This is the second installment to the novel I’m trying to write, finish… You can read the first chapter here.
In the dream, I can only see the back of her body, rocking from side to side on what looks like Serena’s bed. I suddenly realize my legs bending, shaking as a feeling of urgency runs through them. A feeling so deadly, crossing my path as I timidly approach the room. I can’t see if it’s really my mother, but somehow I know it’s her. I’ve seen her like this before, beaten down, frazzled, afraid. She’s lying there in this strange arrangement of a room, where the bed is the only furniture. I want to say something, but I can’t. I have no voice when I open my mouth, or maybe it’s because I’m a coward, afraid of what she might bawl. I just stare at her lying there like a child. And I want to cry as well, I can feel the heaving coming up as I try to force it down. “Say something,” but I can’t.
She turns to me, and I immediately close my eyes. Somehow it would all be real if I look. I won’t witness the dust she blows into my face. I’m too afraid to do anything now. So very still I stand, in midair it seems. When I finally open my eyes again, she’s still rocking from side to side. She says in a small voice, so very small, I can barely recognize those words making those sounds. They’re all jumbled like she’s speaking in tongues:
“Ahcyartakeitnomore. Ahgointogocrazy.”
I’m running now. As fast as I can, I run away, leaving her behind, running faster and faster with long legs extended. I’m running fast up this narrow corridor that never ends. It’s covered in red, in everything that came out my mother’s mouth. With long legs, I’m running so fast to the master bed-room. I know I shouldn’t look back, but I do and all that is there is a large mirror reflecting an image of what looks like the backside of my body rocking from side to side. I turn away and stare at the large wooden door before me. My fingers are long and skinny, nervously reaching for the bronze handle.
My father is resting comfortably with his newspaper covering his upper body with information. The air conditioner hums in the background. And everything that I say out of breath sounds like I’m speaking in tongues.
“Whatdidyoudotomammy?”
He removes his covering and looks at me in so much disbelief, that I wonder if I’m really alive. I’ll wake up if I could just pinch myself.
I must be alive, because I understand every word he says:
“I didn’t do anything to your mother,” His words are so clear. They’re so clear they make me ashamed. As the time when I was eight, and I couldn’t spell beach, and he said, “Big girl like you don’t know how to spell beach, your little brother can spell beach.”
Beach, big girl, beach. And Joshua was all pleased as he sang in his five year old voice, B E A C H. The door slams behind me, as I leave the room.
At the other end, down the corridor, my mother is speaking in tongues, “Ahcyartakeitnomore. Ahgointogocrazy,” a sound so quiet but still manages to shake the corridor’s walls. And I could hear him saying, “I didn’t do anything to your mother. You can’t spell beach. Spell beach. B E A C H.” Their voices compete, growing in volume; they pound against the walls, and I lose the muscles in my legs. I cover my ears and as I look down, there’s nothing but a black abyss beneath me. I begin to fall.
That’s when I wake up, when I start to fall. It happened again tonight, today. It’s been happening for weeks now. The same dream night after night. As soon as I close my eyes, I dream that she dies. My mother. I haven’t told anyone, not even Serena. It would scare her, believing that dreams can tell the future. But then again, they say when you dream of someone dying the translation is marriage. It must mean someone is about to get married. A little part of me still participates in superstition. I tell myself it’s foolishness as I feel the cold and try to remember where I am.
Yaya isn’t sleeping down by my legs, and I don’t hear the fish tank. This isn’t Regan’s apartment, I wonder about it for awhile. I wait for Yaya to come lick my feet, but she doesn’t. Everything becomes entangled as I try to readjust, and forget all that I saw in the dream. It becomes an impossible task as I listen and hear a woman singing an intoxicating song. I want her to stop her singing, but she continues:
I want to give you a dream that no one has given me
Remember when we found misery, we watched her
Watched her spread her wings and slowly fly around our room
And she asked for your gentle mind.
“I know her voice,” I say out loud. “Blonde Red Head’s Misery is a Butterfly,” I keep repeating. The song swells, and I begin to recognize shapes. I know these lifeless walls staring back at me. They’re without pictures, posters full of ideals, only white washed unmarked walls, plagued with roaches in the background. I look around and I’m startled by a pile of clothes resembling a tall man with feathers in the corner.
Nearing the song’s climax, I realize my state: lying on a ransacked mattress in my apartment. I wonder why I’m naked. The sun has already set, and I can see the deadly softness in the way the snow falls, collecting. Everything smells like ashes. As I shiver for the comforter resting at my legs, I remember waiting to board the bus at Union Station in D.C. The cold wind eating through my jeans.
I aged during the twenty-four hours. I feel it most as I try to get up off the mattress, and why it’s now difficult to walk to the kitchen without breaking down half way. I remember doing the show at the Warehouse Next Door and drinking rounds of tequila with Smurz and Regan, then, staggering onto a Greyhound at 3:30 this morning. I still see the red from the curtain from the dream, as new events that are not new at all come to mind. The shock, and I gasp, of seeing royal white feathers ruffling aggressively. I shake my head and everything becomes a messy ache of nausea, of too much unsettled on my stomach. I try to keep my head up as some of last night throbs its way back slowly.
When I open the fridge, I have to cover my eyes, blinded by Christmas lights in a darken backdrop–the Warehouse Next Door’s stage. I remember the band before us having a good set. I remember a piece, a scene I have to say shut up to more than once, running so fast, threatening to reveal itself completely like it did on the platform for the R train.
I was listening to The Streets’ “It’s Too late” on repeat, waiting for the R at Port Authority to take me to Lexington Ave for the 6. Monday morning’s rush hour, with so many crammed next to each other. Walking too far, feeling the wind gust of the train’s arrival, I found a dead end of shirts and ties that might topple over the yellow edge leading to the tracks. I began to sweat, and my dark shades fogged up. Nervously, I took another gulp of the coffee I spiked after the rest stop in Delaware–the morning’s glare, unbearable to look at, as the abandon buildings and the trees, burden with snow, raced by. Some of it spilled onto my coat. My hands were shaking from the nightmare I tried to drown: the demons coming uninvited. I tried not to argue aloud with them. With my shoulders caving in, I hid in pockets of shade as they mischievously exposed, giving a second life to, events I’d like to forget.
The 6 violently raced out of the tunnel, jagged apartment buildings urgently streaking through the glaring mirrors. My jaws tightened as I bit down hard on my lower lip, as the shock of seeing Pieta kissing someone else consumed everything.
We were playing the one ballad in the set, and I had lost control. Unbearable to look at–the memory of last night, lingering long after I have closed my red eyes. I moved to another car in the train, and all I saw was an audience staring back at me, knowing I had lost control.
I needed a distraction, an ambitious effort, trying to stop the images from walking through the plastic ads. Feeling the sharpness of the sunlight, all I saw was Pieta in the front row with Rickie Favors. I lost the timing and Smurz began her solo early. Regan glared at me why, as she began to sing:
We’d forget the love laws
for one night
for one night feel the ache
feel the pain in our curves
you’ll show me where
show where it hurts the most
I punched the car window hoping I could break the spell, embarrass myself into the present. But it was already too late, the stupid question I asked Pieta kept repeating itself, “So how was it? So how was it?” It rang in my ears, alongside Regan’s haunting vocals:
We’d forget our tongues
caught in Reason
drawing a line
drawing a rigid line
we’d refuse such a sentence
to lie down with
My walk was slanted, trying to catch myself before I fell too far down. My shoulders were lost in awkwardness, smashing into everything. I tried to outrun the memory of her full pink lips answering the stupid question. I protected my ears from the indifference in her voice. It moved with me anyway. From car to car, I heard her saying, “It was nice. It was nice.”
listen from the pit speaking
speaking a new nonsense
in a moment we’d lose
we’d lose everything
we didn’t have anything but skin
the salt from our eyes
the sadness in a kiss.
Staring at the Brita in the fridge, I remember the pieces that are meant to hurt the most. I notice a red dot on the floor. Tasting my own blood, I feel my lower lip.
I can’t remember how I found my way, walking through the after-math of the weekend’s blizzard for five blocks to my apartment building.
It’s 6:30pm. My phone beeps. I have four new messages, all of them from Gary, asking why I didn’t show for session today. I reach for my jeans covered with the crust of dirty melted snow at the legs. The liquor store will still be open.
Posted by cocoyea
Posted by cocoyea
Posted by cocoyea
