Time ceased to exist while I stood there. Endless rain falling. Lost as a hurricane of emotion stirred inside of me. The sudden sloshing of wet tires on pavement as a UPS truck rushed by startled me, waking me from my trance, and I went inside.
I walked up the stairs to get dressed, my feet padding on the steps one by one, as I pushed myself forward.
I walked into the bedroom and stopped right beside the tall chest of drawers that held Ben’s clothes. My eyes on an old framed photograph sitting on top of the dresser. Ben and I, taken before the boys were born. We were sitting on a grassy hill. Ben’s arms around my waist, looking at me. My eyes closed, face tilted toward the sky, lost in laughter.
Now, I couldn’t even remember who had taken the photo.
I had dusted it so many times over the years and never really looked at it. I hadn’t for a long time.
I picked it up and carried it across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed with it in my hands, looking at the two people in the photo.
Who were they really?
Were we still those people after all these years? Or had time changed us?
I didn’t know. Did it matter, really? Because now, there would be no more photographs.
I would be alone…
Suddenly, I felt depleted. I had nothing else to give.
I laid down on the bed, curled up in the fetal position with the picture against my chest.
I didn’t wake up until hours later.
When I awoke, the rain had stopped, and the sun attempted to break through the clouds. I stretched and rubbed my neck. I left the picture on the bed and stumbled to the closet to find something to wear, throwing on a pair of jeans shorts and a white tank top. I picked up my pajamas and took them over to the laundry basket and dropped them in. Ben’s t-shirt hanging precariously on the edge of the basket caught my eye. I picked it up and held it up to my nose. Breathing deeply, I inhaled the smell of Ben.
All at once, agony engulfed me. I slid to the floor, unbridled tears rushing.
I stayed there until the tears slowed and mind-numbing grief filtered through me. Weighing me down. My body like lead.
Tomorrow on my mind. The knock on the door.
Suddenly, I thought of the other six people who would also die tomorrow and the knocks on their families’ doors.
The thought jolting through me like a bolt of lightning.
I wasn’t the only the one who would lose someone they loved!
I had to keep trying. I couldn’t just roll over and give up because Ben refused to cooperate.
I stood up from the floor, my mind racing, filled with purpose.
Who could I call? The transit system? No. I needed to tell the police. Once they knew about this, they could stop it and all seven people could be saved, including Ben!
Hope filled my heart as I ran downstairs and grabbed my phone. It didn’t take long before I found the direct line into the Charlotte Police Department.
The phone rang twice before a woman with a thick southern accent answered.
“Charlotte Police Department,” she stated.
“Umm, Hi…I need to report something…” I stuttered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable.
“Yes, ma’am, go ahead,” she responded.
“There’s going to be an accident tomorrow. The train…I mean, a transfer truck is going to stall out and then the train…well… it’s going to hit the truck and derail….” My own voice unrecognizable as I tried to explain it to her.
The phone was silent.
“Hello?” I offered. Had she hung up?
“What did you say?” I could hear the wariness in her voice.
I repeated it to her, once again.
“Ma’am, the police department doesn’t take kindly to prank calls,” she huffed.
“Oh no…no! It’s not a prank. I swear, it’s going to happen,” I said, my voice shrill and desperate.
It was quiet on the line again. I thought I heard mumbling, but I couldn’t be sure.
Then she said, “Just one minute, please.”
I was elated that she was putting me through to somebody.
Somebody who could help me.
There was a short succession of rings and a man answered.
“This is Detective Anderson. How can I help you?”
Shock ricocheted through my body, and I almost dropped the phone.
Detective Anderson? It couldn’t be!
My entire body began to shake.
Why him of all people in that entire station?
But I had to talk to him even if I didn’t want to. I had no choice. He was my only option now.
I steadied my voice as I spoke. “My name is Claire DuPont. I am calling to tell you that there’s going to be an accident tomorrow. On the three o’clock train from downtown. A transfer truck is going to stall out on the tracks, and the train is going to hit it. One of the passenger cars will derail and seven people are going to die. Can you please help me?” I couldn’t hide the desperation in my voice any longer.
“How do you know about this, ma’am?” he answered.
“I dreamt it…” I replied, already knowing that it sounded insane…but it was the truth. There was no other explanation.
“Ms. DuPont. We can’t go out on a wild goose chase every time somebody has a bad dream. You understand?” His southern drawl sophisticated and clear.
My heart began to sink, but I was not deterred.
“You have to listen to me! Don’t you understand!? People are going to die! You have to help me!” I shouted, my voice choked on tears.
There was silence followed by a long exhale. “Alright. Where did the truck stall out?” he asked.
“Where did the truck stall out?” I said aloud.
The realization came on fast that I couldn’t answer him! The location, gone from my mind.
He was finally listening to me and I couldn’t answer his question!
As much as I tried to remember where the truck had stalled out, I couldn’t. Hazy memories from the dream rolled around in my mind as I tried to bring them into focus.
I struggled for several seconds before he spoke up.
“Look, how about this. If you remember any more details, why don’t you give us a call back?” His voice more patronizing than comforting.
I had lost him.
“I’m telling you, it’s going to happen…” Hopelessness resounding in my voice. Consuming me.
“What’s your address, Ms. DuPont?” he asked.
“It’s Mrs. DuPont…” I answered.
After we hung up, I got my purse and left the house as quickly as possible. I was afraid he was sending someone to pick me up to take me straight to the mental hospital. And I couldn’t blame him.
I had no destination in mind and the boys didn’t get out of school for another two hours, so I drove around aimlessly until finally coming to a stop in front of Saint Michael’s Cathedral Church.
I don’t know why I stopped there, of all places. But I couldn’t help myself. It was as if some unseen force was guiding me here.
I parked the car and walked up the grassy hill toward the chapel.
The church was not elaborate. It was a simple square brick building with a tall steeple.
I walked up a set of stone steps and stopped in front of the double arched doors, wind catching my hair. The doors were glistening black against the intermittent sunlight and smelled of fresh paint. So fresh, I was afraid to touch them. The door to the right was slightly ajar, so I pushed on the antique-style curved door handle as it silently swung open.
I quickly looked around and saw no one nearby, so I stepped inside. A rush of silence and cool air surrounded me as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The scent of wood polish and mustiness filled my nose.
I stepped in
farther, gazing in surprising reverence at the sanctuary.
I looked up at the large majestic stained-glass windows standing in contrast to the dimness of the church. So similar to the ones we had seen in New Bern. The memory of them tumbling low and painful in my belly.
I walked across hardwood floor onto the carpeted aisle running down center of the room through rows of pews with elaborately designed hand-carved edges. My fingertips grazing the tops of them as I walked toward the front of the room. Being drawn toward a sculpture on the wall over the pulpit. A giant golden cross with a carving of Jesus hanging on it. It glimmered as spotlights from the ceiling shone down on it.
My feet padded lightly along the walkway as I stepped through rays of blue, red, and yellow as the sun filtered through the colors of the stained-glass windows.
When I got all the way to the front, I closed my eyes. It felt strange to be here.
I turned to leave and found myself stopping and taking a seat on a pew near the back. I sat with my hands folded in my lap and wondered how many others had sat in this very spot.
With their own grief.
Their own hopes and dreams.
Disappointed.
Lost.
What force had brought me here with the image of Jesus on the cross glaringly in front of me?
Words suddenly spilled out of my mouth.
“I don’t know if you’re really there or if you even can hear me. And if you can hear me, I don’t even know if you would care. But I’m asking for your help. I’m so lost, and I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know if you’re a cruel god or not. I would hope not. But this whole situation with the dream has been a nightmare. A literal nightmare, which I cannot wake up from. I want it to stop. I want this to be over. And I want my husband to be safe! Would you help me? Or at least send me a sign that everything is going to be okay? Can you do something? Anything! Please help me…” My voice echoed in the room as tears streamed down my face.
Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder and I looked up. It was a man wearing a black shirt, pants, and belt, with a white collar around his neck.
The priest had a distinct gentleness about him.
His solid white hair was brushed and parted neatly to the side. His face soft but worn seemingly beyond his years.
“I’m so sorry…I was just leaving,” I stuttered, standing up.
“I’m glad you came,” he spoke softly.
I sat back down as he took a seat next to me.
We sat together in the silence for several moments.
His presence strangely comforting.
I finally broke the silence between us.
“What do I call you?” I asked.
“Some call me Father John, but if you’re more comfortable, you can just call me John,” he said, his voice soothing.
Was this a trick of the trade or was it just the natural sound of his voice?
“John, I’m Claire,” I said, feeling out of place.
“Nice to meet you, Claire. Though, I am sorry it’s under these difficult circumstances. Is there anything you’d like me to pray about?” He looked straight ahead as he spoke. I wondered if he was looking at the Jesus figure.
At first, I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to respond. No one had offered to pray for me before. I hadn’t grown up in church. It was not something that we did.
“Can I ask you a question?” I offered instead.
“Yes, absolutely,” he answered.
“If God exists, why does he allow bad things to happen?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yes, that is quite a question. One I hear often, I’m afraid. I can’t tell you that I know the answer. A lot of what happens in this world doesn’t make sense, even to me. I lost my wife when we were very young. She died in a hit and run accident. I was never the same after that. She was the love of my life, and when she died, part of me died with her. I didn’t know who I was or for what reason I had to live. I was standing on the edge of a bridge about to jump, and I heard the voice of God. He called to me in a way that only I could understand. I climbed back over the guardrail and decided to dedicate what life I had left to Him. But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t question Him. I questioned how He could allow such a beautiful and dearly loved woman to be taken from this world. Taken from me.”
He paused for a moment before he continued, as I swallowed back my tears.
“The truth is, we don’t understand. I don’t think we are meant to understand. We are meant to trust and to lean on Him. We can’t see things clearly from this human perspective, but one day we will. Until that time, all we can do is put one foot in front of the other and trust that something bigger than us is guiding all of our lives. The Bible says, ‘We know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.’ If you notice, the verse doesn’t say God causes evil and suffering, just that he promises to cause good to come out of it. It doesn’t say we will see the good immediately or even in this lifetime, but that we are to trust that God has caused good to emerge from bad circumstances.
“In the end, I had to accept that this Earth is not our true home. There’s more for us than we can see with our physical eyes, and I’m holding onto that.”
When he finished speaking, he looked down at his hands folded in his lap.
He seemed so strong to have gone through such a tragedy.
“But how can I trust in a God that I am not even sure that I believe in?” I asked.
He laughed a little and said, “Just because you don’t believe in Him, doesn’t mean that He doesn’t believe in you.” He turned and patted me on the arm before getting up and walking out of the back of the church.
The big doors clicked shut and I sat in the pew, looking up at the figure on the cross. I still wasn’t sure if I believed in God or not, but I knew that the things that John said made sense in some strange way.
Time rushed past as I sat pondering the profoundness of it all, and when I looked at my watch, it was time to pick up the boys.
When Ben got home from work, I had his favorite dinner waiting for him. Baked lasagna.
I walked from the stove and placed the casserole dish on a hot pad in the middle of table as the day slipped away across the darkening horizon.
“You feeling any better?” he asked.
He already knew the answer to that question. All it took was one look at me, with my red, swollen eyes.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like a fight. Not tonight. Not when June 2nd was almost over.
I sat down with dinner, picking at it until everyone else was finished.
Ben took the boys upstairs and got them ready for bed as I cleaned up the dinner dishes.
I could hear giggles wafting down the stairs, but soon it grew quiet. After a few minutes Ben hadn’t returned, so I went up the stairs to check on them.
He was in the boys’ room. All three of them in Grayson’s bed, with Ben reading them a story.
The book was called Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? The boys loved books written by Dr. Seuss.
I stood just out of sight and watched Ben tell the story with his usual antics and great enthusiasm. The boys mesmerized as always by his dramatics. Their eyes aglow with adoration for their father.
My heart was filled with joy and despair, both at the same time.
But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. There was nothing left. All of my tears had been spent. The last three months had taken its toll on me, and here in the final hours I had given up hope.
When he was finished reading, I hurried back downstairs so no one would know that I had intruded on their moment. He put Oliver in his own bed and tucked both of the boys in for the night.
I had finished loading the last dish when he came around the corner.
He walked past me and got ou
t a bottle of wine, opened it and poured us both a glass.
As he handed me my glass, his fingers grazed across mine, sending shivers up my spine.
He walked across the kitchen and put on a CD.
Soon, Marvin Gaye’s smooth voice flowed out of the speaker and filled the room as “Mercy, Mercy Me” played.
Ben and I looked at each other from across the room. Neither of us saying a word.
He moved in closer and took my glass, setting it on the counter, never taking his eyes off of mine.
He took me by the hand and led me into the foyer, pulling me close to him as we began to sway together to the music.
I laid my head on his shoulder, taking it all in.
Feeling every ounce of our love captured in this moment.
In what I knew was our last dance.
The song faded into the background as he kissed my forehead, my nose, my cheek, running his hand up my back slowly, deliberately.
His warm tongue grazed my lips, and I kissed him ardently in return.
I threw my arms around his neck as he picked me up and carried me up the stairs to the bed, gently removing all of my clothes.
He took off his clothes and climbed in the bed next to me, trailing kisses down my neck and his tongue over my collar bone.
I was quivering from his touch as he caressed my breasts with his mouth.
He brought his mouth to mine and I began to kiss him gently at first, but then with more intensity. I grabbed at him desperately as if we hadn’t touched in a very long time.
My body filled with an aching desire to feel him inside of me. I put my hands on his hips, pulling him closer.
I groaned as he entered me, deeply. I ran my hands up and into his hair, grasping, tugging, caught between desire and agony. I met each of his thrusts with equal push until we came together in rapture.
Lying together in the darkness, I wrestled with the thought of speaking up and telling Ben the things that I needed to say to him, but the words wouldn’t come.
Before long I could hear his breathing slow and rhythmic. He was asleep.
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