June 2010
First a gasp for air, then my heart starts beating faster than the rhythmic flap of a bee’s wings. On the floor losing consciousness by the second. A girl comes by my side and puts my head on her lap. I look up at her. Desperate to get her attention. I can tell that she’s stoned. She might be my only hope of getting out of this state. But she’s too busy drinking from a bottle of some alcoholic beverage. I’m desperate for help. Can someone help me, I can’t breathe! I scream for dad. No answer. Fear sets in as I realize I’m all alone with this incoherent girl.
I open my eyes and realize that it is just a dream. I take a breath in, hoping that I’m able to breathe normally, and then breathe out. And I can feel my lungs fill up with air. Cool, fresh air. I’m on my bed. At home, unharmed and healthy. I gather my thoughts and stay calm till my heart goes back to normal.
It’s just a dream, I whisper to myself.
The house is so quiet. No craziness happening. It’s been five years of great memorable times. Mom is happily sleeping beside the love of her life. Recapturing lost times, in each other’s arms. Leola and Lila are deeply asleep; probably in some princess world having tea with all their teddy bears. In my room, I hear the air conditioning turn on and blow the cool air in the room. The bed is comfy and the warm sheets make me think of mom’s warm embrace. Everything in this room calls for the perfect night sleep. Six years ago if someone had told me that my life would be this good again, I would have disagreed.
But despite all the wonderful things that should encourage awesome everyday night sleep, one thing hasn’t quite changed for the better. I’m lying on my bed, wide awake, unable to push these nightmares away.
Every time I close my eyes, I can’t help but remember the memories I would rather forget. The horrible movie starts as soon as I rest my head on the pillow and drift off to sleep. Not really my desired every night experience; actually my most hated every night experience. Awake because of these stupid nightmares. Nightmares of a past far behind me. I want to sleep without my thoughts and nightmares bringing those bad memories back to life.
I don’t want to remember but I can’t help but breath in, lie there motionless, revisiting the past, most hated memories of the seven nightmarish years of the less memorable times of my life. These memories are haunting my spirit once again as I realize that it has been five years since life has gone my way, the right way. I don’t see the need in closing my eyes and remembering the past all night long. I would rather be having tea with my sisters in their greatly imaginative dreams than to be on my bed, deprived of good memories or good things to look forward to in my sleep.
Just fall asleep, I whisper to myself a little annoyed. Everyone is fine and everything is fine. And most of all, Dad’s home! I can’t be any happier with my present life. The past is past and I have no desire to revisit it.
Speaking to myself and encouraging myself to accomplish something often gets me a goal on the soccer field. But it’s not getting me to sleep on this bed.
I get off my bed and walk around, doing one insignificant thing, then another. I can’t seem to invite a good night sleep. I go to my drawer and take out a huge box of puzzle pieces but stand unmoved by a desire to solve it.
After a long hour debating in my head on whether to do the puzzle or get chocolate milk in the kitchen, I make my way out of the room with the puzzle box in my arms. Milk with eighteen drops of chocolate syrup and another round of puzzle solving will fix me right up, I whisper.
Just like dad taught me when I was three. I remember it so well. I fussed that night during bedtime. Mom didn’t know how to deal with me. Dad took over and said to me “What about a cup of milk with chocolate syrup, then sleep?” I smiled; he poured the milk in the glass and said “three drops of chocolate syrup for the three year old Lod.”
From then on, every time I took a cup of chocolate milk, I would put drops of chocolate syrup corresponding to my age. Silly but it became a tradition because dad always said that ‘the best milk chocolate can only be made when mixing milk with the drops of chocolate syrup that match the age of the person who will drink it.’ Silly.
But maybe remembering great traditions is what I need. A cup of milk with eighteen drops will remind me of the good times I had with dad. Consequently get me to sleep my mind clear of the past.
Seventeen drops later, as I’m about to let one more drop into my milk, my hand shakes and I press the syrup bottle a little too hard. I pour more drops than I intended as a reflex to mom’s hummed “hum” in the darkness of the kitchen.
“You scared me” I say softly laughing. Mom secures her robe by tying the string around her waist. “Is everything okay?” she asks worried. She makes her way to the kitchen’s mini bar. I sit on one of the stools. Stir my drink, quietly. When I look up and make eye contact, she comes by my side and smiles. Her smile brings back great memories of my childhood. Times when dad was around and mom was the happiest. Most of all it reminds me of the day she walked down the aisle for a second time. Their 15th year anniversary vow renewal ceremony. She had a long beautiful white dress, white shoes, a big white flower head piece and greenish pink and white bouquet of flowers. She looked beautiful. At the reception, dad kept saying that she looked even more beautiful than when he first married her.
Mom never stopped smiling that whole day. Seeing her smile again just sent a sense of peace through every vein in my heart. A sensation, that maybe those veins can pump great memories to my head and turn this night around.
“I’m good mom.” I say gently stirring the milk chocolate. She calmly walks to the fridge, opens it, pours herself a cup of milk. “Are you going to drink that?” she asks looking at the syrup bottle to hint the amount of drops I poured in my milk. She takes my cup of chocolate milk. “You definitely did not put less than nineteen drops.” She laughs. Being a sucker for traditions, especially this one, I must comply with the tradition and make myself another cup.
“I bet that your milk definitely has enough drops to be your grandfather’s age” she says putting her hand over her mouth to cover her laugh. Mom loves to smile and especially laugh at my mistakes. She tries her best to keep our house laughing every day and I’ve always been the source of our many great laughs. She’s probably going to use this one as another of her great jokes.
“Want to switch?” she asks as she picks up my cup. “You already have a cup” I point out. She lowers her eyes to the glass of milk she poured to hint that I take it.
She takes a sip of the cup she took from me. “Hum, good.” she smiles. I put my eighteenth drop in the glass of milk she poured when she takes another sip. “Do I have to call your uncle Mike?” she asks as I take a sip of my milk chocolate.
“No ma’, I’m okay!” I object choking on my milk. I let out two weak but manly coughs. “I just wanted milk. And do a little puzzle solving… I just wanted to breathe in the good times. That’s all.”
She gives me a suspicious glare, and then puts her head down. Mom always knows best, especially when I try to cleverly hide things. But this time I don’t want to worry her with this past issue and temporary reoccurrence of a past we’ve all put behind us. I want her to rest assured that I’m doing just fine. She has had too many years of dealing with my sleepless nights and nightmares. I don’t want her worrying about the same thing again; especially now, during the good times. “This night is not going to be a repeat of the past years,” I say as I reach for her hand, “Life is back to normal and I will be dreaming on my bed as soon as my cup is empty.” I drink up even faster.
Even though I am trying to calm her spirit so that she doesn’t ask more questions or decide to call Uncle Mike, I really want what I said to be my reality tonight. I’m so tired of these sleepless nights.
“Okay, just know that I love you and that we’re all here for you, your sisters, your father. And I’m here for you.” she says sentimentally. She smiles and I smile back. I take my last sip, walk to her and place a kiss on her cheek. “I
love you” she says. “I love you” I say wholeheartedly.
I place my empty cup in the sink. “You’ve got chocolate milk on your cheek,” I joke as I walk away. She feels her sticky cheek and grins.
By the time I reach the inside balcony, I hear water pour out of the sink. I know she must still be worried about me, probably staring at the soapy water, wondering what will be her next move in helping me. I hope everything goes back to normal in her head and that she doesn’t take any drastic decisions to help me when I’ve already told her not to worry.
“I have learned through different experiences that life is really a big universe of memories and stories. We have good and bad memories. And from time to time we have things or events that remind us of either the good or the bad memories. But it was difficult to look beyond an awful past or bad memories when they invaded even my nights. It wasn’t fair for me to go through this and for my loved ones to have to deal with it and with me.” I say.
“I can relate.” Dieudonné tells me. We sit there quietly for a minute before I go on with the story.
I walk in my room, put my puzzle box on the desk, jump on my bed, and go under my warm sheets. “Now sleep” I whisper to myself.
I scream for dad. No answer. I scream again and he appears. Completely drunk with a wine bottle in his hand. “Yes,” he blurts out. He’s so stoned that he loses his balance and falls backward on the sofa and starts laughing. “Don’t worry. Stop panting like a baby,” he says. “Enjoy it.” Breathing becomes harder to do. Air gets more and more scarce. I take another breath, my heart expands, then it lets go and fails me. I lie there. I am dead. I can see myself lying dead on the dirty floor. My death doesn’t create a worry or action from anyone. Not even dad. Why?!
Another nightmarish night, I whisper to myself as I open my eyes. The continuation of the first nightmare wakes me up around 5am.
By six the nightmare is so engraved in my memory that I am unable to fall back to sleep.
It is currently 7am and I’m trying to clear my head of all the nightmarish nonsense and start my day the right way.
I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, I start getting breakfast ready and putting lunch together for the girls. Dad walks in the kitchen.
“Hey. Omelets. Yes” he exclaims. I pass him a plate. He sits and takes a bite. “So you want to talk about it?” he asks. Dad has been asking me to talk to him about my nightmares but I haven’t had the courage or even the desire to tell him about any of them. I don’t know what to tell him. Where to start or how to tell them.
“Your mother told me. We’re worried about you. I’m worried about you. It’s been four consecutive days of nightmares. We want to help you. You can talk to me.” he adds.
Dad has known about my nightmares for the past five years and has tried to get me the best help but nothing has worked. He even said that maybe by talking to him about them, things will get better. But I don’t want him any farther in my head than he already is. Most of all, I want to keep the great relationship I now have with him and telling him these nightmares might mess up what took time to rebuild.
“I’m okay Dad, don’t worry. I will be fine. It’s just a short phase. It will go away as soon as I get focused on more important things. Like finishing high school. I have to shower.” I say. He doesn’t push further. He knows that I know he means well and that’s all that matters. I leave the kitchen quietly.
“My father always wanted me to tell him what I saw in my nightmares but I didn’t want to do that, I wasn’t comfortable with telling him anything. For the wellbeing of the family and for my own sanity I tried to forget what had happened and what was happening.” I say.
“I’m sorry, it must have been hard. Believe me I can relate. It is hard to tell the people we love what we went through and the impact those things have in our present life.” Dieudonné says.
“Yeah, exactly. I have learned that some things are better not revisited, unless if you have to deal with them before moving forward. Then maybe telling them is a good thing.” I tell him. “She taught me that. But let’s not jump too ahead.”
“Okay. Let’s continue” he tells me.
“Hi dad.” Miradel says as she makes her way to me. I take her in my arms and sit her on my lap. “Hi honey. Did you sleep well?” I ask. She nods. I kiss her forehead.
“Miradel, this Mr. Dieudonné. He is a good friend of your mother.” They shake hands and Miradel curls herself in my arms and I hold her tighter to keep her warm.
“You want breakfast?” I ask her. She nods and smiles. “Okay, what about you keep Mr. Dieudonné company as I tell the story and you guys figure out the puzzle. Remember the puzzle? You know the story.” I show Miradel.
“She knows the story and we solve the puzzle many times during the year.” I tell Dieudonné.
“Oh, you have a copy of the same puzzle?!” he asks. “Yes we do, one is her gift to you and the other is a gift to Miradel and me.” I explain.
“Well, while we continue, let me put together something for breakfast.” I excuse myself and take a few steps to the kitchen. I continue telling the story as Miradel and Dieudonné solve the puzzle together.