Nightmare

by Cat

Thick carpet denies the reassuring click of my high heels as I walk, armored by concentration. My hair is loose and damp, and I feel the weight of a winter dress on my skin. A dress I bought years ago and have never worn, and my pearls are ever-present on my collarbone like tiny sinkers, full of lead. The scent of makeup and perfume fortifies the cold dignity of my grief.

Behind the podium, I alternately check my notes and stare at the back wall while people file into the room and settle into their seats. There are wooden chairs or pews, I can never quite tell, in this dimly lit room with horribly colored walls. Some kind of goldenrod, with just an overtone of olive green, or is that the shadow, maybe, and oak accents. The roof is beamed, and the architecture reminds me of a sanctuary, but I can never remember if there are stained glass windows, or whether I’m standing merely at the front of the room or at an altar.

The hum of people slows to a whisper and then near-silence.

Tears welling in my eyes and a thick lump in my throat provide the sensation of being behind an aquarium wall- I could scream and no one would hear my cries as the water stole my breath and my voice without trying. Quiet determination wins a slow victory, and I try to scan the audience and make out their faces. Looking for someone to speak directly to, an old trick.

I’m searching for someone specific, someone with kind eyes and a steady gaze, who will eye me expectantly and maybe tip his chin up ever so slightly, as if to say go on, girl, you can do this. If I could focus on just his face, I could find my voice and carry on. He isn’t there, or I can’t pick him out- my vision won’t sharpen, but I can’t feel his energy, I can’t sense his presence among everyone else. My fingertips prickle with panic and my breath comes too quickly as I stare at my notes, willing myself to speak that first sentence and break the now noticeable silence.

Blinded by terror, the words are senseless, like ants running across the page. I can hear nothing else but my own roaring thought: who are you looking for? The realization that I don’t know washes over me and sends the room spinning.

With my eyes fully closed, I hear myself speak one sentence before the sensation of falling down a rabbit hole startles me awake.

Thank you for being here today to honor the life and memory of my father.

My waking reaction varies. Sometimes the stunning icy fear still has my chest in its grasp when my eyes fly open, sometimes I wake up covered in cold sweat and hot tears. Sometimes I manage some gentle self-admonishment as I roll over and think of sweeter things. Sometimes it stays with me for days, and I find myself daydreaming about the exact color of the paint, or about the windows, wondering why I never remember those maddening details.

I’m always disturbed and perplexed by my utter inability to make do by fixing my gaze on a spot on the back wall, but I don’t like to think about that.

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