Please read 'Convergence (I)' here on circe's blog.
Convergence (II).
“Hey you...”. The voice slowly pierces my somnolent silence and I rise to consciousness. I open my eyes and Rachael is sitting on the edge of the bed dressed in a business suit. Her bright, aluminum briefcase sits ready by the bedroom door. “Good morning”, she says and then leans in and kisses my cheek.
“Morning”, I mumble and then violently snap awake as the memory of last night's dream returns to mind. “Where are you going?” I ask her and grab her hand.
“Some of us have to work. It's Friday, you know, silly”, she answers, smiling. “Listen, I called your editor and told him you had a bad night again and that you might not be in but that you'd call as soon as you were up. He said, 'OK'”.
“Thanks, Rach”, I respond, a little relieved. I don't really know how I deserve a woman who is so patient with me. Sometimes, I'm pretty sure that I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
“I put your pills out on the counter for you. Don't forget to take them”, she reprimands and fixes me sternly.
“I promise”, I say and manage a sheepish smile.
“So get your butt out of bed and try to get some work done”, she continues. “I should be able to get out of work by 2:30 or 3 o'clock, so maybe we can do something this afternoon”. I nod my head, trying to fit pieces of what she said together with what is in my head but the solution eludes me completely. Still, the idea of spending an extra afternoon with my beautiful wife is a pleasant thought.
“Yeah”, I say with conviction, “a Friday afternoon date would be great”.
“Then you're on!” she says, smiling genuinely. She presses her lips to my cheek again and I make a playful grab for her. “No way, mister!” she shouts, laughing, and escapes. “You'll wrinkle my suit! Besides, I really have to get out of here”. She glances nervously at the clock on the other side of the bed.
“OK”, I answer, “have a great day”. She nods and rises from the bed and I watch the motion of her narrow hips as she crosses the room to collect her briefcase. She turns and smiles briefly and then disappears around the corner. I hear her shoes click down the hallway and then the sound of the front door; it squeaks open, closes and then her key turns the lock from the outside.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling and breathing deeply, mentally following Rachael's course. Her sunlight yellow Accord with the black accents, that she playfully nicknamed 'the bumblebee', is parked in the driveway. She will stow her briefcase in the trunk and then climb in and, like a pilot ready for takeoff, ignite the engine and slide on the wrap-around, near-black sunglasses that make her look so foxy. Then she will back out and, after following the meandering narrow streets of our old neighbourhood, cross the ancient, arched and cabled, rail trestle that was revamped for vehicular traffic in the 50's, and hit the through-fare that will speed her into the city.
I sigh, beginning to miss her presence already, and rise to sitting on the edge of the bed. My mind is foggy from lack of sleep and distressed; a lingering edginess from the vivid realism of the night's dream and what I saw in it. The thought of losing Rachael is , to me, simply harrowing. I firmly believe that she is one of the few things in my life that I have got right.
I rise grudgingly and pull on some bulky sweats and a heavy sweatshirt from the closet to stave off my inner chill. I stumble absently to the kitchen where I am greeted by the smell of Rachael's coffee and bright sunlight through the red and white checked curtains which give our kitchen a farmstead feel. I notice the pills on the counter along with a bright, orange sticky-note that says 'Love you!! R.' Beside the 'R', she drew a little heart with a smiley face in it. My glass is on the counter and all I have to do is pour myself some milk and take the pills.
The one year, recall, tour of duty in Afghanistan had left me a mess. It's fair to say that nothing happened to me; I got out with nothing more than some shrapnel that tore up my shin so now I walk with a limp. It was what happened, one by one, to my buddies that eventually got to me. Tim is learning to walk again on prosthetic legs but he's just not the same guy anymore. Freddie was already gone when we got to him amidst a shower of rockets; we collected what we could but didn't find his right foot or his left forearm. Mark came home with me but no one guessed what was going on in his head; he killed himself four months later leaving a wife, and a little boy with no father.
At the VA, with dedicated indifference, they call it PTSD and tell me it will pass. So every morning, I take the downers, the anti-depressants and the muscle relaxants that are supposed to make my days pass easier – sometimes they do and sometimes they don't – I still crouch at the sound of loud noises and get nervous about my safety at night. I wish, most of all, that they could do something about these terrifying dreams which started soon after I got home.
I pick up the phone to call my editor, but my mind is on the stack of work I need to do and the afternoon to spend with Rachael.
The doctor’s appointment is scheduled for Monday. This is Friday night. These dreams have become even more vivid. The screams and groans of tortured metal seem so real, the snap, crunch of concrete losing it’s integrity jars the senses, and still I hear the screams of the people, the doomed people. I am a spectator in my sleep, unable to move or make a sound. I sense something though, the bridge is familiar. I know this bridge. As I awake the image remains on my retinas, I get up and dress hurriedly in the dark, kissing Terri on the cheek. Her familiar curves outlined in the moonlight spilling through the window.
“Gotta go babygirl”, I say, “something is wrong with Silverstrand Railway bridge, I’m just going to check it out”.
“It isn’t all up to you, Sal, you can’t save everything” she says, knowing the futility of trying to make me stay.
In times past this may have led to arguments. She would ask me to stay home more, I would shrug off her request, leave in a huff, and we would stay angry until one of us blinked. Then we would make up. The make up sex was probably the reason for a lot of those early spats. Now, we don’t bother with the argument, and the sex is even sweeter. Maybe, like my taste in food and wines, I developed an appreciation of the finer things. These are the benefits granted for the loss of muscle and the graying of the hair.
I drive the fifteen minutes to the old bridge. It is 1:00 A.M. I watch the traffic. It is steady but not crowded. About seven vehicles going into town, and twice that number headed for the suburbs.
I am on the suburb side of the bridge. It seems solid, steady. The constant rush of high water against the pilings is loud, but I hear no unusual noises above that and ordinary traffic noises. No bumps, creaks. I see no movement of cable, steel or pavement. I walk the pedestrian walkway in the night air, with a large torchlight, and realize I will have to do this again in daylight. Things look different in the dark. I head for home at dawn.
Terri is up with coffee. She helps me off with my jacket.
“You are going to the Doctor on Monday Mister” she says. I nod acquiescing. Content with that she sets about making oatmeal.
“How about scrambled eggs and toast” I ask.
“No dice, Sal, too much cholesterol”. I sigh, eat my oatmeal and head to bed.
“Please, wake me at ten” I ask. She says she will. I can’t get to sleep easily, and when I do images of the bridge intrude.
I get up before ten, shower, and go to get more coffee. Terri comes in from grocery shopping ready to wake me, and seeing me up, asks me if there is something other than nightmares bothering me. I answer “no” and mean it. It really seems so much more real than a nightmare.
Please read 'Convergence (III)' on circe's blog.
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