Life Could Be a Dream

"Sweetie, it’s time to get up!” My mother calls. 

I roll over lazily, covering my head with the duvet. The sun cuts sharp and bright through the blinds. The inviting smell of coffee and bacon wafts from the kitchen. It’s Saturday and I cannot imagine why I need to wake up, but I obey, squinting in the light, and pad down the hall. My mother is scrubbing eggs off a pan in the sink, already cleaning before breakfast has been touched. No one is looking, no one asks her to do this, but she always wants things to be perfect. She doesn’t want anyone to get up too early from a meal when they could linger, chat without the pressure to begin the day.

“Good morning love,” my mother says over her shoulder, placing the pan on the drying rack. She dries her hands and kisses my head as I settle into my spot at the table. Her dark curls smell like vanilla and lavender, tickling my bare shoulders as she leans over me. White bowls and serving platters with little blue flowers hold mountains of food, too much for our modest family, steaming and ready to be consumed. As I begin selecting the fattiest pieces of bacon I can find my father appears, grabbing my mother around the waist and pulling her in for a kiss. 

“Nasty,” my little brother plops down in the chair beside me, dramatically averting his eyes from our parents.

“I’ll kiss her again if you make a fuss,” my father teases, ruffling my brother’s hair as he sits at the table. “

“Everything looks great babe, you’ve outdone yourself.” My father’s praise settles on my mother’s face and she smiles demurely, filling his coffee cup. She helps my little brother fill his plate. She wipes crumbs off the counter with a dishcloth. 

“Mommy, sit next to me!” My little brother half-whines. He’s already got jam and toast on the corners of his mouth. Five years old but forever the baby.

My mother obliges, setting down her coffee mug and gratefully accepting a plate my father has filled for her. He stabs his eggs with his fork and looks at her, expectant. My brother and I notice, sitting up straighter, waiting for one of them to speak. My mother clears her throat, mouth full of hash browns. 

“We have a surprise for you two,” she begins, the corners of her mouth upturned. She’s excited, like a kid. I can see the dimples in her cheeks, trying to hold back her joy. 

My brother and I look at one another, then to our father. He’s grinning as he chews. His eyes sparkle as he looks at my mother. She takes a sip of coffee, prolonging the suspense. My brother is rigid with anticipation, a rubber band taut between two fingers. 

“We are going to the beach,” she begins, “YES!” My brother squeals, bouncing in his chair. “For a week.” My mother finishes. My brother screeches in delight, my jaw drops. We have never gone to the beach longer than a day trip. My face breaks into a giddy smile and my brother and I can barely sit still, chattering about all the things we want to do when we get there. 

“Your father and I got up early and packed everything we need so we can leave right after breakfast.” She rises, begins clearing dishes, back to business. I shove the last slab of bacon in my mouth and take my plate to the sink. “Oh sweetie, you don’t worry about cleaning up, just go get dressed. It’s a shame, since everything is packed up I guess you won’t be able to brush your teeth.” She winks at me. I hug her tight around the waist, burying my face in her soft stomach. “Go on now, I want to get there before all the good spots are taken.”

I race to my room, bare feet thudding on the hardwood. I can hear my brother following suit behind me, freshly-fueled chaos in every step. I yank open my dresser drawer and change into the first T-shirt and pair of shorts I can find, my night clothes strewn on the floor. I turn to my bed to grab my teddy bear, Larry. I lift up the blankets and pillows, searching, but he’s nowhere to be found. My brow pinches and I try to remember where I had him last, just like my mother and father always say to do. I check under the bed and am delighted by my own detective work, pulling Larry out by a worn, fuzzy leg. I squeeze him tight, smelling his well-loved fur.

That’s not right. I recoil, throwing Larry to the floor. He smells of cigarettes and urine. My stomach sinks. No, no, please no.

My eyes flutter open and I am shrouded in darkness, though I know it’s daytime. The windows are covered in old sheets, their edges duct taped to the wall. I am not allowed to take them down. My little brother is curled up next to me on the dirty mattress on the floor. He’s wet the bed again. I don’t know how to get that smell off the bed but I know how to get it off him. 

I wake him up gently and take his hand, leading him to the bathroom. He is not fully awake and his feet shuffle as he walks, trash and dirty clothes littering his path. I start running the bath and help him out of his soaked clothes. His ribs inflate as I pull his shirt over his head. His skin is beginning to have a grey tinge to it. He rubs his eyes and begins to speak, but I sharply hold a finger to my lips, eyebrows raised. He puts his head down and nods, lowering into the bathtub. 

He knows I need to check first. He knows they might be passed out, surrounded by little squares of burnt tinfoil. There might be others here. They are always mean, always angry, always upset to see us. It’s worse if they’re not. Maybe they aren’t home. Maybe I can pick the blue fuzz off the bread and make us some breakfast.

Before I leave the bathroom I close my eyes. I grasp at the strings my memory left behind. I try to smell the bacon, try to remember what my parents faces would look like without scabs and scowls. Tears begin to well in my closed eyes. I don’t want to wake up.