(1991)

 

       I clenched my teeth tightly, staring blindly at the coffin a few feet in front of me. I'd convinced myself it wasn't real. None of it had happened. I was going to wake up and hate myself because my subconscious had allowed me to dream it. Next to me, Paul was crying softly, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. I wanted to grab him and run from the chapel. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't real. Mom was fine. I was going to go and wake her up and show him.

       If only I could get out of the nightmare myself.

       The service seemed to go on for hours, and then we were shuttled off to my grandmother's house. It seemed that every single person who my parents had ever met were also there, talking in hushed voices, pausing to tell me how sorry they were.

       For what? I wanted to ask. It's a dream. It's not real.

       I tried to talk to Paul, but he escaped up the stairs with swollen, bloodshot eyes and a box of Kleenex. My father sat in the living room surrounded by friends and family, with a somber expression on his face.

       The air smelled stale, dead; heavy perfume and flowers and more food that we would ever consume was giving the house a disgusting stench. I needed to get outside before it suffocated me.

       I pushed open the back door quietly, hoping I didn't disturb the thick tension inside. It had been snowing all day, though I hadn't really noticed until that moment. I took a long, deep breath, and the cold, clean air, purified from the snowfall, chilled my lungs and clearing my head.

       I stared straight up, watching snowflakes drift slowly towards me, swirling and dancing with no wind to guide them. I licked one of the crystals from my lip, and the cold pricked my tongue and made me smile. Dreams made snow whiter, wind gentler, ice colder.

       I heard the screen door squeal, and I turned, disappointed that my moment had been intruded on. It wasn't my father; It wasn't my brother; it wasn't a supportive neighbor. It was Andy, a teammate. He walked toward me, looking awkward in a suit and hesitant to step into the snow that was sure to seep into his dress shoes.

       He didn't tell me he was sorry. He had no reason to apologize. But he asked something that no one else had. "Are you okay?"

       Not real. A dream.

       I bit my lip and stared at him, surprised to see the concern deep in his eyes. Snowflakes frosted the lashes surrounding his gaze, landing on his eyebrows and hair, and he asked again.

       Not a dream.

       Real.

       My mother was dead.

       "No," I answered simply, and collapsed. He caught me in his arms, supporting my weight as the tears game. It wasn't the easy, controlled crying that Paul had sustained all day. It was desperate, hysterical, wracking sobs that tore through my throat and broke the stillness of the night around us.

       I cried into his shoulder, adding a few murmurs of words I'm sure he didn't understand. He held me like that, not speaking, just comforting me while one hand ran up and down my back. When I stopped sobbing, I glanced at Andy. There were still snowflakes on his eyelashes, and the bluish reflection of the moon flickered behind them and something in my stomach knotted.

       Something changed in those minutes standing there in the snow, sagging against him. Dreams had made the evening beautiful. Reality had made it complicated.