Editors' Choice Award
Even in consciousness the dream was very much alive. Though I hadn’t reached the end of it this time, I could still remember the sequence of events after having seen it so many times before. I would ease myself out of bed, each movement so carefully orchestrated in disbelief, played out in slow motion. But it always seemed so real and in such vivid colour. Some say dreaming in colour is very rare, but I always seem to dream not only in colour but in HD as well.
I would walk over to the coffin, almost like a child approaching a butterfly; very cautious, scared only that it would go away. The echoing fear of the dream only came after I opened the lid. I fully expected to see my father’s face with a waxed expression of contentment. The shock came when I was confronted with an empty casket.
After recalling the rest of the dream, I reached over and turned on the light. That didn’t usually make me feel any better after a bad dream and this time was no exception. Why did it come back? What did it mean? I couldn’t possibly talk to anyone about it…could I? No, definitely not. They’d think I was crazy. It’s not that I was trying to deny he was gone. That day will remain as a constant reminder of my own mortality.
I was fifteen years old and in grade 10. The first year of high school is very important to a teenager and I was no different than most. I was pretty average actually. I had average looks and average marks. So when the principal came looking for me that morning in class, I felt very important. Although I had no idea what he wanted, I took full advantage of the situation. I was the centre of attention and I intended to make the best of it.
I remember thinking, “This is better than theatre arts class,” as I puffed out my chest and marched undaunted to meet my fate. I could almost taste the delicious air of curiosity pulsing from each of my classmates…or was that my own heartbeat?
Walking out the door my flippant attitude turned slowly into confusion when I looked down the hall and saw Arthur, my sister’s husband who I had known since I was eight. He was staring straight ahead and muttering to himself. There were grey bristles in place of his habitually clean shaven face and his clothes were a collection of jumbled wrinkles.
His look of despair overwhelmed my own confusion as he turned to face me. He stammered and stopped, the pain of his task so clearly defined as his eyes begged me to understand what his words were so completely failing to communicate. He concentrated for a moment on his breathing rather than the words that wouldn’t come. I waited.
“So, why are you here?” I remember standing there with my hands on my hips, being less than patient with him. I had felt a little uncomfortable seeing him like that. Arthur was always so confident and “put together.” In retrospect I can say that I certainly hadn’t made things any easier for him.
After regaining some of his composure he told me that my father had passed away that morning. He was only 52 and had been in the hospital just a little over a week for tests. The tests were “just routine” I was told and of course I had believed them. I hadn’t noticed my father’s 250 lb frame shrinking and bending as he lay in his hospital bed. I didn’t notice that his face and eyes had held a yellow tinge against the white sheets. The I.V. attached to his arm desperately trying to pump back the life the cancer was so quickly eating away. It must have been so obvious to everyone else but that power of suggestion I was so fond of was even then keeping me company.
Walking to the house that day was like walking onto the set of a bad soap opera. Everyone had their part and they were playing it out to the end. As I took in the scene unfolding around me I poured myself a cup of coffee. I had never drunk coffee before but it seemed “in character” and I didn’t want to be the one to ruin the scene that had been so perfectly set.
My eldest brother Michael, who was 19, played the new head of the family. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, surveying his flock and feigning control. My other brother John, who was 17 at the time, sat fuming in the corner… the pseudo middle child. Michael was actually in the middle but John played the role better, misunderstood and never having had a chance to gain our father’s respect, his grief hidden in his anger. He had played his part very well. My sister Katherine, who was the oldest at 25, played my mother’s strong-arm and confidant with my other sister Mary as backup. She was 23 and a nurse and was with him when he died.
The cast was rounded out with my well-meaning older cousin Bill, who was responsible for looking after the baby of the family, and that was me. He plied me with coffee, cigarettes and comfort (the cigarettes when no one was looking). He too had played his part remarkably well, appearing out of no where at the most crucial moments like when he caught me as I crumbled into tears over the coffin at the funeral home.
The cat jumping onto my bed brought me out of my reverie. I was still in my room, on my bed, knees pulled up to my chest, rocking slowly forward and back. Remembering…
My room was getting brighter as the reassuring dawn came. I probably would have sat there longer if the realization hadn’t hit me so suddenly… I had never seen my father’s grave. I never actually saw them lower the coffin into the ground because on that day, so long ago, I had refused to get out of the rented Lincoln Continental and my mother didn’t pressure me. Come to think of it, no one else did either. Protecting the baby again, I guess.
I knew then just what I had to do; what I was finally ready to do. I got out of bed and started my normal morning routine but I knew that it wouldn’t be a normal day for me. But it was still early and I had some time to kill before I could begin preparing to put my dream to sleep.
By the time I had showered, gotten dressed, had breakfast and tidied my room it was 9 a.m. Good timing. I thumbed through the yellow pages and found what I was looking for. Slowly, and with a feeling of utter calm, I dialled the number.
The voice that answered the phone was less than soothing but that didn’t deter me. “I’d like to order a large bouquet of tiger lilies please.”
“It’s not the season for tiger lilies,” said the curt lady on the other end of the line. “A large bouquet will be fairly expensive,” she added before I could reply. I assured her that I was quite willing to pay whatever the cost.
“Please attach a card to the bouquet,” I paused and thought…
“Miss you dad, Love Tiger.”
“Would you like that delivered?” the voice on the other end asked. “No thank-you,” I answered. “I’m going to make this delivery myself.”
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What a beautiful piece of literature. I still have tears rolling down my cheeks. I lost my mother years ago and I can understand how it seemed like a soap opera to Anne… like you are watching somebody else’s story but it can’t possibly be your own. You paint a totally believable picture, Anne. Wonderful work and deserving of the prize!
Anne, it is very easy to believe that this is actually the narrative of a young girl. You have captured her very well.
An interesting, although sad story. I find in interesting how the narrator relates the events immediately after hearing about her father’s death to a soap opera, as though she was too distracted at the time to remember it the way it really was. Well done.
Very nice first entry Anne. Touching story to which I can personally relate. In my family, too, as a youngster I was “protected” from exposure to death. Took me a long time to overcome my fears of this unknown.
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