENA J. BISHOP

  Serena J. Bishop — Dreams

  Copyright © 2019 by Serena J. Bishop

  Published by Eos Publishing

  https://eos-publishing.com

  First edition: 2019

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art credit: May Dawney Designs

  Editing credit: Eanna Robert at Penmanship Editing

  ISBN

  EPUB: 9789492935168

  MOBI: 9789492935175

  PAPERBACK: 9789492935151

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  DEDICATION

  To my parents.

  PROLOGUE

  LEELA SHIELDED HER eyes from the early sun and watched the lone male silhouette of her farmhand walk toward her through the dry brush of the high desert. The outline of the rifle over his shoulder led her to believe he had been on a potentially messy detail.

  She wanted to yell but knew he would not be able to hear. To pass the time while he hiked toward her, she pulled on her work gloves and began to load boxes into the bed of her pickup truck. The activity helped stave off the chill of the late October air. She glanced to the west and saw the snowcapped mountains of the Oregon Cascades, and thought that at least it was warmer where she was.

  Her land was a much more suitable environment to raise her animals.

  She raised and loved a few dozen dairy goats that produced milk as equally delicious as it was suitable for making soaps and lotions. Although, she could only manufacture bath products on-site at Bakshi Farm. Someday, she would be successful enough to have pasteurization facilities on-site and not ship the milk to others. In ten years, she would be making her own yogurt and cheese. If that wasn’t living the American dream, she didn’t know what was.

  Leela loaded the last of the boxes and retrieved her buzzing phone from her pocket. She rolled her eyes at the caller: ‘Couch Doc.’

  As she texted a response to her therapist, Leela thought for someone whose job it was to see that she was on level, he had a lot of abandonment issues. Canceling one appointment didn’t mean she was in a downward spiral. It meant she had to sell soap.

  With her gloves off and phone away, she rubbed her hands together for warmth. As she looked down at her boots, something else came to her attention that could provide a remedy to her chilled digits. She leaned down to the open pen beside her truck and picked up a golden bundle of heat and cuteness while the man with the rifle stopped before her.

  “How many?” she asked as she clutched the baby goat closer to her chest, prepared to mourn the loss of her herd.

  “None, but I definitely saw wolf tracks,” Keith said in his slight Texan accent as he adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. “After I’m done milking, I’ll call Jorge and see if he can help me patch the fence hole.”

  “If the farmers’ market is slow, I can come back early to help. Or shoot.”

  A puzzled expression crossed his weathered features. “There’s just something strange about a vegetarian hunting.”

  “It’s not ‘hunting.’ If something is on my property, risking the lives of my goats or employees, it’s a protective measure.” Leela never liked to imagine taking the life of any creature, but as the co-owner and manager, it was her responsibility to see that every aspect of her business was cared for. “If we can’t get the fence reinforced by four, I want them in the barn early.”

  “They won’t like that.”

  “They won’t like being dead either,” she said dryly as she clutched the infant goat for warmth.

  “You got it, boss lady,” Keith said with a grin.

  She hated that title, and had been shocked when Keith told her his previous supervisor had insisted he be called ‘boss’ or ‘chief’ at all times. It didn’t make sense for her, a petite, Indian-American goat farmer, to be called ‘Chief Bakshi.’

  “You didn’t tell me you were taking the kid with you to the market.”

  Leela kissed the top of the infant goat’s head. “It’s important to get him used to people, and he’ll be great for business. Who could resist stopping by our table without saying hello to this cute little face?”

  Keith reached forward to pet their newly acquired two-month-old goat, Butterscotch. “You better be careful. I can tell you’re falling in love with him. That’s gonna make it tough to give him up once the time comes.”

  “I know, but I can’t help it. And like I said, that’s why it’s important to get him used to people. Petting zoos don’t really care for animals that are antisocial.”

  Keith set his rifle down, folded the small animal pen, and tucked it between the boxes of their set-up materials. “You don’t think it’ll be too active there today, do you? The farmers’ market this close to Halloween can get a little looney.”

  She shook her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. “We’ll be fine. The pumpkin craziness has mostly died down.”

  “If you say so.” Keith gave Butterscotch one more rub behind his pointed ears. “Let me go get his car carrier.”

  Leela smiled broadly at her foster animal. “Did you hear that? We’re going on a ride.”

  #

  Leela appreciated the scenic half-hour drive from her farm to the Bend Fairground, host of the farmers’ market. She particularly liked all of the activity along the Deschutes River. It meandered through the town, creating spaces for parks and trails, and was close to two of her favorite places: the slopes of Mount Bachelor and the tranquility of several lakes. She made a mental note to try and visit Elk Lake before the weather made the trip too treacherous. Even without snow on the ground, skinny-dipping was out of the question at this point. She had learned that frigid lesson the hard way.

  As Leela neared the fairground, she heard the distinctive squawking of geese behind a hill. Hills were something else the town did not lack. Leela took her foot off of the gas pedal and coasted down one of the most dramatic descents. She glanced into her rearview mirror to see if Butterscotch enjoyed the small rollercoaster as much as she did, but he was sound asleep, nestled in his carrier.

  She steered her truck into her usual entrance at the fairground and slowly drove through the crowds of other farmers from central Oregon. She saw her spray-painted number on the patchy, sometimes rocky ground and pulled into her assigned spot. Butterscotch uttered a high-pitched bleat from the abrupt change in motion. “Don’t worry, buddy. I have to do some setup and then you can stretch your legs.”

  She eased herself to the ground and used the tires to climb into the truck’s bed. With her gloves on, she clapped her hands together. It was time to work. Boxes of soap, lotion, and salt were deceptively heavy, but she liked the challenge of lifting and pushing and pulling. This was her version of the gym. When she finished, she dismounted with a jump and raised her hands in the air for the judge who watched.

  “I give it an eight and a half,” said Jill Smirnov, her friend and fellow farmer.
r />   “An eight and a half?” Leela exclaimed in outraged. “That’s so lame! Where did I lose my points?”

  “For starters, your legs were bent and separated.” Jill smiled, her laugh lines deepening as she did. Twenty years earlier she coached gymnastics for young women and girls, including her daughters in Los Angeles. Now, she had a simpler life as a berry farmer. “Do you need any help? I just finished my stand.”

  At her nod, Jill helped unload the tailgate so she could focus on setting-up Butterscotch’s space. She placed the space heater just outside of the small pen, filled his water dish, and then gently lowered him onto a blanket. They watched him limp and jump around the area a few times before he decided on a place to rest again.

  “Aren’t you afraid he’ll leap out?” Jill asked.

  Leela laid an ornate cloth over her dingy card table. “He’s not jumpy. Poor little guy has a bum leg so he can’t jump. That’s why the owners wanted to get rid of him.”

  “Well, I think it’s sweet of you to look after him.”

  “It’s the right thing to do.” More than once she had fostered animals to bring them to full health for adoptions, and she often donated her products to the local homeless and women’s shelters.

  Jill grimaced. “Have you talked to your folks lately? If they knew you took Butterscotch in, I bet they’d be proud.”

  Leela scoffed at the remark and started to arrange her homemade soaps in a pyramid on the table. “Like Dad would ever be proud of anything I’ve done. He would be like,” she began in a thick Indian accent—a perfect imitation of her father, “‘Leela, what have you done? Now you have gone and settled down with the goats.’”

  The only thing Leela felt she had in common with Siddhartha Bakshi was his last name.

  “Surely your mother is excited?” Jill asked.

  “She loves anything that’s good publicity for the farm.” Her mother, Tanha Mitra, purchased the farm when Leela was in high school. Once Leela started to manage, she downgraded her role as a silent partner. “Mom’s going to come down from Portland and get him for the petting zoo there.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. Whenever she gets a break in her schedule from the hospital, I guess.” Leela set her lotion samples and assessed the table. It looked exactly as she’d wanted it— organized, colorful, and interesting. “Want to get your monthly fix of bath salts now or later?” While the salts did not contain milk, Leela started making her own since they were an excellent addition to the spa package.

  “You know, ‘bath salts’ used to sound much less criminal,” Jill said, then viewed her scent options, all in small glass jars. “I’ll take the lavender-vanilla.”

  “What a lovely choice for a lovely lady,” Leela said in a deeper, more seductive voice.

  Jill giggled at the attention. “You know, Viktor doesn’t tolerate anyone flirting with me but you.”

  “Gee, wonder why?” It never ceased to amaze Leela that so many men loved the idea of two women together. Of course, Leela also liked the idea of two women together. Especially if she was one of those women and the other one was the barista at her favorite café. Those wispy dark bangs. The bubbly laugh. The skirt.

  Yeah, that idea didn’t suck at all.

  Leela shook off her fantasy and brought her attention back to Jill. “I’ll come and get my strawberries once I finish. I still need to hang my backdrop.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.” Jill gave Butterscotch a pet goodbye and cautiously walked among the moving vehicles to her booth on the other side of the field.

  When Leela clipped her last photo to the clothesline draped across the back of her canopy, she chuckled to herself. Keith would have hated it if he knew she put a picture of him on display. He had literally been up to his elbows in lotion. The caption read: The employees at Bakshi Farm enjoy our products too.

  She kneeled beside Butterscotch’s pen and winced when a sharp rock poked her knee. “I have to get my strawberries and then I’ll be back. Hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  Leela was pleased to note that on her short walk to the berry booth, the foot traffic and regular traffic had increased considerably. She wasn’t quite ready to agree with Keith’s prediction that the day would be crazy, but she sensed making a tidy profit for the outing. Sunny autumn weekends were great for business.

  Jill watched Leela cross the distance and held out a large carton of brilliant red strawberries. “Sweets for the sweet.”

  “Now, what would Viktor say about you flirting with me?” Leela smiled and took a berry off of the top. As she bit into it, pink juice dribbled down her chin. “These are so good. Your soil must be enchanted with unicorn manure or something.”

  “You always have the most interesting compliments, but you’re very welcome. I’ll be shifting into jelly-jam mode soon, so you might be getting a jar of that next time.” Jill’s relaxed expression shifted into mild concern. “You might want to head back over to your booth.”

  Leela turned to see a child running toward Butterscotch’s pen with glee. The last thing she wanted was for Butterscotch to start bleating in fear. “Shit.”

  Once she started back to her canopy, a truck began to reverse quickly and in the direction of the small boy. “Oh shit!” She dropped the strawberries and sprinted toward him. “Move! Stop!”

  The boy’s attention was on nothing more than the cute goat.

  From behind her, a man yelled, “Preston!”

  Her feet kicked dirt up behind her and she outstretched her arms. In a split-second decision, she lunged toward the boy. She pushed him at the same moment the truck’s chrome bumper connected with the space he had previously occupied, and struck her instead. She didn’t have time to experience anything but surprise as her body was tossed backward. She rolled. Small stabs of pain stole her breath. Dust filled her mouth and nose when she tried to inhale.

  Just as her momentum slowed, her head impacted something solid.

  Her world went black.

  #

  An obese man lay prone on an operating table at the Portland Cardiovascular Medicine Center. A translucent cloth covered his hair, an anesthesia mask was affixed to his nose and mouth, and a sterile, light-blue sheet covered him below the large, surgical opening in his chest. The medical staff stood at their designated stations and listened to a pair of doctors as the surgery neared its end.

  “Slow and steady,” Dr. Tanha Mitra said through her surgical mask. This operation was the first coronary bypass surgery led by her cardiology resident. Through her micro goggles, and the pinkish mix of blood and saline, she observed him stitch the previously dissected saphenous vein to the coronary artery. The curved needle he held with forceps moved with precision. Briefly, she looked up to her taller protégé. “Not bad for your first CABG.”

  When Tanha had first heard CABG said in a medical school lecture, she wondered what kind of condition would cause the heart to resemble a cabbage. She quickly learned the word was an acronym standing for coronary artery bypass graft. Oddly, she did not learn that in medical school, but from television. When she arrived in the United States, almost forty years prior, she watched numerous American medical dramas to perfect her accent.

  “Should I suture the aorta more?” he asked.

  “What do you think?”

  He examined his work then moved his gaze to the cardiopulmonary bypass machine that pumped his patient’s blood during the surgery. “I say we let him try out his new tubing.”

  Tanha smiled. “Very good.”

  “Are you preparing to close, Dr. Mitra?” asked a muffled voice from just inside the surgical suite.

  “I’m not closing, but yes, we are almost done. Is there an emergency?” she asked and kept her trained eyes on the naked, beating heart.

  “Yes, there’s a personal phone call for you that you need to take. It’s on line four.”

  It wasn’t uncommon near the close of surgery for another issue to spring and she would be
called out. Usually, it was for an emergency situation, like the stab wound a week before.

  That was messy.

  But she hadn’t received an emergency personal call like this in over ten years. At that time, her daughter’s college roommate called because Tanha’s only child was rushed to the ER from an overdose.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Tanha hastily removed her surgical gowning outside of the suite and picked up the line held for her. “Dr. Tanha Mitra. Who is this?”

  “Tanha! Thank the Lord you picked up.”

  She recognized that Texas accent anywhere. “Keith, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Leela. There was a car accident at the farmers’ market. She hurt her leg and head real bad. She’s been unconscious since it happened.”

  Tanha’s heart went still and cold. “Are you at the hospital in Bend?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m waiting for news.”

  She looked at the clock. “I’ll be there in around four hours. Call me on my cell phone— Never mind. I will see you at the hospital.” If something happened to Leela, she did not want to be on a highway driving when she found out.

  “Um . . . should I call Dr. Bakshi?”

  “No,” Tanha curtly replied. “I will call him once I can assess Leela’s situation myself.”

  #

  A small white ball soared in the air and almost disappeared in the backdrop of plentiful gray clouds. Eventually, the ball reemerged, fell, and bounced several times onto the bright green fairway of the private Seattle golf course.

  “That’s one hell of a shot, Dr. Bakshi,” the pharmaceutical representative said with a cigar in his hand.

  Siddhartha watched with pride as his golf ball rolled in the crook of the dogleg. “Thank you. After I finished my lesson series, I treated myself to custom clubs. I have already taken four strokes off my game.”