Restlessly, I toss off the comforter. The bedroom is too warm; this heat is unseasonal. I prefer a cool room to sleep in but I feel ridiculous turning on the air conditioner at night so early in the season. It has been a cold and snowy winter, and the warm weather has caused a rapid snowmelt, the rivers are running cold, high and fast.
I remember what woke me, a dream of a bridge slowly crumpling in sections. The occupants of the vehicles, climbing out and running, only to find large gaps in the pavement, and the roadway tipping inexorably downward. Huge splashes mark the sections of twisted steel and concrete: smaller splashes, the vehicles too close to the edge; smaller still mark the screaming entry into the cold water by the occupants of the cars doomed to fall. I am tortured by this dream for weeks now. Enough to make a pest of myself inquiring about the data on the bridge inspections done so regularly.
My wife sleeps fitfully. I go into the living room to rest my mind with a book, and a bourbon. The broken-in, chestnut leather chair accepts my body like a cocoon; it is the only piece of furniture I insisted on keeping when Terri went crazy renovating the house on my retirement. Thankfully, she likes what I like, a welcoming, comfortable, easy on the eyes décor. Craftsman solidity. Real hardwoods, real brass and stained glass, amber and warm. I can relax in this room, not that I spend much time sitting. Retirement in my case meant more time to pursue other interests. I teach CPR classes at the Red Cross center, and various rescue practices with incoming lifeguard candidates every season.
I open my book, a Robert Ruark classic adventure I’ve read over several times. Familiar, comforting.
Finally, as dawn breaks, I feel drowsy enough to chance sleep again.
I am retired from the Fire department and swiftwater rescue for five years now. Maybe I‘m remembering long ago training videos in my dreams. On the job, most often, there was an overturned boat and weak swimmers. And then there were those people who tried to cross flooded streets in a storm and found their vehicles floating quickly toward the river. There were far more serious accidents, fires and rescues I have attended, why does this dream persist?
Next night, again, I wake in a sweat. Terri is patting me.
“Sal! You were shouting in your sleep. I’m making a Doctor’s appointment. These nightmares aren’t like you.” Shakily, I focus on the clock. It is 1:37 A.M – the same as yesterday.
“It’s okay, honey, it’s just a dream. I’m okay.” She shakes her blond curls determinedly. I am headed to the doctor’s soon, I know it. I get up to change out of my sweaty tee shirt. Terri makes chamomile tea in delicate flowery china cups and brings it in to me. We sit up in our shared bed and switch on the radio to soft music. My heart gradually stops beating fast. Quiet conversation, and grassy flavored, sweet tea calm me. Terri, uncomplaining, stays awake with me until dawn, her hand in mine. I have always been able to count on her; she is the greatest gift of my life.
I awake, my lungs hungry for air, filled with panic, legs kicking and arms flailing at the soft covers of the bed, and sit up with my eyes wide with fear and wanting for confirmation of this safer reality. Rachael stirs in the bed beside me and I see her eyes sparkle in the dim light from the comfortable nest of her pillow, her pale face framed by tousled dark hair. The red glow from the numbers of the clock on her nightstand catch my eye: 1:37 am.
“Nightmares again?” she whispers. Her hand slinks under the covers to find mine and she squeezes it tightly. I nod my head in affirmation, unable to speak. My heart is beating forcefully in my chest and I can feel the heavy throb of my pulse in the sides of my neck. My mouth hangs open, gulping air, as though, at any moment, that supply will be negated and I will again have to fight my way to the surface. “The same one?” she adds and sits up beside me, brushing some stray hair from her face. The light, such that there is, outlines her thin body and small breasts. My arm moves outward, clasping her waist, and I pull her close to me, feeling a visceral need to have her warmth against the chill of fear which lingers on me.
“Always the same”. I lie to her; it has never been this bad. Her arms close around me.
“My God, Jack!”, she says. “You're freezing!” It is true; it is as if all the heat has been robbed from my body and I convulse, my skin clawed in repeated waves of chill that pierce me deeply, making even my guts, my eyes and bones, feel cold. “Lie down”, she commands and I comply, curling into a foetal ball on my side. She pulls the covers up tightly around me, tucking them in as another wave of chill shakes my body. Then she draws close to me, pressed against my back, her arm draped over my body and her hand clasped tightly to mine. She kisses my shoulder. “Sleep now”, she whispers to the back of my neck, “you're safe here”.
I lie awake and listen. Gradually, her breathing deepens and I know she has returned to the peace that she is able to find in sleep. Her breath is warm against my skin and the cold of icy water and panic that had embraced me subsides.
Where is my safety when, every night, I awaken in dream, plunged into murky, swirling, churning water as cold as death and the breath is sucked from my lungs as I claw frantically toward the surface, yet drawn down by the sodden weight of my clothes and the light grows dimmer and ever more distant?
Tonight, I saw more than a man should be forced to see. In my frantic, yet apparently futile battle toward air and life, an object came into view, drifting listlessly in the water. It grew clearer in the dim, filtered and flickering light and then, tossed by the currents which I fought, turned toward me.
It was Rachael's body. I saw her face, calm and bereft of colour as were her lips. Her hair was like sea grass waving, a halo of poetic movement. I saw her eyes, open, and fixed on mine as her limp form drifted past, accusing, as if to say, 'Why didn't you save me?' A scream burst in bubbles, my last air, from my mouth and I watched her disappear into the darkened, cold and lonely distance.
Please read 'Convergence II' here on stickman's blog.
Thank you for reading our story.
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