by Jamie Ayres
“Because it says ‘Olga’s Birthday Song’ next to the title.”
I leaned toward him. “Which was?”
“You’ll see. Okay, where’d you put Breedlove?”
Nate pulled his guitar out of its case, as way of answering, while Sean punched and kicked his way out of the sand.
“That was short lived,” Nate said, waving toward Sean.
“Word. It’s not as fun as it sounds. Can I play? Huh, Nate? Can I?”
Nate smiled and nodded his head, then handed Breedlove to Sean. “Stop wiggin’, man. Play Time of Your Life by Green Day.”
Sean stroked the guitar like a pro, but then again, we didn’t nickname his afro Jimi Hendrix just because of his hair.
“Conner titled this one Ode to a Septic Tank, and from what I gather, it’s written from Olga’s perspective,” Nate said.
A sidesplitting laugh escaped my lips. On Halloween of our kindergarten year, we decided to dress as army men, girl in my case. At the time, my parents rented a small house, and after trick-or-treating, his family along with his sister’s best friend all came over for a bonfire and some cake … since it was also my birthday. That night was really the beginning of our parents’ friendship, and the four of us kids raced around the acre of land we had out back, playing a combination of tag and hide-and-seek. Conner and I clearly losing, he sought out a form of camouflage, but there hadn’t been any rain for days. Poop replaced mud when he came upon our ruptured septic tank and dared me to jump in, saying, “This is war! Don’t be a girl.” I didn’t want to be labeled a sissy, least of all by my comrade, so I answered, “Yes, Commander!” He claimed he never meant to almost drown me, didn’t expect me to actually plunge into the foul mess, or for the poop pile to go so deep. But the truth was I could never say no to him, something he used to his advantage frequently.
“Wait, don’t sing yet! Let me get out my iPhone to record.” Nicole dug in her purse. “Okay, hit it.”
Sean strummed the acoustic bass guitar, Nate sung, and Kyle drummed a beat on his lap.
“Experience comes in many forms/And one I remember, breaks all the norms/Playing outside with Conner, his face wears a grin/When all of the sudden, a septic tank I fell in/Swamped in poop/I couldn’t breathe/I flapped my arms and tried to scream/A septic tank is what I fell in/A few minutes felt like hours, nobody prevailed/Then my mom came around/Her face went so pale/She rushed over with great alien speed/Like mothers do when their child is in need/She lifted me out of the fume/A bath could not have come too soon/A septic tank is what I fell in/I got washed up and was put in a dress/Never again did I want to see that awful mess/All of you can have your laughs/Like I do when Sean raps/Mom often does when she says I’m full of crap/I answer her defensively/Conner tried to drown me/A septic tank is what I fell in.”
Nicole, Tammy, and I rolled on the ground as Sean set Breedlove down and shouted, “Boo-yah! Stop, drop, and roll! You just got burned from the grave, Olga! How does it feel?”
A patch of sea grass bowed in the wind, directing my attention to the sparkling water like an omen, a good one this time. The perfect, round moon shone brightly on the horizon, illuminating everyone’s smiles.
“Pretty good actually.”
“Sure did,” Nate said, jumping to his feet. “Body Slam!”
Nate lifted Sean, then slammed him down in Hulk Hogan fashion.
“Boys, please.” I clasped my hands in faux prayer. “Last time you started your WWE tricks, Conner broke a toe!”
Anytime one of the guys impressed the other, their reward was a Body Slam, and apparently they’d already acquainted Nate with this tradition. Again, another example of why I’d never understand boys.
“You’re right, ‘Mom’. We should really be more responsible.” Sean sat next to Nicole and ripped open the bag of SunChips.
“I’m loading this onto YouTube as we speak.” Nicole had already reviewed Ode to a Septic Tank on her phone. Nice.
I smiled. “I don’t know whether I’d kiss or slap Conner for the song if he was here right now.”
“Definitely kiss,” Nate said, staring at me, like he was ready to fill in.
Well, he did sing the song.
“You two are weird.” Tammy chucked a Twix bar at my head.
“Right you are,” Nate said. “Which is why it’s time we all form a love circle and hold hands and sit crisscross applesauce.” He picked up Breedlove. “No beach night is complete without a rendition of Kumbaya.”
Nicole joined in last. “Nate Barca, you’re gonna make me barfa. This is the first and last time I sneak out with you.”
I saw the song as another tribute to Conner, who no doubt sung this tune many times on Boy Scout trips. I looked out at the waves as we belted out the lyrics, the violent surf pounding in and clinging to the shore with frothy fingers.
Does Conner see me crying, praying, laughing, and now, singing?
Water inches over my bare feet. I wake up and check Conner’s Storm Trooper watch. He looks at me, like he’s preparing for something. I smile, and he rips me off the beach towel and plunges me into Lake Michigan, holding me under. I convulse in horror, unable to plea for my life. Finally, my body stops flopping, lifeless now. Conner gathers me in his arms, looking down at my dead eyes. He brushes water from my face and lays me on the towel again.
He scans the horizon and laughs as Sean and Kyle walk toward him on the beach, carrying a poker table. They set it up right at the edge of the water, next to my towel.
Kyle nods at my stiff body. “Will Olga be joining our game?”
Conner deals the cards. “Nope. I’m disappointed in her. She wasn’t able to save herself. I loved her, you know? I just hope she’ll do the right thing now.”
“Enough with the heavy. It’s Guys Night Out!” Sean reaches behind him and places a bag of potato chips and a container of Heluva Good Dip on the table.
Seagulls circled over us, squawking like maniacs. I blinked a few times and absorbed my surroundings, but all I could think about was the dream. They were really something lately, weird enough to send me into cardiac arrest just thinking about them.
Crap. We weren’t supposed to fall asleep.
Lifting Nate’s arm, which was strangely draped over me, I noticed the time on his Storm Trooper watch, last night’s initiation gift from the Jedi Order. We gave one to Tammy, too. The tiny display read six-thirty. The sun graced the horizon.
I was supposed to be sleeping in my bed! Frantically, I shook Nate. But then something white and nasty hit my forehead. I looked up and saw three seagulls circling above us before heading for the lake.
Double crap.
“Eww, ewwey, eww, eww!” I touched my finger to my hairline.
“Well, it is all fun and games until some bird poops on your head, and then it’s freakin’ hilarious!” Nate pointed at me and laughed so hard he woke the others.
“Stop it,” I managed through giggles, jumping up and down. “You’re gonna make me pee my pants!”
“Usually number one comes before two, not the other way around,” Sean said, holding out his hand to Nate for a fist bump.
I crossed my arms and grimaced even though I was tempted to smile. “The lame jokes keep on coming today, guys, don’t they?”
“I’m sorry. But really, it’s tomorrow, so I haven’t nearly filled my lame joke quota for the day.” Nate winked at me.
“Seriously, can you go dunk your head in the water?” Kyle asked. “You’re starting to smell stank.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Tammy said.
I kicked off my sneakers and socks, then rolled up my pant legs.
“I swear it’s like I have a bounty on my head from the poop gods.” I raced down the hill toward the water, feeling like Conner had something to do with this. Or maybe getting pooped on was just bad karma for sneaking out. Trudging ankle deep in the cold water, I scrubbed poop off my hair and skin.
“If it’s any consolation, I think a bird pooping on your
head symbolizes good luck.” Nate handed me a towel.
I ran a hand through my tangled hair. “I’m pretty sure people just tell you it’s lucky so you’ll feel better.”
Nate shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one full of crap.”
I splashed water on his face. “Whatever. I’ll take seagull poop over the human variety any day.”
“You need a ride home?” Nicole asked, arriving at the shore with everyone, and everything in tow.
“Yeah, we’re starting to cut things close, so I don’t think walking is an option. I’ll have to crawl through my window as it is.”
When we were a few streets down from mine, we caught sight of Dad too late. He drove his Ford, on the way to get his Sunday morning paper before church, and spotted me passing by in Nicole’s car.
Busted.
“Never take cues from the crowd.”
—Unknown
“So, I guess I’ll be ungrounded soon,” I told Dr. Judy. Repeat anxiety attacks over going back to school on Tuesday landed me in her office for an emergency visit … the Saturday before Labor Day!
Dr. Judy’s eyes grew bright as she leaned forward. “How do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. Since Dad busted me for sneaking out, I spent the rest of my summer, a whole two months, grounded from everything except work.
“Being grounded wasn’t so bad. I still got to work at The Bookman and on newspaper stuff with Nicole, and come here. And the list wasn’t on total hiatus since I was able to watch a lot, a lot, of the hundred greatest movies of all time, read The Lord of the Ring series, and start my own blog. The only people who read it are Nicole and Nate, but that’s still two more followers than I thought I’d have. Truth is being around Nate is like an escape from my unhappiness, so not being able to see him much was like the only thing that majorly sucked about being grounded. But maybe I don’t deserve him anyways.”
Leaning across her desk, Dr. Judy asked, “Do you really believe that?”
I shrugged again and changed the subject, something she allowed me to do most of the time when I didn’t want to answer a question. “Do you want to hear something weird?” I pulled out my journal. “I never remembered my dreams until now. I mean until after I took that bottle of pills. It’s like the whole experience of almost dying altered my state of mind or something.”
Dr. Judy crossed her arms and gave me a knowing smirk. “In my experience, many patients return to their near-death experiences through their dreams. Maybe it’s your brain’s way of trying to make sense of your memories, or maybe like you said, almost dying altered your state of mind. It could’ve awakened some muscle memory you never used before.”
“But these dreams don’t contain my memories. Well, they kind of do, but they’re altered.” My breath tucked itself away in my chest, refusing to come out until Dr. Judy told me I wasn’t crazy.
She nodded to my journal, then closed her eyes and sat back in her seat. “I assume you wrote it down. Will you read it to me?”
I gripped the black leather-bound book tight enough to cause bruising, but I loosened my fingers and then turned to the last page I’d written on.
Mom tiptoed into my bedroom. The only light came from the setting sun, through a slit in my curtains. She crept closer, nose turning up at the funky smell. She untwisted the zebra blanket clinging to my body and reached out to touch my face. Her hand froze as she muttered, “Oh, God.”
She put her ear to my mouth to listen for breathing. She checked the pulse on my wrist and gasped. I could tell she wanted to scream, but the sound curdled into nothing as she realized I was dead. Finally, she looked around the room, sucked in a deep breath, then let the sound loose.
Dad came running in, then pushed past her. He was the one to dial 9-1-1, tears in his eyes as he reported the empty pill bottle on my nightstand.
In the ambulance, I heard another distress call over the radio, and it was for Nate Barca.
When I arrived at the hospital, every room I passed had the number eighteen on it. I was there, following the dead me on the gurney all the way to the autopsy room in the basement. They stuck me in a refrigerated area, and when the medical examiner left, I unzipped the plastic bag. As I examined my corpse, it rose to life again and fought me. The whole time, I kicked and punched myself, and I heard whispered prayers for my soul. The dead me knocked the other me unconscious and then Conner came in and told me to wake up, and I did.
Cringing, I closed my journal and then hugged it to my chest, praying Dr. Judy could help me decipher what this dream meant.
She gave the office a crisp sweep before returning her gaze to me. “Dreams are about taking the focus off ourselves and taking a break from our every day lives. Sometimes when we have those really weird dreams, it’s simply us taking all the events from our day, or past, throwing them together and then trying to make sense of everything.”
Pulling in a deep, cleansing breath, I said, “Okay, I get that but Conner … .”
My voice drifted off as I spotted the Grand Haven Pier photograph behind Dr. Judy’s desk. A small whimper escaped my lips, remembering everything I’d been through. I craved a better explanation than the one she gave me. It almost felt like Conner tried to communicate from the grave through my dreams or something. I also knew how crazy that sounded.
Dr. Judy rolled up her sleeves, then fidgeted, tapping one long fingernail on her chin. “I think Conner keeps popping up in some parts of your dream because of the bond you shared. You were very close over the past twelve years, so you shared many of the same experiences, including the most tragic event of your life. Logic tells me that he would be the one to help you make sense of everything even now, if only through your dream state.” She picked up a pen and twirled it between her fingers. “I don’t know how comfortable you are with spiritual stuff, but maybe you should meditate on these dreams and seek God’s opinion on them. The book of Romans in the Bible speaks of the spirit interceding for us because we don’t know to pray as we should. You said you heard whispered prayers for your soul in your dream. Maybe the Spirit is trying to relay some information to you through your sleep.”
I stared at the polished metal crucifix hanging on her wall. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just put me under hypnosis or something? Maybe I could try to meet Conner in my dream and try to figure all of this out.”
Dr. Judy wiggled in her chair. “Hypnotherapy won’t help with understanding your dreams. I could use it on you to help deal with your guilt and grief, but I’ve always felt that was a bit like cheating.”
I reached into my tote bag and put away my journal, the subject of dreams clearly closed.
“What’s that other book you have in there?” Dr. Judy asked, peering over her desk.
“A memory scrapbook Nicole brought me from the bookstore a few days after Conner died. She helped me fill it up. Do you want to see a picture of him?”
She nodded. “Very much so.”
I took a deep breath and opened up the scrapbook, tears falling from my eyes.
Dr. Judy handed me a tissue. “He was really handsome, wasn’t he? Do you mind if I look at some more of the pictures, or is it too painful?”
I stood and laid the scrapbook on the desk, then leaned over her shoulder. Flipping through the snapshots, I gave her detailed explanations for each. Birthday celebrations, holidays, sailing competitions, the annual Coast Guard festival. The memories all there, in case I ever forgot. The last one I came across was from two Octobers ago, the surprise sweet sixteen birthday party Conner and Nicole threw for me It was a small gathering. Both of our parents were there, Megan because she hadn’t left for college yet, and Sean and Kyle. I had thought Conner was just taking me out to dinner to a fancy French restaurant along the Grand River channel, but when we arrived, everybody was waiting for me in the back room. The picture showed me seated in my chair, sixteen balloons behind me, Conner down on one knee. His present, besides the party, was re-gifting the Morticia Addams gumball machine ring I
’d given him when we were eleven. The Addams Family was one of our all-time favorite movies.
“I didn’t think he possessed a single sentimental bone in his body until that night,” I said.
Dr. Judy closed the scrapbook, then rested her hand gently on mine. “Where’s the ring now?”
I walked around her desk, then shoved the book back into my tote. “In my night stand at home. It’s too painful to wear.”
I sat in my bedroom after counseling and a long day at work, staring at the sweet sixteen picture. Deciding not to leave this one in the scrapbook, I walked over to my backpack hanging on my swivel chair, all ready to go for Tuesday. I taped the picture to the inside of my planner, where I’d see Conner’s face the most. Then I opened the drawer on my nightstand, debated for a minute if wearing the ring would be too painful like I thought, then slid it on my finger.
Hurt like hell.
But I’d keep wearing the ring as a reminder of my pain. Conner would be the only guy I ever loved, because if I never loved again, I’d never have to be this sad again.
In a rare act of kindness, Mom agreed to end my sentence one day early so I could attend the last day of the annual two-week long Coast Guard Festival downtown. The leniency was probably only because we’d signed up the Cantankerous Monkey Squad to compete in the Battle of the Bands. It was part of the festival’s concluding events. Bands came from all over the midwest to compete because the festival attracted such big crowds every year. So Mom knew I’d be forced to sneak out again if she tried to keep me from attending.
Sitting at our cozy glass-top kitchen table, I sipped my vanilla flavored coffee and hoped this little bit of comfort would last me through the day. Looking up, I counted the coffee mugs I’d purchased for Dad over the years. Ever since they started letting me drink coffee, mugs were the only thing I gave him for birthdays and Christmas. Eighteen cheap porcelain cups with cutesy pictures of snowmen, stockings, lakes, and golfing greens lined the top of our kitchen cabinets.
Mom wasn’t so sentimental. She’d never hung my school work on the fridge, never told me good job for all my straight A’s, only, ‘Why did you get a B on this test?’ Perfection was the standard in my house, not the exception. Picturing those formative years when my parents were my best friends proved difficult now. They didn’t conceive until their late thirties, so all their friends’ kids were much older. Having no playmates my age until I started elementary school meant I’d developed an old soul from the start, participating in their grownup conversations and drinking coffee—starting in third grade—albeit, only miniature cups back then.