Billy Lilo

After going to sleep at midnight, I woke up at 3:15 a.m.  I got up and went into the living room, wrapped up in a blanket, sat with my feet up, and plowed into THE PLANTAGENETS.  A year ago, I was reading all things Tudor.  I'm moving backwards.  I have arrived at the conclusion that all British monarchs were dressed-up serial killers.  Maybe that's true for all heads of state:  serial killers.

I returned to bed at 5:30 and had this dream:  I am sitting at a table with friends, Jane and Diane.  It's in a room at church, but no church I recognize.  They are talking about a boy they knew, growing up.  Billy something.  He had a history of mental illness, was married for a short time, and then was institutionalized for the rest of his life.  Jane says, "I heard they kept him asleep most of the time."

Jane had to go home and get something to show us.  She would come right back.  I follow her out, because I have to hear more about Billy.  "He must have gone into the hospital in 1966," I say. We are walking on opposite sides of a chain-link fence.

She stops.  "How did you know?" she asks.

"If he was married for a short time and is our age, it would be 1966."

She nods.  "Amazing," she says, and moves on.

I turn back and meet Tom coming out.  He is carrying an armload of stuff I have lost, including a favorite scarf.  "Oh, you found the scarf!"  I tell him I'll be right back.  I have to tell Diane I'm going home.

When I return to the room, it is filled with women.  So this is a Relief Society room, I think.  I turn back.  What was Billy's last name?  It should be a name with liquid consonants.  And it comes to me: Lilo.  His name was Billy Lilo.

I wake up and tell Tom the dream.  "I was constructing a fictional character in that dream," I say.  "A man named Billy Lilo, who was mentally ill, and they put him to sleep for most of his life."

Or it could be about me, a woman on the edge, with a couple of L's in her name.