Dream Day

Dream Day

Rain pools on the windshield as the wipers lag. Seconds accumulate; the red light blurs then is wiped clear. There’s that new car smell- plastic mixed with almost leather. A clear film covers the back door handle. As we idle at the light I pick at it. Scratching at the corner, I left it with my nail and then peal it. It curls into itself as soon it’s off and I roll it between thumb and index into a twisted little cylinder.

​The light turns green and as we start out I crack my window. The rain falls through- black drops dot my door. Idry them with my bare hand- a smear of water and dust- an almost clean car.

​Signs litter the highway as we exit the mountain town. They read: Stevens Pass, Chains Required after November, Four-wheel drive Recommended. We’re passing through.The pressure in my head mounts; like I’ve been submergedin water and sounds fade. The trees take on a differentcharacter. You can tell we’re climbing. They shrink in height and size. White birch trunks pepper the steep ravineof the deciduous forest.

​“You awake back there?”

I meet Dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yup,” I say, “for now anyway.” I squint out my window. “The forest is pretty, but gets boring quick.” I pinch my nose and blow.There’s a pop in my ears. Like I’m bursting out of the water, all sounds are clear- louder.

​“Yes, for now.” Mom peeks over her shoulder, “But, wait till we get on the other side of the pass, the forest really starts to change. They get so much rain in this area it’s actually considered a rain forest.”

​“Wow Mom, how exciting!” I poke my head forward, “The trees change the further we travel! Almost like the geography is different, from place to place!” I give a snort. 

​“The closer we get to the coast the humidity changes,” she says, ignoring my tone. “It causes a noticeable difference in the foliage.”

I mumble my acknowledgement.

​After a few beats the silence in the car is drowned out by the radio. The station we’re tuned into plays Clapton’s Layla. Dad turns it up.

​“You know,” he adjust the rearview mirror at me, “Clapton’s one of the most gifted guitar players of ourgeneration.” He nods toward Mom. I give him wide eyes and a look that says: ‘Cool… Dad’.

​“Probably one of the best of the 20th.” He glances to the right, catching me with his peripheral and then facesforward. “He’s up there at least.”

​I let it hang in the air and stare out the window. The topography changes; we’re passing through blasted-out cuts in the mountainside. Shear rock faces. There are trees too, and they fly past and blur. Nothing remains distinct if I allow my gaze to stretch out, further than I can actually see. As if I’m looking through it all. It’s hypnotic. I rest my forehead against the window. The skin touching the glass tightens and Goosebumps. I take my jacket and wedge it between my head and window.

My eyes rest.

I fall into a void where time and all the senses fadewithout warning.

​And then I hear,

“You awake back there?” It tugs me out. I keep my eyes closed. “Jeremy, you sleeping?” he pokes again; I ignore it and keep still. 

“There’s a place coming up we can stop for a late lunch if you’re hungry?” Mom says, in a softer tone. As if she wants to let me to sleep while she wakes me. I don’t want to talk so I pretend I am. I focus to keep my eyelids calm; a little movement’s okay, I could be in REM.

​“He must be tired.” Is whispered in the front seat. 

​“It’s been a long ride,” says Dad, “it’s good to take a break from the car with a nap.” 

​“He’s got a lot on his mind right now, too.” 

​I can feel a set of eyes on me. But, I don’t bend to the pressure. Eyes shut, slow methodical breaths.

​“These rentals are so uncomfortable.” I hear Momshift in her seat. “By the time I get used to it, the insurance will come through and we’ll be getting the replacement.”

​“Well, at least we’re getting a replacement, and a year newer- which is nice.” 

At least there’s a silver lining to my accident.

​“I still think he should see someone.” 

​“Like who? He’s says he fine, we can’t really force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do, Right?” There’s a pause.

​“It wouldn’t be forcing.” Mom says, “I think he doesn’t understand how to cope with what happened. Maybe he blames himself.”

​“Hey Jeremy,” Dad’s voice is raised, like he’s earnestly checking. “You need a bathroom break or anything?”

I know it’s another test. They’re talking in confidence, about me. 

​“That’s why we’re going on this trip.” He continues in his lowered tone. “Family time. He didn’t want to come,right? But we convinced him why he needs a break…” He trails off. The red and black void behind my eyes take on ever-expanding shapes and forms. Atmospheric-blotches, like a swirling universe inside my head. I try to make the forms morph at will, focusing on the light contrastedbehind my eyelids.  

​“You remember what he was like after.” Mom whispers.

“That was just the first few nights. Everybody gets bad dreams.”

“Yeah, but do they usually crawl into bed with their parents after?” 

​“I know. It was a really close call, too close.” He pauses, “He’s a tougher kid than you think. He’ll be alright after this.”

​I’m fine. I’ll be fine, absolutely fine.

​“I know he’s a tough kid.” She says, “But toughness has nothing to do with this. Yes, he says he’s fine, because he knows that’s what we want to hear. He knows what to say so that we won’t worry. He’s always been like that.”

​“Yeah he has. But, he’s smart enough to know that if he needs to talk to someone, we’re here.”

​“That’s BS, no one asks for help when they need it. It’s our responsibility to know when he does.” She pauses, and then in a lower whisper, “He needs to learn how to deal with this kind of stuff. So it doesn’t bottle up.”

​Being able to listen to my parents talk about me, about their kids, has always been a guilty pleasure. It holds such potential and promise of unknown truths. But, like being hidden from view yet still able to hear someone badmouthyou, it always poisons the well.

When I was six my parents took a trip to town by themselves. I snuck into the backseat before they left. I laid there for most of the ride, a 28-mile trip. Once I had snuggled under Dad’s jacket on the floor I closed my eyes to wait. 

I awoke somewhere along the ride. They were talkingabout boring things. What the plans for the garden beds should be, when they should move the sheep pens. How successful the harvest would be that fall. And then I heard my name.

“He acts like such a little weasel sometimes,” Dad said, “I asked him to weed that front bed yesterday, you know? That was the only chore of the day, to weed thatbed. But he took the rake and tried to rip everything up at once; he destroyed the entire thing. Once I came back to check, and saw what happened I called him over.”

The pit in my six-year-old stomach twisted when he said these words. 

“I asked him, ‘Didn’t you weed this the way I showed you? Why did you do this?’ ‘I didn’t!’ he screamed. He actually screamed he didn’t do it, but he didn’t put the rake away either. He said it must have been the dog that dug everything up after he finished.”

Mom hadn’t said a word.

“‘Maybe he was looking for the crust of my bread I threw out there yesterday?’- That’s what he said.” Mimicked my dad in my fumbled six-year-old speech.

I knew the longer I stayed quite, the more severe thereaction. But, making myself known in that moment was impossible. 

“I told him I knew he’d done it,” Dad continued, “and that he needs to tell me the truth and that I wouldn’t be mad…”

​“What did he say?” 

​“He broke into tears, denied he ever touched the rake!”

​“Well, he is only six…”

​“Regardless,” he said, “Lying is the one thing I won’ttolerate. I don’t like liars.” 

And I was a lair. I was a cheat. Laying in wait.

Even with my eyes closed I could tell exactly where we were by the movements and speed of the car. That was the 90-degree bend off the highway! This is the slow turn around the lake! 

My parents had been traveling with their six-year-oldson stowed away. I had heard an intimate conversation between my parents, one not meant for me- one about me. 

“And what about Carry?” Mom had asked, “You’re hard on her all the time! She’s barely ten; of course she’s a picky eater. But, you act like it’s a personal affront to us,and our way of life if she doesn’t want to eat her vegetables.”

“I’m not hard on her… I just don’t understand how anyone can sustain themselves on white bread alone.” 

“You dislike her. You’ve always treated her different. She’s sensitive, yes, and may be more shy than the rest of the kids but-“

“I don’t hate her!” Dad had yelled, “How could you say that? She’s my goddamn daughter for Christ sake!”

​“Well you do treat her different than the rest of the kids.” Mom had said at length. 

I clenched my fists as the blurred light shone through the fabric of Dad’s jacket. My whole body swayed to the side as we made the last turn from our road onto the highway. The car had accelerated to speed when I realized we would be in town in less than ten minutes. They would park at the post office; Dad would reach back for his jacket like always. I could’ve popped up and said, ‘Surprise! I hid back here to surprise you, but I fell asleep!’

​I remember thinking that if I were to jump up now,they might believe that I had been asleep.

​I heard the clapping sounds made when we’d go over the slats connecting the corridors of the bridge. That was the last sign before we made it all the way to town. It would’ve been only a matter of minutes before Dads’ hand reached back and grabbed me instead of his jacket.

​“All I know,” Dad says; his tone higher and faster- agitated. “Is that my son, isn’t going to be any kind of liaror sneak. I wont let him. I’ll give him up before I let him act like that again.” 

I hear Mom shift in her seat. “Where would we… sendhim?” 

​“Well, I know a guy up North that takes any kid that acts out.” 

After a pause he adds, “He actually pays a premium for six year olds.”

​My insides freeze. I have to make myself known, if Dad thinks I’ve been trying to sneak... 

I poke my eyes above Dad’s jacket. The sky is dark blue. The light poles flying past mark the sections of the walking bridge that runs parallel with ours.

​I see the backs of my parents’ heads from the floor where I’m hunkered down. As I stare out the top of the window, the car slows. We’re over the bridge. 

​I uncover my face. If Mom or Dad looks over their shoulders they would see my moist eyes starring back at them.

​We idle at a light. I drop the jacket and slide myself into a sitting position in the backseat. Tears are streaming down my face, as I hold a sob in.

​“Well if he can’t learn how to behave,” Mom says, “then he’s no good. But, at least we can get a premium for him, if we do it now.”

​They’re actually going to get rid of me? I’m not worth it to them- I’m too much trouble. 

​The car accelerates, as our light turns green. We’re flying through town now. I can see the hand on the speedometer pushing 60 MPH. Dad rolls down his window and the rush of the air blows in my face. Drying the salty tears.

​I have to make myself known, and apologize. There’s still time to make it better and not get sent away!

​We pass over potholes; the suspension buckles, tossing me up and down on the seat. We pass the post office turn;we must be headed to the CO-OP. Back on the highway. 

​The air sucked into the car creates a deafening roar. But, I can hear my parent’s voice. I know I have to say something.

​“Dad!” I yell, finally, “I fell asleep-” 

Dad’s back tenses and his head shoots up and around. His gaze meets mine, wide with panic.

​“You!” He yells, and slams on the brakes. 

Time slows down. 

He turns back to the road as the screech from the tires rips through the vehicle. The speed, at which we were traveling, and the panicked breaking cause me to lift from my seat. It’s as if it’s happening in slow motion; I seemyself lift and project forward through the front seats. I hear the glass break before I feel it. It shatters on impact, smashed by my face. I feel the airlessness, the freedom for what seems like an eternity, but is a split second.

​As I spin through the air, flying forward through the windshield I stare back at them as I rotate.

​“I’m sorry,” I yell, “I wanted to surprise you!”

​I see a cold look on my parents’ face. I feel shame for sneaking. Regret for not saying I was sorry sooner. I yell I love them as I twirl through the air- before I spot the Evergreen that’s to stop my path.

​“Ahhh!” I scream, jolting forward in my seat.

​I open my eye’s to see both parents turned back at me. Fright splayed across their faces.

​“Oh my God! Are you Okay?” She doesn’t wait for a response and hits Dad on the shoulder to react. “Pull over!” 

​“Okay, okay,” He checks over his other shoulder fortraffic and slows down. “Are you okay back there?”

​My breathing is rapid, but I control it now. There’s sweat or tears drying and tightening my face. I hear the hazards blink as the car pulls to a stop on the shoulder. 

​“I think so…” I say, “I’m not sure what happened.”They share a glance. “I’m okay, really. Just a bad dream I think. It was weird.”

​The expressions they share are palpable, but nothing’s said.

​After a long silence Dad turns around. “There’s that diner I was talking about right there,” He points through the windshield. “Maybe we should stop for that late lunch?”

​“Yeah, something to eats probably a good idea.” I run my hand through my hair- it’s damp and matted. 

​“Hey Dad,” I say, “remember that time the garden bed got messed up after you asked me to weed it?”

His lolls over his shoulder at me with a thoughtful expression and then looks to Mom. “I think I know what you’re talking about, why?”

“I did use the rake,” I say, staring into his eyes, “I’m sorry.” 

He faces forward, signals, and then pulls out. “What made you think of that?” 

I stare out my window, “I don’t know, just came to me.” I glance forward to catch his eyes narrowed at me in the rearview. “You being mad at me for something like that is my worst nightmare.”