Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  When Griffin arrives, his expression reeks of hopelessness. By force of habit, I try to cheer him. “You must have had a sucky date last night. Oh, let me take that back. If your date had sucked, you’d be in a much better mood.” His eyes float to my desk. He closes them and sniffles. Tears fall, and my heart breaks for him.

  There has to be something that I can do. Maybe I only need to create a big enough disturbance.

  I stand on my desk and wave my arms. “Come on, you big pansy! You claim you're all into psychic stuff. Here's your real ghost. Look at me!” He wipes away tears, then closes his eyes again as more fall. Still, I have to keep trying. “Seriously, Griffin!” I jump off the desk and attempt to grab his arm. “You keep telling me all this stuff is real. People who believe are supposed to be more in tune. If that’s true, why can't you see me?”

  His eyes go to mine, and then they narrow. Yes! “Griffin! Oh, thank God! I’m here. Well, I’m not physically here but—”

  His head rattles, and he rubs his eyes. “I need more sleep.”

  Oh, come on! I need to shoot a rubber band at him like I used to do when we were kids and I wanted to get his attention. I head to my desk and go for the drawer handle. Of course my hand passes right through it. Gah! How many times am I going to forget? This doesn't make any sense. If I can stand on a solid object, I should be able to touch one.

  Maybe it’s just my state of mind. I try again, focusing on actually feeling the handle, which I don’t, but I convince myself I do. When I pull, nothing happens. Like zero.

  Dr. Leopold walks in and asks Griffin to give her a hand with something in the back. Griffin’s eyes are hazed over, and he’s as oblivious to her as he is me. Again she calls his name, and he snaps to. “Sorry,” he utters, and then follows her out the door.

  Pickle farts! I start to make the trek back to the hospital. There has got to be a way to communicate with someone.

  Being filled with fear in the afterlife and the horror of seeing myself in a hospital bed were nothing compared to the sadness that watching Jensen brings to my soul. How can I be in Bertha’s passenger seat and he not notice?

  “Please, God,” he prays. “You have enough good people with you already. Leave her with us so the world can benefit.” His grip on Bertha’s wheel tightens, and he gathers a shuddered breath. Jensen’s pain rips at my soul. “Again I am selfish, I know, but what will happen to me if she dies? Please don’t test me, and please show us all mercy by keeping her here.”

  Jensen shuts off Bertha and then rests his head on her steering wheel and cries dry tears. I try to hold my hand on his shoulder. “Baby, please don't cry.” He pauses. Hope that he has heard me hits until he shakes his head and gets out of the car. I race to join him.

  I stop at the foot of the stairs to rub my eyes. They feel like sandpaper. I’ve lost so much fluid from crying that my blood may have turned to powder. Even Bertha sounded like she'd been crying.

  Bertha is fine.

  I am fine.

  Lizetta will definitely be fine.

  What the doctors think doesn’t matter. They don't know my girl.

  Etta’s barking so loudly that I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called the cops. My speeding off without a goodbye last night must have put her out of her mind. God only knows what she thought when Griffin dropped by this morning to feed her.

  She’s all over me the second my foot crosses the threshold. Immediately, I kneel down to her eye level, but her avoiding my gaze deepens the hollowness in my heart. I need to feel her connection, to know Etta is in this with me, but she keeps yapping towards my right with her tail and ears raised. She must be so pissed that she won’t face me. I failed her.

  Yeah, but she also knows something is wrong. Etta knows everything.

  I touch her jaw and try to persuade her to turn my way. My forced words nearly gag me. “Lizetta will be back soon. It's going to be okay.”

  Etta continues looking away and barking like crazy. According to the doctors, I’m lying to both her and myself. “Okay. You got me. Things suck. However, we are absolutely, positively, not giving up even the smallest amount of hope, got that?”

  Oddly, the barking continues. It’s not even her normal acknowledgement bark. Lizetta’s situation is freaking her out as much as it is me. Hopefully she just needs food, because I can’t deal with this now.

  Pulling a can of dog food out of the cabinet brings back the tears as memories of Lizetta showing up on my door step with bags of the stuff on the day we met fill my heart. That’s the day my life became complete.

  It will stay complete. This is temporary. She will be fine.

  The smell that hits my nose the instant I break the seal on a can causes my stomach to turn. Normally Etta races over at the sound. Instead, she stays by the door, barking. “Come on, girl.” I can’t deal with both my sorrow over Lizetta and the tension that barking is causing me at the same time. Maybe I should take her to Lizetta’s where she can be with other dogs.

  Lizetta …

  My butt hits the sofa. My head, my heart, my stomach—they all feel destroyed.

  Etta runs into the kitchen and starts flapping her tail like crazy. She swings it so hard that it thunks on the cabinet to her right. Just above her is the box of cereal I left out this morning. Again she is barking like she’s begging for my attention. She's right. I need to eat. I haven't ingested anything since breakfast yesterday—not even water.

  Cereal sounds vile. Actually, all food sounds disgusting. I try to appease her by looking in the fridge. There's barely anything in there except for the same four beers that have stared at me for months.

  Fuck it! If ever there was a time—

  My hand goes for a cold bottle while my brain screams something about it being five months. Why can’t everyone around here shut up and leave me alone?

  I sit on the sofa with my head hung low from the guilt of just holding the bottle in my hand. Dammit, I hurt! This will make me hurt less. The pain of knowing I am about to blow it hurts too, yet somehow it all feels justified.

  I should call Paul.

  Paul, my sponsor. Paul, my future father-in-law.

  Fuck it!

  I crack the seal and toss the cap onto the coffee table. It bounces next to a stack of bridal magazines and a tiara.

  That tiara … My eyes close off the world as my pain reaches new depths. Lizetta wore it all night last night, because even though I'm not supposed to see any of her stuff before the wedding, she said I made her feel like royalty.

  My chest gets heavy and starts heaving. Somehow my body finds more water and the tears flow again. God, please don’t take her. People like me need beautiful souls to guide us. I may have survived before, but now that I’ve known her, how can I face an empty world?

  My head hangs low, and the tears get smeared onto my sleeve before I raise the bottle. Etta races toward me. She lets out a growl that is deep with bared fangs. Her tail is smacking to the right again, only this time it is freaking me out, because the wags are sharp and threatening. Dogs usually flap their tails to the right when they are happy. The last time she did it she seemed to be pointing to the cereal. I’ve no idea how to read Etta now.

  Etta growls again. The bass in it vibrates my veins, sending a chill through them. I swear she’s just doubled in size and is challenging me to see who is bigger. She butts her nose to the bottle, and that growl threatens me again. The bottle goes to the table, and I retract from the poison.

  Now that she has my attention, Etta heads for the kitchen. She’s right. The sink is where this belongs. I dump the thing and then pull out the remaining three bottles with the intention of dumping them as well, but the smell is so vile that they get chucked out the front door so they shatter on the concrete and are rendered useless.

  I’ve got to get my head together. My body needs nutrients and water—lots of water. The glass I down makes me want to hurl. Still, I force myself to start on another because I need to stay strong and healthy to make
it through this.

  The sudden ring of my cell phone causes me to gag on the water while jumping to answer Paul’s call. My coughed hello reeks with distress.

  “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers by calling. Just wanted to let you know there’s no change.”

  I nod, even though he won’t know I replied. Talking seems futile.

  Paul groans. “We both know why I am calling. You okay?”

  He didn’t need to put stress on okay for me to know what he meant. “The house doesn’t have a drop in it, and neither do I.”

  “Good. Same here. You call if you need to. I made Jimmy take Judy home, so I’m on watch at the hospital. I swear, I’ll call if she makes even the slightest movement. Get some sleep.”

  I take a moment to gather my wits and calm my heart. The stench of the beer hangs in the air and reeks like a seductive dance partner who hasn’t bathed in weeks. As much as being near it makes me nearly hurl, the sink gets a thorough scrub before I head off to the bedroom. The sight of the bed makes all of my senses lock up. In just a few days, this is to become her bedroom too. She’s already brought over some clothes and a box of dog ashes. Being here without her is so wrong that I don't even know if I can do it.

  I force myself to lie on the bed. I have to, because I just saw what will happen if I don’t stay strong.

  This is temporary. She will be back soon.

  Etta jumps up and doesn’t lie next to me like she does when Lizetta isn’t here, but where she would if we were all together. As disturbing as it is, I find a bit of peace. Eventually we both drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saturday, July 22

  Bark! Bark!

  “Hang in there, sweetie,” Lizetta tells me. “I'll figure something out.”

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Bark!

  “Hurry, honey,” I say. “I miss you. This waiting is killing me.”

  Pound! Pound! Pound! Bark! Bark!

  My eyes pop open, and I scramble to rip off the sheets. That knock sounds like the hounds of Hell are on their way.

  Etta sits by the door with her tail stiff as a bottlebrush. I should heed her warning, but maybe something happened and Paul came over instead of calling.

  I jerk the door open.

  Crap! I really need to listen to Etta. With the way this girl loves to pop in, you’d think I’d at least learn to use the peephole.

  Behind the door is a woman in a tank top and a microscopic skirt. Maybe it is the weird lighting from the angle of the sun, but her skin is yellow. Are her arms covered in makeup?

  The aura she radiates is one of concealed pain. Is that why the moment the door opened I felt emotionally drained? The dark circles that peek through makeup make my heart ache for her, yet I also feel conflicted. She looks like a junkie, and I can’t shake the feeling that she has chosen her own path.

  Is that horrible of me? People choose to start taking drugs, but they don’t choose to become addicts. Did this girl who looks so emaciated choose—

  Is that? Oh, no way! Is Laura Muler groupie girl? The one that Jensen—

  Oh, gross! Let me go get a knife and slice myself so God can pour more salt on me.

  Dear God, what happened to her? She used to be so pretty. Just the thought of her used to fill me with jealousy, but now …

  Now my heart bleeds for her. What could possibly cause her to plummet so deeply into hell? What a terrible waste of beauty.

  Etta stands at my feet, continuing to bark. I should shh her so the neighbors don’t flip out, but I’d rather Laura feel threatened. Etta then butts my leg with her nose as if saying, “See, I warned you not to answer the door. Why don’t you ever listen to me? Idiot.”

  My sigh rings in my head like I'm hung over. Maybe my brain is too clouded by what is happening with Lizetta, but I foolishly refrain from slamming the door in Laura’s face. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your charms? This is the worst of all times. I also told you to leave me alone.”

  Her teeth nip at her lip and she raises her brows. It’s not in the seductive way she usually does it. Instead, she seems resigned to the fact that she can’t blame me for my attitude. “I heard what happened.”

  What? “From who? Never mind. Please, go away.”

  “I thought you might need someone to talk to. We can do that, you know?” I start to shut the door on her, and she jabs a paper bag into my chest. “Here, I brought adult milk and cookies.”

  Etta warns me as I open the bag. She's right. It’s filled with future regret. “Tequila and limes? Really?” I push Laura aside so I can chuck the thing out the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Putting it with the last of my beer.”

  “That stuff was expensive.”

  The bag bounces off the pavement. Plastic? “Glad you sprung for the good stuff.”

  “I also heard you got engaged.” Laura tosses her purse on the coffee table, and then plops her butt onto the sofa. I glare at the purse until she moves it to the ground. I don't want anything of hers even remotely near the stuff that Lizetta and I are using on our wedding day. Lizetta’s been shopping with such urgency that you’d think the wedding were tomorrow.

  Pain gets choked back. I would give anything to marry that woman tomorrow. Hell, the second she wakes I’m grabbing a preacher. I'll marry her in the damn hospital. Were we engaged too soon? Hell no! I’m not letting another moment of life slip past without her.

  “You heard? How? That only happened a week ago.” And how long until you let that skirt ride up and flash me? “Never mind. I don't want to know how you, or anyone else, knows anything about my life now.” Man, being around this girl makes me punchy as sin.

  “News travels. Is this her?” She picks up the engagement picture that we had taken the night after I proposed. Lizetta couldn't wait, and I am so, so incredibly grateful that I listened to that inner voice that tells me never to waste a moment and put off having it done. God, how I miss her.

  Laura blinks, and her mouth drops to form a void. “Wow!”

  “Wow, what?” If she makes one comment, one tiny comment, I'm going to rip the anorexic bitch’s throat out, regardless of the hell that makes her that way.

  “She's pretty.”

  Laura then has the balls to start thumbing through the stuff on the coffee table. Her grubby hands dare to reach for Lizetta’s tiara. Is nothing sacred to this woman? I snatch it from Laura's hands. “No one touches her stuff!”

  She puts her hands out to tell me not to get so testy. If she doesn’t want to see me testy, she should leave.

  “Jensen, do you remember the time my dad showed up drunk and pissed after losing a bunch of money and tried to take it out on me? You saved me by fighting that asshole off. I thought I'd return the favor by helping you fight off this.”

  And there went the last of my compassion. “Fight it off? Fight off the pain because my fiancée is in a coma and will likely die?” No, I did not mean that! It just croaked out from anger. Ugh! I hate how Laura truly brings out the worst in me. “I really need you to go.”

  She nods in acknowledgement that she has blown it. When she stands, she actually puts her hands on the hem of her skirt and tugs downward. Is Laura showing modesty? What the hell kind of trick is this? First the warning over the cookies, now this. If she didn’t bring a bottle of liquid coffin nails, I’d think she was trying to be respectful.

  “I’m sorry. I get it. It’s just that—” She snickers. “Lately you’ve looked better than I have ever seen. Even before all the bad stuff happened. I thought that maybe if I was here for you, you could be here for me and show me how you did it.”

  Does Laura really think I'm that stupid?

  Then again, this is reminding me of the few times when Laura actually opened up to me. The times when she told me about how her father had abused her. The times when she said he would starve her in retaliation for acting out. That pain radiates off of her, but I’ve also seen her fake it. I won't let
my own tragedy blind me to reality.

  There is water in her eyes when I hand Laura her purse. Fucking tears. The fall of each one scrapes through my heart. I can't take her pain, because the only thing helping me hold it together is how angry I am. “I'm sorry,” she says, “for all of the things that happened.” I have to fight off losing it. Laura's words remind me of when I called Mom, and it’s making my insides crumble.

  She reaches out to hug me, and Etta barks like crazy. My chest caves and tears start falling all over again. I cling to Laura because I'd give anything for this to be Lizetta.

  Etta growls at me to knock it off, but I don’t let go. Maybe I am still a junkie, because even if Laura is as poisonous as crack, I need something.

  She’s gotten so frail that she may shatter if I squeeze her. I was the only one that gave a shit about her. Now something about her reeks of being a bag of garbage that only gets picked up when someone needs something to puke in. She’s pouring her heart into this hug, but I have to turn myself off to her. I can’t get sucked back into her world.

  Etta helps me come to my senses by butting her head into my knee. I don’t let Laura leave before stating what obviously needs to be said. “Knock off the heroin.”

  Laura’s eyes go to her makeup-covered body. She nods in acknowledgment that she’s heard me but not necessarily that she’ll listen. “Remember,” she says, “you can call me if you need to talk. After all we've been through, I know you pretty well.”

  I close the door behind her and lean against it. “Not anymore you don't.”

  My heart hurts in acceptance of what I just witnessed. “I don’t know, Jensen. She may know you better than anyone.”

  How my family clings to the hope that I will wake warms my heart. My poor mother. I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to watch over your dying child. She tries to focus on her knitting, but her eyes keep peering up, hoping to catch a sign that I’m coming to.