Dreams

by Wesley McBride

  He was thirteen in this photo; he could remember that. He and his parents and sister smiled back at him, a white dog with a reddish patch on his head and neck at their feet. They had taken the photo at the cabin his parents used to own. The picture sat crookedly in the frame like it always had, since his father put it there. He jokingly left it like that. He’d make the joke that they had had an OFFuley good time. Nob. The ash weighed heavier on the right. Nobody had been inside the house since the ash had worked its way in. No fresh tracks, except for the ones he was leaving now. He knew they wouldn’t like the way it was being ground into the carpet, but it would be evenly stained already he thought, less than two decades after replacing the one with cigarette burns. He walked into the kitchen now. It had less ash on the floor but it was no more disturbed than the ash in the living room. He went to the cupboard and took out a glass. There had been a few dishes left in the sink. Not like them. He turned on the tap. Warm water flowed out, turning to hot quickly. He turned off the tap and took out his phone. 9-1-1. If something had happened to his parents, he had to know. As the phone rang, he wondered if the heat from the fire could cause the…source of the water to heat. He realized he didn’t know the source of the water he drank, or how a fire 50 miles away could heat it up so much it came out hot on the other end. He went to the refrigerator but was interrupted before he opened it. The phone stopped ringing, instead letting out three tones in increasingly higher pitch. Frustrated, he dialled again. The phone began to ring just as he heard a loud bang down the hall, someone slamming the door. Cautiously, he looked down the hall, keeping the phone to his ear. Someone was here. He thought about yelling something. He didn’t. He walked. Another slam. He could see it had come from his parents’ bedroom. Without hesitation, he silently yet angrily walked down the hall, placing the phone back in his pocket as he did, checking inside each of the doors without stopping as he did and pushed the door open with his foot. Nothing. Nothing but ash and an open window allowing it to settle inside, forcing the door to slam and open and slam. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed this before when he was in the backyard. He went to the window and closed it, locked it. He thought, This might make sense. Maybe his parents were heading out of town. He didn’t exactly have a long discussion with his dad the last time. Sometimes when he drank, he forgot things too which might explain why his dad was angry. Maybe he was supposed to go with him and his mother to visit his sister. His sister. Maybe they told him they were heading out of town. He didn’t remember sometimes. They had a cabin a few hours away. Sometimes they went with friends. They didn’t get good reception out there. They locked the door when they left but must have accidentally left the window open. There was no sign of a break in, anything missing, a footstep on the floor. The bed was made. They didn’t leave in a hurry. The only thing different was the ash. The smell he couldn’t shake for days now. The heat. The way everything looked older. Slightly decayed. He thought about phoning again but decided that it wouldn’t help. He went to the closet and pulled out the vacuum. This was going to take a while.

  Hey guys, sorry I missed you. I’m assuming you went out to the cabin and I forgot, or somewhere. Haven’t been getting through to you with texts and calls. Anyway, you left your bedroom window open and a bunch of the ash got in. Looked in the window so I tried to clean up a bit. I may have ground ash into the carpet but it looks better. Went and saw Seesaw too. I think they had her in a coma but she looked alright. That’s a lie. I’m sorry about last Sunday. Let me know when you guys are back and we can go visit her together. Maybe she’ll be awake. I’ll keep trying to reach you. Miss you both lots.

  Love, your favorite son.

  He left the note, written on pink paper, under the wilted flowers in the vase on the table. He looked back as he reached the door. It was a sunny December morning. His parents moved the end table out of the living room weeks before to set up the Christmas tree that he and his sister sat under. It always had too much tinsel and was missing a fake branch, the bare patch always facing the wall. The ornaments he and his sister had made at school. The bird that was missing a leg. His father and mother on the couch, him playing with something that had long since been wiped from his memory. The only present he could remember from that Christmas a blue and black Batman sweater that his parents bought him but that his sister picked out. The carpet faded from under them as they enjoyed their day and turned ashy. He locked the door as he left.

  It was cooler now, he thought. There was a slight breeze, not the rushing ashy heat that there was the past few days. It felt nice. He thought he would regret walking as far as he did on the way but he didn’t. He had energy for the first time in days. He felt uneasy for a reason he couldn’t tell, like something he forgot to do, like when you walk into a room and forget why you are there. He had forgotten to raid his parents’ fridge as he had intended but still he didn’t feel hungry. He wondered if maybe he was detoxing a bit. How long does that take? I suppose it could take some time. He thought of his grandpa. He had fought in the Army in his youth. Seen actual wars. He could remember as a child going through his grandfather’s trunk in the basement, the one that held his medals and dress fatigues and glass tubes in hard leather cases and vials and coins blued from age and materials and the gun currently occupying his bed. Every time he visited as a kid, he would go through it and every time he would imagine himself, armed and ready, fighting the other that he was too young to label. It wasn’t until he was 14 that he finally figured it out. The vials of morphine. The tubes, needles. The case. He never brought it up. He never went back into the trunk until his grandpa passed, and even then it was only to take the gun, which he had lied about and told his father and family that his grandpa had told him was his should he want it. Huh. His stomach began to hurt. He tried to ignore it. Morphine seems like a classy thing to be addicted to. You have to be a person of means I guess. Where there is a will, there is a way. The pull became stronger now, his stomach churning. He stopped and looked to his right. He hadn’t been to church since he was a child.

  The white cinder block exterior gave way to the wooden eaves and roof and cross. He didn’t know why but he tried the door. It was locked, of course. Why would a church be open on a Tuesday. What did he want inside anyway. He stepped back and examined the stained glass. Some saint, some person, standing in the fore. Welcoming arms extended towards him inviting him into his white robed limbs, but a look on his face telling him he may want to stand back, Not a halo. A sun? Something bright behind him in a field of red, blazing.

  Can I help you?

  He turned. In front of him was an elderly man, white, wearing plaid tucked into khakis above dark red dress shoes. His grey hair sat atop his smile, which he didn’t recognize as the first he had seen in days.

  I’m sorry, no.

  He stuttered and walked around the man, towards the sidewalk.

  Are you sure?

  He realized he probably looked homeless to the man, covered in ash and grey next to the man’s impossibly clean red and blue and beige outfit.

  I was walking by, thought maybe it would be open.

  Do you want to come in?

  I’m not religious.

  That’s okay, do you want to come in?

  He did. He didn’t know why.

  Okay. If that’s okay.

  He shook his hand and introduced himself.

  He sat in an office. It was nothing like what he had pictured in his mind. Nothing like in the movies. He didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t faux wood panelled walls, lacking Jesus in some way, anyway. It wasn’t a newer computer on the desk and a family photo. It wasn’t furniture that looked to be out of the ’70s around a designer table from some high end store, recently purchased. A glass pen holder with several pens sporting beer brands, or the bookcase behind the desk equally full of history books, philosophy and science fiction. He felt awkward yet very comfortable here. Stable. Sitting on the table was a small golden statue that reminded him of
the captain’s wheel of a pirate ship. He had seen similar ones before. The man spoke in a soft, purposeful tone.

  I got that in a market in Hong Kong about 40 years ago.

  People don’t question why you have a…Buddhist thing in your office?

  It’s called a Dhaka. I don’t think many people who come in here really know what it is but if they ask I tell them. It’s a Hindu symbol too.

  And they don’t ask why a Reverend has a Hindu wheel in his office?

  Well I’m not a Reverend, I’m a Pastor, and yes I’ve been asked and I explain what it’s meaning is. No one seems to care really. You see the spokes in the wheel? Each one of them represents a different virtue or quality someone should possess in order to reach Nirvana. I don’t think That’s too different from a Christian’s idea of reaching heaven or really any other religion.

  He arched his eyes and sighed.

  I guess not. What do they mean?

  Oh, I can’t remember them all these days, I probably never could. Love and faith and goodness and …self-control and self-sacrifice…mercy and honesty…hope. Hope. And the others, I mean exactly what one would think you would need to display in order to get to heaven, or achieve nirvana or whatever you believe. Forgiveness, of course, is one.

  I’m not… he paused, unsure whether to be blunt and repeat what he had said before… I’m not religious.

  You said that. You know, you don’t have to be very religious to believe in religion.

  That doesn’t make sense.

  Sure it does. A lot of people are sceptical, a lot of people have always been sceptical. That’s why it’s called faith. Even if you don’t believe in heaven and hell, you can believe in right and wrong, good and evil, or whatever you want to call it. You don’t have to believe in god to know the difference.

  Maybe, it’s not the same thing though. Not hurting someone or…not being a dick to someone, isn’t a religion, it’s what you’re supposed to do.

  What do you think the point of religion is, kid? If he were god, why would you want him to want you miserable? Would you believe that he did? I believe that the point of religion itself is to make people happy, and in turn, that will make you happy. Clearly, you were not happy today. What do you think brought you here today?

  You let me in.

  I know I let you in, but what brought you here?

  I don’t know.

  Sure you do. You tried the door on a Tuesday.

  No, I don’t know. I had the worst couple of days. Something told me to go in. Maybe I wanted to give a confession. He faked a laugh.

  The Pastor didn’t laugh.

  If you want to do more of a traditional confession through a screen, I’m sorry but this isn’t a movie and besides, that’s a Catholic thing. A movie Catholic thing at that. I’m not convinced admitting something actually means you’re sorry.

  I don’t know why I’m here, alright? I’ve been having a rough time, like hallucinations or something, and saw the church. Something told me to come in. Why did you let me in?

  Because you look like shit kid, you look like shit but not dangerous. I figured you needed help.

  He thought about how he had been walking in the ash and had his black eye and cuts. He wondered how bad it looked.

  Are you okay? the Pastor asked.

  He didn’t answer, just breathed deeply and tried to think of an answer. The priest cut him off.

  It’s alright kid, you can tell me. I’m a licensed counsellor. You kind of have to be to be a priest.

  He thought. How do I explain?

  What do you mean hallucinations?

  He thought back to the hand he felt days ago.

  I’ve been waking up in weird places, falling asleep and having nightmares that I…I don’t know how to describe. The freakiest shit and honestly, it hasn’t seemed like a dream, it’s seemed real every time. Like I’m haunted. He felt odd swearing at a priest

  The Pastor waited.

  It’s like I’m being haunted. Honestly.

  The Pastor waited.

  It’s like I need an exorcism or something. I mean… He wanted to tell him specifics. He chose not to. I’ll keep these to myself.

  Well…again this isn’t a Catholic church, kid. I’m a Methodist minister so if it’s an exorcism you want, you’re better off asking the Pope. Besides these…nightmares, visions, you’ve been having what else is bothering you?

  He thought, briefly, and decided.

  I lost my job, my parents hate me, my sister is in the hospital, I’m broke, I’m divorced and my only child died like… He knew the date… a little over a year ago… And now I’m sitting in an office with a Priest asking him to give me an exorcism. I’ve been better

  The Pastor studied him. It would have normally made him uncomfortable but he was calmed by it this time. The Priest spoke.

  I can’t give you umm…an exorcism, kid. I can listen to your confession, I can do that, but I can’t give you ten Hail Mary’s or five Our Fathers to make it better.

  He waited now, while the Priest thought.

  What I can tell you is that one of those spokes is Hope. I hope for you. It’s really hope that ties us all together. Hope that things will be better. That they can be better, based on your own actions. Hope that what we do today will affect tomorrow.

  He thought the Priest was giving him the standard speech.

  And one of the spokes is forgiveness. But I think a lot of folks don’t really understand what forgiveness really means.

  He didn’t respond, just pursed his mouth and waited.

  It doesn’t just mean forgiving others. Anyone can do that, right? When I was a kid, I fought my best friend over something I can’t even remember. I forgave him the next day.

  He had done the same.

  And some people are…they don’t think they’ve done anything wrong so they don’t see a need for it but you…I truly believe that in order to forgive, to actually forgive, you have to see yourself as human and forgive yourself too. That until you forgive yourself, you can’t…you can’t…you can’t forgive others, truly, without understanding the cause. And you can’t understand the cause without forgiving yourself. And until then, you might as well be giving a confession to a rock for all the good it will do.

  What if I can’t? I mean, what if I could never forgive myself for what I did? What then?

  You’d have to. Whoever you did things to and whatever you did to them…you have to forgive yourself. You need to find a meaning behind your suffering not sink into it. You may never find peace otherwise. It’s easy to lose sight of what is possible but you have to remember that everyone, every life, you will be tested. But if you fight your way through, I honestly believe every single one of us can find the light. Or, you can let the darkness consume you.

  They spoke for an hour more. He gave him his card.

  He walked, fingering the card in his pocket, folding it and rolling it into a tube and flattening it out again. It felt smooth, plastic, against his fingertips. He folded and refolded the card until it became soft as he walked through the ash. Frayed at the edges. He thought about seeing his sister again, but not today. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d be fresh. He’d see his sister. He’d visit his parents. He’d be better. The events of his afternoon already becoming blurred and faint memories. As if they never happened. He turned into the alley, towards his door. It was getting dark. He had left the light on in his place and could see it now. His door was closed. The bum, the homeless guy that was becoming familiar sat in the alley in his regular spot. There was no dog. His white shoes still matched the ones he wore, only more now that the ash had stained them.

  Sorry to ask, but can you spare some change? Or a cigarette?

  He stopped. He thought. He gave him a few cigarettes and began to walk away but stopped.

  Here.

  He handed him the change he had in his pocket. The old man smiled. There was indeed a dog under his arm, he could see his face for the first time. It licked the old guy.r />
  Why are you suddenly hanging out in this alley? What I mean is, if you’re just asking people for change, you can’t be getting much traffic through here.

  It’s the ash. It’s the only place free from the ash. It’s been choking me and him.

  He nudged the dog.

  I suppose there’s not a lot of people walking around lately.

  Less than you think.

  He didn’t know what to make of that comment, but he half smiled and nodded anyway, turning, walking away. I know, old man, he thought to himself.

  As he approached his door, he saw the forms of the bag that had torn open and spread its contents days before, buried in the ash. He had left it there. He didn’t know why he wasn’t picking it up until now. He picked up the bottles, the broken glass, what he could find, the paper, the empty pill bottles, turning his hands dark with ash. He was tired. Exhausted. He walked up the steps and inside. The place looked awful he thought. He went to work. Exhausted yes, but with a second wind now. He began to clean. He poured water into the glasses in the bathroom as it grew hot, then plugged the sink and allowed the water to fill it up. Dipping a rag into the scalding water, he began to wipe everything down, wipe away the ash. He did the same in the kitchen, immersing the dishes. He went to the hall closet, to the vacuum.

  When he was finished, he walked about the place. Dirty yes, but better. He went outside, lit a cigarette but stopped before sitting when he saw him. The rat. He was sitting on his hind legs about fifteen feet away, sniffing the air, one eye darting. Curious. He wasn’t disgusted by it this time. As curious about it as it was of him. He went back inside. On the table, left there from days ago, were two pieces of stale moldy bread. He picked them up and went outside. With this ash, he couldn’t have eaten well. He sat on the stair while the rat watched him. He broke off a piece and threw it into the ashes. Without hesitation, it bounced over and ate. He threw the other two pieces in front of it. Small pink hands pulling on the slices, nibbling. He smiled. One of the few genuine ones in days. What had disgusted him, choked him days earlier was a reprieve to it, life giving. He could see the old man again in the alley. Red ember of one of the cigarettes burning, given off faint light. He walked inside. He had put the two bottles, one-half full, on the counter beside the refrigerator that he had been unwilling to open this night. He grabbed the lighter of the two and headed back outside. The rat didn’t run, stayed and ate. He walked then stood in front of the old man.