may(day)

…MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY DH4 LIBERTY7

I'M ROLLING, ROLLING

I SEE IT, IT’S COMING RIGHT FOR ME, I'M GOING TO CRASH

AH---OH MY GOD---HELP--OH MY G...

* Whistling sound intensifies into a piercing guttural moan......static*

ǂ

"Dylan....Dylan....hello?" Chelsea pokes my shoulder with her pointy, manicured nail trying to get my attention.

To be fair, I'm not paying attention at all. I don't want to be here, I don’t want to sit on this crusty, itchy couch, listening to her bitch and moan. This room is stifling, especially in this August heat. I mean, what kind of therapist doesn’t invest in AC, we pay enough for this BS, we should at least be comfortable.

“See, see, this is what I’m talking about, he doesn’t pay attention AT ALL!” Her voice raises to a low shout. I look over at her and there’s a little spittle coming out as she speaks. My stomach churns, trying to hold down my lunch.

I haven’t always felt like this towards her. Honestly, I really loved (maybe extreme liked) her at one point in the relationship. But ever since we hit our 2-year anniversary mark with me having zero intentions of buying a diamond, she’s turned in to a crazy person.

“Okay, Chelsea let’s turn our emotions inward and breathe,” our therapist, Dr. Delphi, suggests. “Dylan”, she continues, focusing on me now, “how are you feeling after this conversation today?”

I stare at her, not knowing how to answer. I don’t think I can be honest, but I don’t want to lie. So, I fall on, “Fine.”

Chelsea looks at me with her murky-brown eyes, practically popping out of her head, “Fine?! Jesus, Dylan, you could at least pretend to give a shit.” She snatches her purse off the floor next to her feet and storms out.

“Well, I think that’s all the time we have left for today, Dylan. I wanted to confirm your next appointment.” Dr. D says. “Actually, do you have time this week to sit down for a one-on-one?” She asks, looking to my face for an answer.

That is the last thing I want, one whole hour dedicated to me and my “issues”. But insurance covers at least two more sessions this month so I might as well get my money’s worth. “Sure” I reply, indifferent.

After Dr. D and I schedule a time for Wednesday, I walk out to find Chelsea smoking a cigarette outside the building. She’s not a smoker, but she has one after every session. 

Finally finishing her smelly little cancer stick, she pops an Altoid and spritzes some perfume. “Okay!” Her tone much more cheerful than before, “where to for dinner?”

Looking at her, trying to think of an inexpensive dinner spot, the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses reflect what I’ve been trying to hide. My face looks sunken, dull and lifeless. I don’t care where we go to dinner. I don’t want to go to dinner. Not with her at least, not anymore. My careless façade cracked.

“Listen, Chels…” I couldn’t hold the words in any longer, they came flooding out like word vomit. “I can’t go to dinner. I can’t do this. I can’t do us. I don’t love you anymore, I’m not sure I ever really did. I tried the couples counseling like you wanted, but it’s suffocating. My head feels like it’s going to explode. This isn’t working anymore, it’s just not. I just can’t. I can’t.” I turned my eyes towards her, bracing myself for an explosive reaction.

Unexpectedly, she kept facing towards the street, never looking in my direction. “Okay, Dylan. That’s unfortunate.” Turning on her heel, she flicked her mousy-brown, mothball-smelling hair in my face and walked away.

That night I dreamt of her again. Not Chelsea, but her.

Her, with the piercing blue eyes, framed by a sheath of dark eyelashes.

Her, with the ringlets of crimson fire, cascading over narrow shoulders.

Her, with the smell of fresh dewdrops and sunlight.

This is not the first of these dreams, and I doubt it’ll be the last. Ever since I could dream, she’s been in them. As a kid, I remember telling my mom about these dreams with “the angel”, that’s the best way I could describe her. I don’t know who she is, but she has always had a permeant residence in a very far corner of my mind.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, my appointment with Dr. D has completely slipped my mind.

“Hi Dylan, this is Samantha with Dr. Delphi’s office confirming your appointment for this afternoon at 3PM.” Dr. D’s secretary, Samantha, utters into the phone.

“Uh, yeah, right.” I stammer a reply. “Hey Samantha, actually Chelsea and I broke up a few days ago, so no need to keep our last two appointments.”

“One second,” Samantha puts me on hold. “Hey, Dylan? Yeah, she’s still asking if you’re able to come in. OK?”

Pausing for longer than I should, confused, I mutter, “OK” and hang up.

Back on the crusty couch, Dr. D offers her apologies. “I’m sorry to hear about your breakup, Dylan. Do you think you could describe the events leading up to them?” Dr. D crosses her significant, hosed calves and glances at me above thick tortoiseshell frames. Poising her pen to her paper she waits, patiently.

After a few long, silent seconds of staring at the crunchy carpet, I clear my throat. “We broke up. I broke it off.” I take a sip of my water, trying to piece together my thoughts. “Looking back at the past 2 years I’m not sure if I cared the way I should in those types of relationships. I didn’t want to marry her. I didn’t even want to move in with her. We kept our separate spaces and after a while of trying to convince me to move in and propose, I guess I stopped listening, because I really just didn’t care.”

Surprising even myself at the length of that answer, Dr. D responded, “This is the most you’ve opened up in here, Dylan. Why do you think that is?”

“Because she’s not here to get angry,” I theorize. “I felt like I was walking on eggshells around her. I think I let the relationship go on for too long…. way too long.” I look down again, realizing how much happier I would have been if I just ended it after date number 2, that’s when I started to see little red stop signs. The little ones you create to tell yourself that this person is not meant for you. It may be the way they talk, the way they chew too loud, or even their lack of ambition. She just wasn’t her. That was the stop sign.

“And why do you think you let the relationship continue for the length you did if you weren’t happy?” Dr. D continues to analyze.

“My age maybe. Maybe because I still can’t find her.” I stare at the darkening age spots on the back of my hand, not realizing what I’ve just said.

“Her? Her who, Dylan?” Dr. D questions, looking at me puzzled. 

“I…I’m not sure,” I stammered. “I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

Dr. D kept looking at me, urging me with her eye contact to continue.

“Um,” debating whether or not she’ll toss me in the loony bin if I explain. “So, I have these dreams. Well, I’ve been having these dreams of a woman since I was kid. I don’t know who he is, but I have this feeling of knowing her, quite well. I used to call her “my angel” when I was younger. I didn’t know how else to describe her.”

I pause, trying to rearrange my thoughts to form a sentence that doesn’t sound completely insane. “It’s a feeling, I guess. And it’s been getting in the way of most, well if not all, my past relationships, I think. It’s like I can’t get past it. I never have.” I glace towards Dr. D, unknowing of her response.

“And you feel like you know this woman, you said? That’s very interesting, Dylan.” Dr. D glances down at her notepad, scribbling something.

“Look, I know that sounds crazy, but it’s just this gut feeling I’ve had ever since I could remember. It’s something that tells me these women aren’t it, you know. I really don’t know how else to describe it. They’re just dreams, though. I don’t need any sort of medication.” I half-hearty laugh trying to play this down.

Dr. D eyes me, “Dylan, crazy is not a word I like to use. I do think there is something to explore here, with your dreams and why they’re prohibiting you, though.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, unsure of what she’s insinuating.

“Dreams can be a vehicle of repressed memories. I believe that if we can open your mind to find out who this woman is, we will be able to have a better shot of figuring out why a long-term relationship is not sustainable for you.” She jots down a quick note, adjusting her glasses. 

Her matter-of-fact tone takes me aback. This has never even crossed my mind. I do want that feeling I have in my dreams, I want that reality, but I’ve never even come close. I have always wanted a family, but I’ve always thought something was wrong with me. After thinking this over for a while, I respond, “What does this entail?”

Dr. D then goes into explaining memory-repressed hypnosis and the process. We set up a follow up appointment for that weekend. 

That night I dream of her.

Her with the infectious laugh.

Her with the creamy, alabaster skin. 

Her with the full, heart-shaped lips. 

I’m looking at her in a tattered, sepia photograph. My hands are young again. Age spots gone; skin taut; nails short and healthy. In the back of my subconscious, a whistling sound grows louder and louder…

I wake with a jump. Déjà vu? I’ve experienced that before, when I was a younger man, somewhere…

The dream fades away as I start my morning routine of making coffee and fruit, my aging mind releasing the imaginary moment, like petals into the wind.

That Saturday, back in Dr. D’s office, preparing for my hypnosis session, I feel calm. 

“I want you to understand that sometimes memories can fade in and out quite quickly. Some may be simple, some may be frightening, we have no way of knowing. I will start the metronome, so your subconscious has something to tether you to. I will be guiding you, but if at any time you need to stop, for whatever reason, tap on the arm of your chair and I will stop the metronome, bringing you back. There is no reason to worry, I just wanted to go over the full procedure before we begin. Do you have any questions?” Dr. D positions herself onto her chair while I try to get comfortable on the sun-soaked daybed by the window. 

After lying my head back onto a flattened pillow, I give her a thumbs up and close my eyes.

The metronome starts its rhythmic ticking.

Tick, tick, tick

“OK, Dylan, follow my voice and relax. Bring your full awareness to your body. Feel your toes, your ankles, your legs. Feel every part of your body, scanning all the way up to your head.”

Tick, tick, tick

“With your eyes closed, move them up towards the top of your head, hold them there.”

Tick, tick, tick

“Now, keeping your eyes closed and focused on the top of your head, envision stairs. Stairs leading down, you cannot see the bottom of these stairs. Start walking down. With each step, breathe deeper, sink lower into yourself. I am going to start counting the steps, walk down with me. 1…2…3….4…5…6…..”

Tick, tick, tick 

THIS IS GROUND CONTROL TO DH4 LIBERTY7, DO YOU COPY

DH4 LIBERTY7 CAN YOU HEAR ME

My eyes fly open, forced outward to a sea of white and blue. My fingers feel like ice and my body is shaking uncontrollably in a hard seat. I look around fanatically and realize I am in the cockpit of a Korean War fighter jet. What the hell?

My hands grab control of the steering as the jet steadies. What the hell. 

DH4 LIBERTY7 DO YOU COPY?

Uh, DH4 LIBERTY7 COPY, OVER

I report into the small radio, not sure what I am saying.

Tick, tick, tick

I blink back terrified tears. Why am I here, this is not a memory.

As near-invisible bullets start whizzing past, that’s when I see her.

The photo on the dash of the jet. She’s sitting atop a stool, wearing a velvet and lace dress, holding what looks like an umbrella. Her.

Studying the photograph, my heart races. I turn it over and that’s when I remember.

Louis, my love.

Make it back to me.

Always yours, May

August, 16, 1916

Hands shaking, my head swirls. May.

A whistling sound pierces my ears, I realize I’m still in the jet. Now out of control, the metal vehicle starts tipping, doing barrel rolls in between clouds. 

The whistling gets louder. Looking around desperately, trying to find where the noise is coming from, I spot it. A missile projected right towards me…

…MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY DH4 LIBERTY7

I'M ROLLING, ROLLING

I SEE IT, IT’S COMING RIGHT FOR ME, I'M GOING TO CRASH

AH---OH MY GOD---HELP--OH MY G...

* Whistling sound intensifies into a piercing guttural moan...... static*

Tick, tick, tick

I jolt back to conciseness. I’m back in Dr. Dr’s stuffy office, lying on the hard daybed. Head still spinning, I stumble over to her trashcan and vomit. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Dylan.” She handed me a bottle of water and a butter mint. “Take your time. Can you try to explain, as best as you can, your experience?”

Taking little sips of water, chewing on the mint I press my hand to my forehand. The throbbing pain and confusion swirl into panic. I cannot formulate an actual sentence; all I can manage to articulate are a few words.

“She was my wife…and I….I died.”