Sweet Dreams
by Theresa
“Last night I had the strangest dream/I sailed away to China/In a little rowboat to find ya/And you said you had to get your laundry clean/Didn’t want no one hold you/What does that mean?”—Matthew Wilder. We sang that song for Mother when she was in the hospital dying. She couldn’t talk. I wonder if she dreamed.
I dream of North Korea. The Olympic athletes were going to be publicly killed because they embarrassed their dictator by talking to us Americans. They were the swimmers. They swam, anyway. I wondered why.
Once a boyfriend said to me, “I love you, but honey, you’ve got some crazy shit going on in your head at night.”
I had to stop taking statins because of the nightmares that ensued. My doctor thought it was a small price to pay. I disagreed.
Earlier than that, the meds that were keeping me alive made me want to die. The meds that were supposed to solve that problem made me dream of crabs eating the flesh off the fingers of a beautiful woman at the bottom of the ocean.
Rest is not rest.
In the bureau there was a scrap of paper. The words were written in Mother’s beautiful handwriting.
“Hi, baby.”
“Hi, Mommy.”
“You’ve been having some bad dreams, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Don’t you worry about them. It’s because of the medicine they have to give you, right now.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, baby.”
“I love you, Mommy.”
They say they thought Father Clarence told Punky she was dying. Each day he came to give her communion. One day, he wanted to see her alone and they talked for a long time. When he left, she was just quiet. Thirteen is very young for such a terrific burden.
When the final crisis came, my other sister was too frightened to kiss her good-bye before the ambulance took her away. My father vowed to piss on the grave of his supervisor who gave him trouble about coming home from work.
She never came home from the hospital. She never was taken off the medicines that made her have bad dreams. When she died, Mother and Dad were at her side.
Mother said, “Oh look, Joe. She’s crying.” Tears slid down her cheeks from under her closed lids.
The fat, coarse nurse said, “Oh, they always do that.” Her children were among those who had made fun of my sister before she fell ill. They were among those who later begged for forgiveness.
Mother never recovered.
Kneeling at the grave of the sister I never knew.
I am glad Mother is dead: now she is with you.
An inveterate adventurer and a chronic writer, Theresa has lived all over the United States but spent most of her life in California. Before her current professorship in Asia, she spent two years in her RV while writing her novel. Generally, she writes Grit Lit, always pursuing the hero in the ordinary. You can reach her at www.facebook.com/TheresaSanfordSchmits or theresaschmits.com.