An Angel On Her Shoulder

by Dan Alatorre

  We watched, with the empty feeling of helplessness eating away at our insides, as our daughter, barely twenty-four hours old, clung to life. And we and the parents of the other babies in the NICU wept and prayed. In the midst of all that, I felt a something I had not felt before. At a time when I should have been scared, I grew to feel strangely calm.

  My dad, a physician, said it was a miracle. He said that there must have been an angel on the examining doctor’s shoulder that day, whispering in his ear. If we had taken my daughter home, she might have died with no warning, like so many others with the condition.

  We were lucky. There was an angel on the doctor’s shoulder that day. Or one on my daughter’s.

  I was unprepared for the emotions I would have from out of nowhere after the death of my mother, so I understood when people said they could no longer drive by a certain intersection where their kid had crashed a car and almost died. It changes you, like the NICU changed us.

  The street light outside my window illuminated the falling rain. The drops came down almost horizontally in the whipping winds of the storm. I rubbed my clammy hands on my t-shirt to dry them. The grip of fear the bad dream had put in my gut had nearly subsided.

  For a long time, a word or phrase that someone would innocently say to me, or something they’d do in passing, would instantly plunge me back into that cold, dark church in Indiana where I would again find myself staring at a shining coffin in the dim glow of candles. The box that now held my mother for eternity.

  I’m not sure I told my mom enough that I loved her. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m sure I didn’t. I showed it at her funeral, and I could write about it in a letter to my friend, but I doubt I did enough to show her while she was alive. Women are different that way. I see that now, watching my wife with our daughter. A mother always wants another kiss or hug. She can’t hear “I love you” enough from her child. I haven’t make the same mistake with my daughter that I made with my mom. I tell Sophie that I love her all the time.

  It would fall to me, then, to teach her the good things about my mother. Sure, there were many things to be learned from Mallory’s side of the family. They are good and decent folks. Sophie loves them and we visit their farm all the time. She helps throw old bread to the cows and holds the basket when they collect chicken eggs from the coop. At three years old she was catching her own catfish with Mallory’s father in the pond.

  Sophie will build her own fond memories of childhood, and she will build her strengths and weaknesses as she does. I’m not sure how you could teach your daughter about her other grandmother anyway, especially when she can’t see it for herself. I’m not sure I would even know how to teach her, or whether I could if I did know how. And that seems like kind of a waste.

  I guess that’s why I hang onto the copy of that letter. To help show her one day.

  But that’s not the only reason I keep it.

  Chapter 18

  By 4 A. M., I was still wide awake but the cold sweat had faded.

  I silently cursed the churrasco and salsa, but that wasn’t the reason. I dug through the pantry to find some Tums. Plopping down on the living room couch, I sorted my thoughts in the darkness and tried to put the lion dream behind me.

  There wasn’t much point in going back to the church. They weren’t going to advance the ball. Father Frank had gotten my wheels turning—he seemed to think I wasn’t insane, and that was a pretty good start—but a conventional church approach was never going to be the right way to go. Not for our situation.

  What did I really know about whatever this was, anyway? Somehow, I had to find someone to help me connect the dots—if the dots were supposed to be connected. Father Frank seemed to think they were.

  Maybe the church doesn’t go into stuff like this. Maybe that stuff like exorcism is only for the movies. Maybe I should try to find some other options, and then go back and give the church another shot if those didn’t pan out.

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing my stomach. The lion dream really shook me up. Who dreams about being chased by lions, anyway? I mean, once they’re older than five?

  It was just a stress dream. I used to have them all the time back when I worked for this jerk of a boss, in a really crappy job. Waking up and going to work was a real downer. With a psycho tyrant manager whose goal was to find ways to ruin everybody’s day, I constantly felt like I was about to lose my job. It was an ugly time.

  I kept having what I called stress dreams. I had the same problem years before, when I worked for a different psycho tyrant boss, in a different job. There aren’t a lot of psychos out there, but I guess they all find their way to middle management.

  The stress dreams were awful things, making me toss and turn all night, then wake up more tired than when I went to bed. They made no logical sense.

  I’d be in a room full of copiers, twenty or thirty of them, all whirring and popping and cranking out some important report. One by one, each of the copiers would jam or otherwise fail in some way. Maybe they ran out of paper; maybe the feeder got stuck. It was completely random, but in the dream it was my responsibility to keep that report cranking out, so I’d be running from machine to machine, hurrying to see what was wrong. Right about the time I’d get one copier working, another one would stop. Or two. And all the while, the stress was building and building. Keep the machines running! Keep them running!

  It was the craziest thing. I’d sit in bed with a headache, dreading going back to sleep and hating the thought of staying awake. I’d end up exhausted, and if I went back to sleep, the stress dream would start all over again.

  I didn’t know what it meant and I didn’t care. Eventually I got a new boss and the stress dreams stopped. Same job, different boss, no more wacky dreams.

  That’s not to say I never had a nightmare after that. I’m sure I did. Not more than any other person, but they would happen occasionally. I couldn’t think of the last time I had a nightmare. Probably a year ago, maybe longer.

  Until the lion dream started happening.

  It didn’t make sense, but what nightmare does? I was walking down the street and when I looked up, I was in a forest. I glanced around but couldn’t see a way out. However I got there, I couldn’t see anything but trees and the tall brown grass of autumn all around me. The sun was high in the sky, so I wasn’t worried about being lost in the dark, I was just confused about how I ended up there.

  In the distance I glimpsed an opening in the trees. A big, horseshoe-shaped clearing with a large tree stump off to one side.

  As I approached the clearing, the grass by the far edge moved. Not like the wind had blown it, but together, in a group, like the grass there was all connected. Then I saw eyes.

  I stopped in my tracks. The surreal aura of a dream faded and the grip of real fear spread through me. The big, yellow eyes stared at me, watching. Between the long brown blades of grass, I made out the snout and ears, then the massive ring of fur around the animal’s enormous head.

  I held my breath. A lion, just sitting there. I might have walked right into him. I stood perfectly still, knowing if I tried to run it would trigger his chase instinct and he would attack. So I stood very still. The only sound in the woods is the chattering or small birds overhead, oblivious to the scene unfolding below.

  I stared at the lion. He stared right back at me.

  I had no idea what to do. Sweat formed on my forehead, my heart pounding. I could never outrun a lion, and they are better climbers than I’d ever be.

  The lion’s foot rested on something, a white lump in the grass. He probably wanted to keep that, whatever it was, and he needed to know I was not there to take it from him. His unblinking yellow eyes stayed fixed on me, telling me all I needed to know.

  Twigs snapped behind him as something else approached. It moved through the grass, slinking between the trees. Another lion, even bigger than the first one, emerged from the woods. It nosed the first one away and off the package.

&nbs
p; The newcomer sniffed the bundle, pawing at it. As he did, more noise reached me—from behind. The crunching of heavy feet, stalking along the leaves and sticks of forest floor. An icy wave shot through me, causing the hairs on my neck to stand. I didn’t move, didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe. I couldn’t take my eyes off the lion in front of me, but I had to know what was behind me.

  Before I could look, there it was.

  A third lion brushed right past me. Little flies buzzed around his ears and a pungent smell of musk filled the air. The lion’s large muscles flexed under his brown coat, his claws retracted but visible with every step. He ignored me, striding straight to the white bundle the other lions had toyed with.

  The growl filled the woods, a deep, guttural roar from the gaping jaws of the third lion, like a horrible, rumbling moan from deep inside a cave.

  He brandished his long white fangs. In a flash, the two large beasts exchanged swipes, standing and grappling, but only for a moment. The bigger of the two, the newest arrival, staked out his domain, forcing the loser away. The third lion now stood over the little white bundle, sniffing at its cloth wrapping and pawing at whatever was inside.

  I stood there, unable to move.

  A fourth lion crashed through the trees. I flinched, stepping back. He opened his massive jaws and growled, a hellish, deafening groan that caused my insides to quiver. The other lions disappeared into the brush. The chattering noise of the woods became completely silent as the echo of the fourth lion’s roar rolled like distant thunder through the trees. I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat.

  The lion stood alone now over his prize, confident and focused, not even glancing in my direction.

  I couldn’t move my legs. My eyes were glued on the animal before me. With a quick swipe of its massive paw, the lion laid open the bundle, lowering his enormous head and snapping up the contents. Meat. He ripped into it with his long teeth and claws, smearing his face red as he pulled it apart. Throwing back his head, he opened his enormous mouth, emitting a growl I felt but didn’t hear. Overhead, birds scattered from their trees. Everything within earshot knew he was the victorious one. With a quick flip, the next mouthful slid down his throat.

  He paused, eyeing me, causing a painful shockwave of adrenaline to rip through me. I swallowed, slowly stretching my fingers to the nearest tree for support. The lion lowered his head for another bite.

  On tiptoes, I strained to see what he was eating. Meat, of some sort, but what? It was small, compared to him, but obscured by the grass.

  The beast drew up, part of his dinner dangling from the side of his mouth. Then, in horror, I could see.

  It was a small arm. A tiny arm with a bloody string of tendons hanging from the lion’s mouth.

  My hearing returned for the piercing, high-pitched cry.

  It was a child. A toddler, being eaten alive.

  My stomach clutched. I looked away to avoid to not see the feet kicking as the lion’s massive paw pressed downward on the body while his huge teeth ripped the child apart. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to know.

  But I did know.

  Forcing myself awake, I bolted upright on the couch, panting like I’d run a mile. I was covered in sweat again and shaking, my chest pounding and my pulse throbbing in my ears.

  I raced up the stairs to my daughter’s room and threw open the door.

  Holding my breath, I looked to her bed.

  She was fine. She was right there, illuminated by her princess night light and curled up among her stuffed animals and Winnie The Pooh blanket.

  I knew she would be, but I had to look anyway. Closing my eyes, I held the door frame and let my head fall onto my arm, a huge sigh filling me, washing away my panic.

  I knew.

  In the dream, three lions came to attack my daughter, each one bigger than the last. The attacks got worse each time, but damage was only scratches until the fourth lion showed up. He was certainly the one who would kill her.

  I wiped my eyes and shook my head, going back down to the couch and turning on the TV. I needed a distraction to help my mind focus on anything other than the terrible dream. On the 24-hour weather channel, the forecasters debated about when they would upgrade the tropical storm to a low-level hurricane.

  Terrific. I grabbed the remote.

  Clint Eastwood, as a young cowboy with no name, finally took my thoughts from the lion dream, letting my heart settle back in my chest and my breathing to return to normal. I calmed down. It was only a dream, after all.

  After a long while, my eyes wouldn’t stay open. In a semi-asleep state, I reached over and clicked the TV remote. The set went black and I drifted off to sleep. The lions did not return.

  In the morning, I was awakened on the couch by our dog jumping on me. That meant Mallory was up. Sparkles wouldn’t leave her side and come downstairs if she was still sleeping.

  I guess I got enough sleep. Plodding to the back door, I let Sparkles outside and then returned to straighten up the couch.

  “Good morning.” Mallory wiped the sleep from her eyes as she headed toward the coffee pot. Hopefully she slept better than I did.

  “Good morning, honey. I let Sparkles out.”

  She peered at the throw pillows on the floor. “Did you sleep down here all night?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “You look like you didn’t sleep at all.” Mallory disappeared into the pantry for a bag of exotic ground coffee beans and re-emerged to dig through the cupboard until she produced her favorite mug—the one with the Christmas picture of her and Sophie on it.

  Pre-coffee Mallory might hear me talking, but the words wouldn’t sink in right away. She idly placed her red mug under the coffee maker and waited patiently for it to fill.

  I finished pushing the sofa cushions back into place as the aroma of coffee wafted over me. I stretched my arms. My back was going to exact revenge all day for sleeping on the couch. “I had a bad dream last night. Too much churrasco.”

  Mallory snorted. “You always say that.”

  “It’s always true.” I smiled at her. “It’s your fault. You’re too good of a cook.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Anyway, I was tossing and turning, having a stress dream.” Placing my hands on my shoulders, I twisted a few times to work the kinks out of my spine. I figured I should tell Mallory about my nightmare so she didn’t worry that I was becoming an insomniac for no reason. “It was terrible. I kept having the same dream over and over.”

  Sparkles’ face finally reappeared at the back door. I went over to let him in. “I was walking down the street—our street, I guess—and all of a sudden I was in a forest. Then, one by one, these four big lions appeared, and—”

  Crash!

  I whipped around to see shattered pieces of the Christmas mug scattering all over the kitchen floor.

  White faced, Mallory gripped the counter, gasping. She stared at me with wide eyes, her mouth hanging open as all the blood drained out of her face.

  Chapter 19

  “Oh my God.” Mallory sunk to the floor, holding the countertop with one hand to keep from falling completely. “Oh my God!”

  Her face turned gray.

  I rushed past the broken ceramic bits all over the kitchen tiles. “Honey, what’s wrong?” Squatting next to her, I put my hands on her face and looked into her eyes. “What is it? What happened?”

  Sparkles barked, on high alert. He ran through the broken pieces of coffee cup. I grabbed him and picked him up.

  “No, no, NO!” Mallory screamed, slapping the floor. She was almost gasping now. “I . . .” Then the tears started. She looked up at me with a fearful face.

  “What is it?” I pleaded, my heart in my throat. “Tell me.”

  “The dream,” she said, shaking her head. “The dream you were talking about, with the lions . . .”

  “Oh, that? That was, that . . .” I wanted to sound dismissive. That dream had kept me up all night. I didn’t want it to bother h
er. I must been telling it too intensely. “That was just—”

  “No.” She choked, barely getting her words out. “I had it, too.”

  It was like a punch to my gut. I staggered backwards. “Wh- what? What did you . . .”

  She sobbed with each syllable. “I had the same dream. The lions. In the woods.” Tears streamed down her face. “Tearing open a white package.” Her voice cracked. “Four of them. It’s the same dream you just described. I’ve been having the same dream!”

  I sat, my mouth hanging open, unable to process what I was hearing.

  “I’ve been having that same dream for weeks.” Mallory whispered fiercely. “Weeks!”

  “You . . .” I swallowed. “You must have told me about it.”

  She shook her head slowly, yesterday’s mascara blackening the sides of her face. “No. I never mentioned it. Never.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes went wide. “I never said a word. On purpose.” Raising a trembling hand to her mouth, she swallowed hard. “I thought I was going crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy.” Stepping over the broken mug, I rubbed her shoulders. “If you are, I am. And I’m not.” I whispered, kissing her cheek. “But I wonder what it means. I woke up right when the big lion started ripping—”

  “Don’t!” Mallory pushed me away and grabbed her ears. “Don’t say it! I can’t hear it right now! Not with all that’s been going on.”

  “About the package?”

  “Don’t!”

  “Shhh. Okay, okay.” I hugged her tightly, then leaned back to look into her eyes. “Listen, just . . . just tell me what you saw.” I spoke slowly and cautiously, stroking her back. “Let’s move to where there’s less broken stuff.”

  I held her arm and guided her to the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. “What was your dream? Can you tell me?”

  Eyes squeezed shut, she nodded.