Living Nightmare

As I struggle toward the morning from the depths of my nightmare, I reach over for Scott hoping I haven't woken him up, too. He's a night owl, prone to stay up long past my usual 11 pm bedtime, then sleep while I get up and make the coffee.

But he's not there or in the bathroom, so I assume he's in our home office on an early morning conference call. That happens occasionally since his company is doing a lot of international business now. 

I pull on a robe and slide my feet into my sandals, shaking my head to erase the memory of the nightmare that seemed so real just a few minutes ago. I can't remember when I'd had a dream that terrifying.

Maybe it's because it seemed mundane, not as bizarre as most dreams are. It started when I checked my phone during a break in my weekly Early Bird Toastmasters meeting.

I noticed that I had three calls from a blocked number and three voicemails. The strangeness of it had me listen to the first message, though I usually would just wait until the meeting was over.

The first voicemail sent me reeling. 

This is Officer Grable, of the Newport Beach Police Department, the disembodied voice on the other end of the line announced. Please call me right away at (949) 555-1212.

I drop the phone and start rummaging through my purse, trying to find a pen and paper to write down the number. My hands are shaking so hard it's impossible. Why are the POLICE calling me at 7:45 am?

Suddenly, I feel like I've forgotten to breathe. I focus on breathing in and breathing out, struggling to calm myself. With a few more deep breaths, I finally steady my hands enough to jot down the number and dial it.

This is Newport Beach Police Department, Officer Grable speaking.

Officer Grable? I got an urgent message to call you. This is Anna Cooper.

Yes. Mrs. Cooper, where are you?

I'm in Costa Mesa, in a meeting, but I stepped out to return the call since you said it is urgent. Can you tell me what's going on?

It's about your husband. The voice suddenly sounded tentative, hesitating. Not like the commanding voice, he first answered with. How soon can you get home?

The meeting wraps up at 8:30, I respond.

No, you need to come home now. How long does it take you to make the drive?

About 20 minutes, I stammer. I'm fighting to regain my composure. A cold feeling started to form in the core of my body, spreading outward. I felt as if my brain was buzzing, a strange sensation of being in some sort of suspended animation.

He hadn't given me a hint about what was going on. What could it be that demanded I ditch a meeting and rush home?

I really didn't understand what was happening. When I left home at 7:20 am, less than an hour ago, Scott was sitting up in bed, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. What on earth could have happened that would involve the local police?

Though our neighborhood was quiet, it was close to the Pacific Coast Highway, where traffic traveled fast. On New Year's Eve, a car lost control and skidded into the retaining wall at the end of our block. What if another car took that turn too fast, crashed through the wall has my husband pinned underneath?

Can you drive yourself? Should I send a car to get you?

No, I'm on my way. I'll be there in about 20 minutes.

Good, he said. Just pull in behind my car, it's parked in front of your house.

Now I'm running toward the parking lot now. Something terrible has happened and I know that they don't want to tell me over the phone. 

Just a few months ago, one of our neighbors called the police when his stepson, who has a substance abuse problem, showed up with some of his sketchy friends. Maybe one of them came back with a gun? Of course, there could be a random armed intruder. We lived in a safe, quiet neighborhood, but there are no guarantees.

As I drove through my nightmare, my mind was reeling with all the terrible things that might have happened. Scott had been hit by a car or wounded by a stray bullet. No, God, please no! 

Be calm. Be present. Focus on safe driving. I repeat that over and over, like a mantra. Having both of us in an accident will accomplish nothing. I must get home safely and deal with whatever has happened.

Finally, I made the turn from Highway One onto Bayview, the fear in the back of my mind looming ever larger. As soon as I turned onto our street, I noticed clusters of neighbors, coffee cups in hand, looking toward our house.

There was yellow Crime Scene tape staked around the perimeter of the yard. An NBPD police car was parked out in front.

As instructed, I pulled up behind it. There were two uniformed officers standing on the veranda. The female officer nodded her head in my direction. The other, presumably Grable, turned and looked at me.

When I stepped out of the car, all the chatter stopped. All the voices fell silent as everyone watched the police officer walking toward me.

Are you Mrs. Cooper? 

I nodded, unable to speak. The silence was deafening. I felt as if the earth had stopped spinning on its axis.

I regret to inform you that your husband is dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

To which I replied, this is not happening to me. This is a nightmare, a bad dream. Won't someone wake me up?

The buzzer on the coffee maker sounded. Time to stop reliving the nightmare and get on with my day.

I decided Scott would welcome a cup of coffee, even in the middle of a conference call. So, I fixed a cup for him and walked down the hall to the home office. The door was ajar, but he wasn't at his desk.

Just then the phone in my pocket started to ring. I sat the cup of coffee down to answer.

Mrs. Cooper? This is Devon Smith from the Bayside Mortuary.

And then I started to scream.