8:12 (not a dream)

I was on my way home from WhiteRock lake. I was happy that my softball game got cancelled so I could go running, but then pissed that the lake was closed off for a race (A race I wanted to do but didn’t sign up for because I had softball.) Anyway, I had to go Norbuck Park to cut through, which meant Route 12 was my closest way home. This is how the story begins.

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I’m cruising down route 12, trying to avoid the notifications firing off on my phone. The girls group chat is non stop, Christina sends me a page of the book she’s reading, and my mom’s usual “how was your day?” pops up on my phone. It’s easy to ignore because I’m not interested today; not in running, not in softball, not in talking to anyone. 

Kings of Leon is seeping out my windows in exchange for a brisk autumn breeze. The sky is black and I'm guided forward in a school of red weaving taillights. My body hasn’t gotten used to the shortened days yet, or the sudden drop in temp. It’s just passed 7pm and I feel drained. It seems like October is always rough for me. 

The cars in front of me come to a rapid halt, and I thank God I’d put my phone down. 

Why is there traffic at this time? 

Dallas traffic was the first thing people mentioned back when I told them I was new to the city. It was a commonality that seemed to bring people together. If you didn’t know how to strike up conversation at a bar, talk about the Tollway, or your commute home on 635. You’ll hit it off, guaranteed. I just laughed at it. They had clearly never been to Boston.

I was parked now. Everyone was parked except the people now using the emergency lane to slide by. I stuck my head out the window and saw who was holding us up; it was a red dodge charger a few cars ahead of me. And…what is that in the road?

I got out to see if anyone needed help, two other guys did too. As the scene became clearer, I started running. The front of the car was smashed, the windshield was shattered, and both air bags filled the two front seats. The driver was pacing back and forth on the phone.  A body laid motionless on the pavement.

“Hey, what happened, are you okay?” I asked. 

“I didn’t see him, I didn’t see him, it was so dark,” he said, looking beyond me. “Have I done CPR? No. I don’t know how to do CPR,” he answered into his phone. 

I saw an image of me frozen outside my bathroom door at UMASS, a paramedic yelling at me “Did you at least try doing CPR?” 

Not again, I thought, moving closer to the man in the road,  I can help him. The other two guys followed.

But I couldn’t help him. One of the guys checked for a pulse at his neck, then his wrist, then at his neck again. The man was unresponsive. His face was pressed against the pavement, and one eye was fixed staring straight ahead, while the other oozed with blood. His pants had been dragged down to his knees, which rested at odd angles. His neck was displaced and it was clear he’d have no airway even if we tried. 

“He’s gone man,” he said. The other guy was directing traffic. “Nothing we can do.” And then they left.

The driver came back to me.

“I didn’t see him man,” he said, his hands now interlaced on his head. “It was so dark, I couldn’t see him.”  It was dark. There wasn’t a single street light or sign around us. I could barely see my car from where I stood. 

“Hey what’s your name?” I asked.

“Eric,” he told me.

“Okay Eric,” I said. “This is a highway and it’s pitch black out. Nobody would have seen him.”

He nodded, “I was just driving home man, I just live up the street,” he said. He wasn’t hearing me, he was in shock.

I could feel it being muffled for him despite the sirens wailing around us, and the firetruck’s horn obnoxiously held down to scare cars aside, and the traffic on the other side of the divide. I also watched this scene as if it were on mute and at a distance. It was different though, I saw two simultaneously overlapping scenes.

Paramedics and cops flooded my dorm hall, yelling questions I couldn’t answer. “What did he take? How old is he? Does he have any medical conditions? Allergies?” I didn’t even know his last name. They were stern and loud, I could see now, not out of anger, but because I was hearing them as if underwater.

A parade of red and blue lights started filling in and closing off the street, and I turned to Eric. “Look,” I started, “they’re going to ask you a ton of questions, they just need to know what happened. You’ll be okay.” 

“Wait,” he said frantically. “Wait, can you wait with me please?” 

I saw myself walking back into the overturned dorm room, pacing around just like Eric. I ripped the caution tape off the front door and cleaned the room to look like it had the day before. I stashed anything that was Charlie’s into a bag and sat up in my bed all night, alone, waiting until it felt safe to fall asleep.

“Okay,” I said, “Is there anyone you can call? Do you have family here?”

“Yea,” he answered, “my sister’s on her way.”

I waited and watched Eric pace, and call his mom on the phone, and plea his innocence to her, to me, to the cops, and to himself. 

Eric moved under the weight of an inescapable guilt. He didn’t push the man into the road. No one in their right mind would cross this street here. And I didn’t put a needle in Charlie’s arm. Yet here we were, two mirrors standing straight in front of each other, peering into an endless hall of misplaced responsibility for not saving people who could not save themselves.

I gave my story to multiple cops, and waited even though they didn’t need me. I wondered how long Eric would let this guilt chip away at him, and if he’d move through life differently. Here I was, 11 years after Charlie died, still trying to redeem myself. I leaned back against my car, seeing the whole scene in a birds eye view. I lingered here to help Eric, because I had been here before, because I could feel what he felt, because I hadn’t forgiven myself, because I hadn't let go.

I motioned that I was leaving. This was for Eric to sort through now. 

“Hey, thanks for waiting with me, I appreciate you,” he said, shaking my hand.

“I hope you know there’s nothing you could’ve done,” I said to him and to the version of me that he embodied. 

“I hope you get some rest,” I said, and left it all behind.

A Lost Traveler (dream within a dream)

I unpacked my bag and placed my clothes in the drawers closest to the bed. The stained wooden bureau was the only touch of color in the room. Who makes a hotel room completely white? I pulled out running clothes for every climate imaginable, undergarments, and socks. I was only here for the half marathon, and apparently had clothes for nothing else.

I stared at my small duffle, wondering where my mind was when deciding that I was done packing. My thoughts wandered back, but were abruptly halted by a knock at the door.

Who is that? I thought. It was far too late for housekeeping.

I jumped over my stuff to answer the door and swung it open. Will was standing on the other side, bag in hand. We both stood for a moment, doing a mental double take. What is happening?

I froze in the doorway, catching the breath that'd fallen out of me.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying not to sound offensive.

“My Airbnb reservations got cancelled,” he said, just as surprised as I was, “and I was rerouted here.” 

He wore his jet lag well. I could see that his journey had been long and convoluted. I stepped aside and let him in. 

He immediately dropped his bag to the floor and and stripped off his coat. “I guess I’m stuck with you,” he said sarcastically. We both laughed. What are the odds? 

We each claimed sides of the queen side bed and passed out almost immediately. Despite our drawn out boundaries, I could feel the bed rise and fall with his breath, and the heat coming off of his skin. 

Suddenly I slipped into a dream. A movie really, where I watched moments of another life. The short clips were like home videos glitching through time; Will and me warming up for the race, him meeting my parents at a resort in Punta Cana, meeting my whole family actually, since we were there for a wedding. Marriage. Kids. A Spanish style home in the countryside turned into our own quiet oasis. 

I watched the story like a silent film. The restless pieces of me dissipated, and settled outside the edges of each passing frame. I could feel my own peace transferring over from the other side of the screen, and collected it like a souvineer. It warmed me like a blanket as I drifted deeper, past its end into a dark space of nothingness. I was gently pulled from my spectator's seat and shot straight up in my bed (my real bed), never having returned to the hotel. There was nothing left to observe or revisit, and I awoke with a satisfying sense of completion.

Newton Street (Dream)

This is where I dropped in:

I stood in the driveway with Jesse by my side. He was waiting for me to sign the papers. He looked from me to the real estate agent, and back to me. He wore the burgundy shorts and sleeveless black T I’d last seen him in. I’d been here before.

We were back at the condo on Newton Street. I’d toured it earlier this week and really liked the funky layout. Two bedrooms on the the second floor with the living room and kitchen on the third. It was like it’s own separate house that merged involuntarily with the other units. I hadn’t been sold on the black and white industrial design, it wasn’t really me. It was the trees I’d fallen for, the way they draped down in front of the place and lined the street in a vibrant green tunnel. And the silence. What a change.

“I’m not sure I want this place,” I said. I’d said it before.

“Well, I already got rid of my spot,” he said, “I planned to move in with you.”

My heart slammed against my chest wall and echoed in my ears.

Did we plan to live together? I thought. I searched my mind for a record of the conversation. Everything was blurry. I don’t know how I got here, how we got here. 

Thoughts came up quickly like acid in my throat. It’s like I’d stepped on a ride that was spinning too fast to jump off of now. 

I can’t just leave him on the street, I thought, he gave up his home for this. For me. 

I signed the papers.

In that moment I was suspended on the edge of the driveway, watching the scene from a distance. There was the celebratory hug, hand shaking with the realtor, and the transfer of keys. Then I watched time go by in rapid images, like a VHS on fast forward. Moving in, moving out, a new house, new neighborhood, new car. Jesse designing and creating towns, head of his own company, prosperous, wealthy, and consumed. Me, the supportive wife, quiet, and following. 

With each scene, I watched us check off all the boxes we learned we needed. I saw myself on that ride, spinning fast and unable to move. I was flat and stuck so tight against a wall that I didn’t notice the floor drop out from under me. 

“You don’t want this,” I heard, in my own voice. 

“You don’t want this,” I heard, the voice growing louder.

“You don’t want this!” it yelled, pulling me away from the cinematic experience. I turned away.

A petite, old woman approached me on the driveway as I watched the scenes blur together into a ball of mesh. She wasn’t alone, but her husband waited in the car.

Her hand landed like silk on my arm. I could see the veins beneath her thinning skin. A white ball of hair surrounded her head in a wavy afro -- the “old lady haircut,”— my brother and I called it. She was probably in her late 80’s. She watched with me for a moment, but had little interest in the story.

Wow, she can see it too? I thought. 

My focus was on her now. I took her in, I could feel her. She was frail but bright, small but full of energy. A hidden light. She looked at me with with sorrow, with eyes weighed down with regret, weary and tired from her journey. She turned to me, and smiled. With warmth, and love, she said to me, “You don’t want this.”

I looked beyond her at the movie that played out in front of me. It was a pretty nice life. I don’t want this, I confirmed. Even if i did, I don’t need it. I’ve experienced it already.