Anna's Dream

Written by T.J.Phoenix

 

 

I try not to "hyper-focus" on things, but it's hard. Paul said I wanted something out of love, that just couldn't happen. Maybe he was right, and I was wrong. Maybe everything I secretly believed but seldom spoke of was some type of mal-adjustment socially. Maybe it's a type of illness. Like when I was little and I believed I could speak to the dead.

After all, no one had to tell me an old man had died in my bedroom in the old, old white, two story farmhouse with all the cockroaches in the kitchen. I just knew. And besides, the spirits didn't bother me too much anyway... if I closed my eyes, when searching for a late night snack and counted to five, after turning on the light and before opening my eyes, they would all scatter anyway. I hated cockroaches, so I'd just pretend they weren't there: Like the spirits, and the dreams and the instincts of things that always came true. If I just closed my eyes long enough and pretended nothing was there, they would all scatter. But honestly, like the slight rustling of a million little feet all moving in unison, I could hear them. I could hear all of them.

 

There was something, something practical that I was missing they said. That's what the doctors said... that's what my father said. And since I was always wrong about things, according to all the men I had ever loved, what difference did that make anyway. I wasn't wrong though. I did say my father would die of cancer before his sixtieth birthday. And really, how was I suppose to rationally consciously know, that the proclamation I made on my thirteenth birthday, would come true... just two weeks before my father would have turned sixty.

Life has an inexplicable sense of humor where my life experiences are concerned.

Listening to the music cranked as high as the speakers could take with out distortion (and that is pretty damn high) I made my way along the I 205 bi-pass, just south of Portland. I should know better to drive in rush hour. Most of the time I do. Why do they call it rush hour anyway? It starts at three o'clock and goes, or doesn't go (as the case may be) until six thirty p.m.

At least I don't have to do this every day. I got trapped on the East side of town helping Nancy and Scott in the basement of their house. They just bought the house of their dreams and now they're slowly cleaning out the old one. It's always more fun to clean house at someone else's house, anyway. And Nancy ... being more than a bit of a pack rat artist, has quite a bit of sorting still to do. I had a lot of fun, otherwise I wouldn't have stopped by to help. Besides it gives me a chance to bend her ear a bit and talk to her about Paul and I.

Or should I say, the two of us a part.

Nancy's great. She let's me know how it is, especially since I asked for it, as it is. She doesn't hesitate a bit before loading up that double barreled truth gun and in a single word, leveling any residual hopes of some unrequited, unexpressed, underplayed yearning.

Co-dependent. The pop psychology epitaph on so many gen-ex marriages and pair bondings. It's not our fault everything is fucked up, it's just the way it turned out. What with Captain Kangaroo going off the air because Mt. Green Jeans couldn't keep his green bean away from little boys... and re-runs of the Brady Bunch and the Partridge Family (reminding us just how much our actual lives suck, and thank you very much for pointing this out!) , it doesn't take castaways on an Island three hours to figure out we're all mostly fucked. What with the chain smoking alcoholic vegetables that ran around in the early sixties giving birth to Adhd and hypoglycemic twitchy children, it's no wonder we all turned out the way we did: cynical, needy, confused and eclectic enough for five generations.

As little kids we were just old enough to imprinted by the hippies and then confused when they all became yuppies, followed by uppies, followed by just plain boomers... And while a few are getting lucky (striking the pay dirt, if you will) in technologies, most of us are reading our Jung, and facing the facts that we our secular-humanist, hybrid personalities aren't making the cross generational connections we dream of in our confused little psyches. .

 

One thing, those of us who have "bred" seem to share in common. Ferocious dedication to our children and an unquenchable ability to keep asking... why? Why the fuck, is all of this so fucked up! Me, I have four of them... four children, three ex-husbands (soon to be three anyway) and a job weekends singing show tunes as I wait tables (It's actually the coolest part of my life, right now).

I picked up the cell phone and hit, one then send, and called home to check in on the sprouts. The children were fine. Arliz, my eldest, is a bit tired of babysitting, but she does a good job at not letting the younger three reek too much havoc on the unsuspecting neighbors who inhabit our peaceful suburban neighborhood.

I did warn her last week though that getting out her battery powered megaphone and shouting out her bedroom window, "Suburbia, this is your wake up call. Come out of your coma with your intellect up.".... was probably not the lowest profile we could hope for, and I'd really appreciate it, if she'd cut that crap out. Of course, then we both ended up laughing so much, the whole thing didn't get too far beyond the humor, that we both intended it to be.

The car crept along at not much more than fifteen miles an hour I noticed a man walking up the shoulder of the road. He was... Wait a minute.

I looked back through my rear view mirror as I passed him.

He held an unconscious child in his arms. His pace was slow and he moved with a silent determination, that even from this distance, I could easily identify. I wasn't looking forward. I was only looking back. I knew that traffic was picking up and the gap was widening. I was caught by something in his expression. Something, as the distance widened, I struggled to identify.

It's odd. You realize, like rubber necking at an accident, that maybe you should do something. That sudden realization that your brains were sucked out of the side of your head comes over you and you wonder, what road side rock did I leave my remaining i.q. points under.

I signaled. I knew enough to signal. I pulled over. I went out of what I can only call, "delayed time" and back into real time. With the opening of the car door and the rush of the wind tunnel of cars moving past me, I knew. I had stepped outside of their circle and into that dangerous limbo between the worlds.

My heart rate was picking up. Each breath went shallower as my apprehension grew. Why had it taken me so long to stop. How long was it? A few seconds? Six? Seven? Still, stats show it takes only two point five seconds to brake and stop for a car accident or slow down... so why the delay? Why any of it? My thoughts shifted, the child. The child in his arms. She was maybe nine years old. Hanging in his arms like some defective puppet whose strings had been cut. The image of her, against him, filled my heart.

I was walking up the shoulder toward them. He was a blurry shape still a thousand yards away. I wanted to move faster, but my body was shaking. Every car that passed sent a tremor... a shock wave moving through the base of my spine. The smell of exhaust burnt through my nostrils as did the heat of the pavement beneath my bear feet. Of course I was bear foot. I was always bear foot. I hated shoes. If it wasn't raining, they weren't on. It was that simple.

 

I found myself running. My chest was cramping and closing over to fight for the precious oxygen I was pushing out as fast as it came in. I quickened my pace. I could see them clearly and yet time, momentum, my own life, I felt it all fading away. My emotional barriers were stripped away in the white noise of the traffic. That damned traffic! Why weren't they stopping? Why didn't it matter? Why didn't it ever matter!

Closer. Closer. His face was angular, with a softness... a gentleness around his eyes. He could have been anyone, anything. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped. He may not even be her father. But I knew he was. Just as I knew I had to reach them. I had to find some way to reach them. The last few hundred feet felt like forever. And still he moved slowly, methodically, his pace scarcely changing.

I moved my arms out in front of me. I hadn't seen a car any where. How long had he been walking? The child! The child must be gotten to the hospital as soon as possible. There was an urgency, even if I could not place it in him, there was! There was urgency in her sleeping form and in me. Words rose and clawed at the dryness in my throat. I swallowed hard, to breath, to speak. To find some way to bridge that last terrible distance.

 

"Here," I said, reaching his side at last. ‘Here. Let me carry her. I can help."

He stopped. He stood there. Him and I, face to face. The girls sweaty body was leaning into his with a well worn, comfortable ease. Long curls of snow blond hair matted against her face, to create a mask from the late afternoon heat. She was fragile... so thin, so frail. Like some carved porcelain creature that you are afraid to touch.

"I can carry her," he said. "Thank you.".

I stood there next to him. I reached out my hand and rested it on his. I did not think about familiarity or even try and explain to my own mind, why it was I needed to touch him... to reassure him. I only knew that I needed to.

The heat of his body ran like an electric shock through my body and down my spine. Talk about your mis-placed hot flashes! I found myself looking hungrily into his eyes. I wast ashamed, and embarrassed.

"She has diabetes," he said. And with that, he moved slightly to the right of me, and continued walking. I pivoted and began moving to keep up with him.

Fear tugged at my stomach and I ran to get in front of him. Was she... had I arrived too late.

"Is she..." I couldn't bring the words to my mouth. They stopped short, hard inside my chest. I had once seen a dead child. Was this child dead?

"No..." He said, scarcely heard above the traffic. "Anna is in a coma. Now please..."

He looked at me imploringly. The look was that if I spoke another word he would collapse and never move again himself. I moved out of his path.

We continued our walk up the side of the road and still no one stopped. I wanted to say something, to comfort him in some way, but reason commanded, even my careless mouth to silence. I knew he could not read my thoughts but in the space of time that we were walking I regretted the freeness with which my mind jumped to inappropriate thinking. I had stopped to help, not to chase some lurid desires that were better off kept in the recesses of my mind or as some grade b plot line for Fantasy Island...

The sun was behind the clouds and the sky was a blur of purples and reds which faded at the edges to deeper purples and oranges at the horizon. I felt the wind pick up and for a moment the scent of traffic was at my back and the sweetness of the artificially cultivated wild flowers, filled the bitterness of the moment with a temporary transitory sweetness I wanted to walk faster. I wanted the traffic to be gone. But all I could do was put one foot in front of the other and hope that some how, the girl would be alright.

At the car I opened the front passenger door and he got silently inside. Once I started the car I turned my thoughts to the traffic and careful merging.

"I can take you to Meridian Park," I said. "I believe that is the closest hospital. Is that okay."

"That's fine," he said. The stillness swallowed us both.

 

I was afraid to look in his direction. I was afraid of what my own brain would do next. What side path would my mind slip down? I was already watching him from the corner of my eye. His daughter sprawling across his lap... unconscious and still I thought about how nicely his jeans fit him. I thought about what a fine frame he had and how strong his arms looked. He held her gently, but with a fierceness I only ever dreamt of being loved...

...only ever dreamt of, but knew. I knew that kind of love from the inside out, for that was how I loved my own children: without reserve and with every ounce of energy which animated my spirit. Was it strange that he was here... no. Nor was it strange that no one stopped. What was strange was the way my mind gravitated to him.

"My name is Jeremy Taylor," he finally said. "And this is..."

"Anna," I added. "You said her name was Anna, on the road."

"Yes..." he said. "I guess I did. I don't mean to seem cross or ungrateful.... it's just. We were walking a long time. I was beginning to believe no one would ever stop."

He looked out the window. I looked at the nape of his neck. I wanted to stop. I was only grateful that women are not so obvious to read arousal in as men are. Of course there is always scent, but that is subtle, as is blush response. I was grateful that he would not be aware enough to notice either of those aspects about me.

Traffic had thinned to the point that we were making good time. The mile markers moved past the window, and I found myself wishing to slow their passage down. I wanted somehow to extend the moment, even though I knew, inevitably it too must be surrendered to the ordinary and all it's complex minions who waited at the side of the sidewalk just outside the emergency room.

There was no ring on his hand. But that didn't mean a lot. It didn't have to mean anything. There could be a Mrs. Taylor or even some beautiful significant other who I would have to invent in my mind and somehow struggle not to hate. I knew men didn't think this way. They're thoughts couldn't possibly jump to fill so many conclusions. Walking paths they had yet to see. Searching for meaning that were obscure and delicate threads that had not yet woven themselves into the fabric of living.

I felt my world pause as I placed the car in park at the circle drive. I had wanted to speak. I wanted to be cleaver, enticing and somehow get out the thoughts that were in my head. Perhaps our meeting was fate.... Do you believe in Karma? Something, anything. But instead, honor had won (thank heavens there was no thought purity test). I leaned across the front seat and looked at him.

"I'm sorry, about Anna," I said. "Do you need help inside?"

"No," he answered. :"I have to face this alone.": He moved to gather her up into his arms securely. "I'm sorry." he said turning to look at me compassionately. "Not alone... just... well, you understand, don't you."

"I think so," I said.

"Thank you," he said. His hand gently brushed my cheek. Reflexively I reached my palm around his hand and brought it to my mouth. It was only an instant. Sometimes, an instant is all that there ever is. I tenderly kissed the palm of his hand. It was all I could relay. For an instant he threaded his finger through mine and squeezed them. I felt alive. And then... then he let go and my hand fell invisibly to my side as I watched him sluggishly climb from the car.

A week passed and I went back to the hospital every day. No one ever remembered seeing him or his daughter. There was no report of a young girl with diabetes being brought there at all. I laid across my bed and prepared to cry myself to sleep. I knew the difference between waking and dreaming. I knew where I had been. So why didn't anyone else?

 

The door bell rang. I climbed slowly from the bed. Kicking some of my sons cars out of the hallway and back into the door way of his room I made my way to the front door. The door swung wide. It was a young girl around my daughter Gaia's age. Perhaps a friend from school.

"I'm sorry," I said, speaking first. "The children are off with their father tonight. They won't be back until Monday. Are you a friend of Gaia's?"

I paused. Recognition struck. I had never seen her eyes before. Chills ran my spine. As if... as if I was....

"Anna," I said. My own voice trailing off as I spoke.

"Yes..." she answered. " May I come in?"

My mind raced. "Yes," I answered. "Yes... certainly."

I motioned to the entry way and the stairs which led up to the livingroom. I watched as she climbed the stairs, each step echoing the same stillness I felt on the road. We walked across the carpet. Her feet made no sound, as I knew they wouldn't. I sat down at the edge of the couch, feeling the full weight of my own body, heavy against my mind.

I knew.

"My father is ill, Sara." she said softly. "I am hoping, that you can help him. I know it's selfish, after all... you already have helped."

"You're a ghost," I said.

"You're correct," she returned with a smile.

"And your father?" I asked. "Where is he."

"My father is home, being tended to by my Aunt Sylvia. He is in a coma."

"A coma?" I said. "I don't understand. You were in a coma."

"No," Anna replied. "I was dead. I died four years ago, last week."

It was my turn to look out the window. It was my turn to feel confused and lost. I listened as she spoke behind me, my mind struggling to accept what i knew was truth.

"One weekend I was with my mother. My blood sugar went to low. I went into a coma. My father came for me and found me asleep. My mother, who was never really good at a lot of things, only thought that I was asleep. My father threw me in the car and set out to the hospital.

Except that..."

"That the car broke down," I said, without turning back toward the room. " The car broke down and he walked and walked and no one stopped."

"That's right," Anna said. "They found my father stooped under a bridge two miles from his car, clutching my body. My aunt figured he must have stopped walking when he knew I was no longer breathing. He never spoke again. He never recognized anyone. His body lived, but his mind had flown. His soul had flown to follow mine. He could not let me go. Once a year, I would make the journey with him up the road. I didn't know why, until you stopped."

I turned to look at her.

"This is my dream. This is my hope. I have to leave now. Your finding us, shattered my fathers coma. I can go on now. I can go on, but now, he is alone. I am kind of hoping..."

 

... I walked up the front steps of a comfortable looking single story brick house. The screen door creaked noisily as a pretty blond haired woman with a tired face stood in the door way.

"Can I help you," she asked.

"Yes," I said, my stomach nervously tied in knots. " I am here to see Jeremy."

"Jeremy," she said. "No one sees my brother. I'm sorry Miss... you'll have to leave.".

She started to close the door. I had to speak.

"Please," I said loudly. "Please, I must see him. Anna sent me."

The screen door flew open and her continence had shifted. I expected her to scream, but instead she half whispered.

"Listen," she said, ‘Her voice tightly modulating. ‘I don't know who you are but my brother isn't in the best of shape and this whole thing is scaring me. Please, please, just leave us alone."

I didn't know what to say. This woman was freaked. Freaked no doubt, by watching her brother be a vegetable for four years, hooked up to I.V.'s and monitors. No way out and no way back. And then... then. Wait. ...

 

What was I doing? No more looking for trouble. Hadn't I learned. Wasn't I ever going to learn. This is like when I use to jump out of trees and expecting to fly. I never flew, I only ever hit the ground hard. What was I doing there. What should I tell this poor exhausted woman? Excuse me but I believe your dead niece came to me in a vision and if your brother is actually this beautiful blue-eyes, well built man of about six feet tall, could you send him out, coma or no... You see, I haven't been laid in a long time, and I'm really sorry but...

 

"I'm sorry," I said. "Really. I don't know what..."

I put my hands in the air and gestured as I backed away from the woman. She seemed relieved. I turned and slowly alked up the path to the cedar gate just before the public sidewalk.

"Sara," a man's voice spoke from behind me.

A shiver ran up my spine.

"Are you Sara." He spoke again.

I stood perfectly still. Everything moved but me. I could feel the Earth moving. I know they say you can't, but in that instant, I could.

I turned. Just past the screen door Jeremy stood. He was leaning heavily against his sister who was helping him to sit at the step. She looked at him and then she looked at me. And then she went back in the house. I walked slowly up the walkway. I was so scared. Scared to blink and have him be a dream. I understood his suffering. I understood the way he loved her... from the inside out.

I dropped to my knees in front of him. My hands reached out to touch him. In the same instant his reached toward me. I felt his trembling, the heat of his body. I smelled the musk of his body: tainted with exhaustion, but sweet none the less. His hands, his hands were strong. He knelt beside me. I wanted to speak. I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to tell him that Anna was alright. Had she said goodbye to him? I was certain she must have.

 

I smiled at him. Anna's dream was a good one.