Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  Laura gulps. Did his words actually get to her?

  “Why don't you get some coffee?” she asks. “I’ll keep Lizetta company. Maybe hearing some old stories will help.”

  Jensen nods and heads off, leaving me with the horrible woman. The moment he's out of earshot, she seems to forget how Jensen hit one of her nerves. She puts her feet up, not just on my bed, but also on my pillow! “Seriously, how the hell did you nail Jensen?” She takes her feet down so she can lean in and rub my misery in deeper. “I really need to thank you, because with this little stunt here, Jensen is turning vulnerable again. He's perfect for me now—like really perfect. I can finally have my happily ever after.”

  Oh, no! Not her! Absolutely not her!

  That painting. That Tarot reading. My dream. They all pointed to another woman coming in and taking the glory. That absolutely, positively, will not be Laura Muler! If I can't come back and get him, I will find someone else for Jensen—anyone other than this horrible person.

  The coins clank down the slot and into the bucket. The cup drops, and the smell of coffee rises.

  How the hell were Lizetta and Laura friends? Laura's been screwed up since she was a little girl. Would Lizetta really have a friend like that? Lizetta fights her misconception that she's three times her actual size. Maybe Laura’s reality is distorted as well. She told me she didn't have anyone she could trust. Lizetta would never be less than the perfect friend.

  The sound of pouring ends and coffee waits. What the hell am I doing? I gave up coffee when I gave up alcohol, because it was part of my hangover cure. Having no crutches for the morning after makes staying sober a little easier. Right now I need every drop of help I can get.

  The cup stays in the machine. I’m damn near broke and just shy of maxing out my credit card due to wedding flowers, yet I plunk down more cash for some juice. Dammit! All Laura did was suggest coffee and it gave me the notion that it's what I need. Man, that girl clutters my mind.

  Shit! I left her alone with Lizetta! I almost hope Lizetta hasn’t woken and they are laughing it up, because the last thing I want is Laura on the guest list to our wedding.

  Inside the room, Laura is whispering to Lizetta and giggling like she’s part of the girlfriend brigade. She looks at me, smiles, and giggles again. I guess it's good that some girl talk is going on. Anything to help, right?

  I look to my girl, hoping to see a hint of a smile that shows her friend is getting through. Instead, I swear, I freaking swear that there is a disturbance in this room, and Lizetta looks just as lifeless as before. I’m about to hurl my juice.

  This is too much.

  “Hey, Laura, would you mind taking off? I need some alone time with my fiancée.”

  Good enough. I’ve done about all I can here.

  “See you later, old friend.” If she can hear me, she’s fuming. If my lies don’t bring her out of the coma, nothing will.

  At the foot of the bed, I turn to give one last pout of sympathy, but the unexpected hits as I get a solid look at the full picture—the wires, the tubes, the bags of fluids. My stomach feels like the bottom has dropped out. I’ve been so wrapped up in the goal that I’ve missed the direness of the situation. That’s Lizetta under all those bandages. My old, childhood … schoolmate. She’s a good person who always tries to do the right thing, even when people hurt her. Good people shouldn’t suffer.

  I used to think I was a good person. Then I suffered too much. I had to do something to take the focus off of the pain, so I became me. Jensen did the same thing.

  Lizetta doesn’t deserve her fate.

  As soon as the door closes, the room seems to brighten. I go to my side of the bed, the side where I keep the chair and the same side that I sleep on at home. I kick off my shoes and curl up next to Lizetta.

  Come on universe. Work this one out. We need a miracle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Wednesday, July 26

  Outside my window, the rest of the world carries on with worries of their own. Most of the people around here are probably in a deep sleep. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. I should have stayed at the hospital, because I can’t feel Lizetta now, and even though Paul assures me that she is fine, it’s making me crazy.

  Why are there times when I can’t feel her? It’s rare but …

  Maybe she’s normally with me but is now off taking care of something important.

  That’s crazy. My mind is frying.

  My fingers press into my eyelids in hopes of making my eyes water. They are so dry that it hurts to move them. My mouth is also one huge cotton ball.

  Pain shoots in my gut. My weakened state is only partially the result of a lack of sleep. I can't remember the last time I had a real meal, and my intake has consisted of small amounts of water, a sip of protein shake here and there, and an occasional piece of bread. Anything else makes a return appearance.

  Etta whimpers when my feet hit the ground. I rub her belly and assure straight into her droopy eyes that I am okay. I need a vegetable, a piece of fruit—anything to give me nutrients before I keel over. What happened to the man who was so healthy? How ironic is it that while Lizetta has to be fed through a tube, in some ways she is healthier than I am?

  It's a clear night, yet all I see is fog. Somehow Bertha manages to get me to a grocery store. I turn off my thoughts about how queasy my stomach is and let the colors guide me through the produce section—carrots, kale, strawberries, blueberries—nature's rainbow of health. My knees buckle when I grab a gallon of milk. The liquid splashes in the plastic and the bile in my stomach goes with it. I try to ignore the queasiness and move on, but instead of seeing nutrition, I see acid reflux. If I eat this, I'm going to need something to counteract how sick it will make me.

  No.

  No drugs of any kind are allowed in my body. Antacids weren’t acceptable a few weeks ago, so they shouldn’t be now.

  I stare at the groceries, and my stomach burns. The weakness that makes this basket seem far heavier than it should becomes mentally draining. Will this ordeal ever end? Is there a way out other than the unthinkable? Am I only waiting for the inevitable, just like the doctors say?

  Oh dear God, why me? Why Lizetta? Why the challenges? I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go on without food, without support, without something to ease the pain that gets harder to face each day. My face scrunches, and my chest heaves. Dry sobs—again. It’s too much.

  I have too many decisions to make. Whether it's about food or the love of my life, someone needs to tell me what to do, because I can’t live like this anymore. Hell, with the way things are going, I won't be alive much longer anyway. Please, God, help me, because I am not as strong as you seem to think I am.

  A moment later, I have to will my hand not to shake when I give the check out woman my credit card, and then walk away with a bottle of vodka and two six packs of Ensure.

  There has to be a reason why I was allowed back other than to get Etta to stop Jensen from drinking. What was it that crazy angel said? That I’m not coming back “in that busted body.” Then there was that shady comment, “For years you wanted to trade it in for another, and now you are clamoring for it back.” It sure sounds like he is implying that I need to find a new shell.

  Man, this really is like Drop Dead Diva! She had a useless guardian angel too; only her’s didn’t look like a fast food mascot. The woman died, hit the Return key, and then popped into the body of someone else who had just been revived. Perfect! I'm in a hospital. People die here all the time. I just need to hang around until somebody awesome passes on, and then jump into her body upon its revival. It’ll be like a self-serve dessert bar!

  Yeah, a creepy one filled with needles and diseases. What happens if I pop into the body of someone with something incurable? I’ll probably get Jensen convinced I came back just before I die again. This is tricky.

  Room upon antiseptic-smelling room holds one heart-breaking story after another—coughing, puking, moaning—heart dis
ease, cancer, AIDS. I'm not in a ward where babies are born. This is where people go to die.

  I'm pretty sure Jensen doesn't have a gay bone in his body, so everyone male is automatically removed from the candidate list. I come upon a room with a woman who appears to be in her mid-thirties. She has medium-toned skin and long, dark hair. I like its flow. She and Jensen would be beautiful together.

  My heart drops into my stomach. Even if he is still with my soul, I don’t want him with any part of anyone other than me. I miss my life. I miss my body—my beautiful body that is a reflection of my experiences. If I take over another one, will it remain as it was when I inhabited it, or will the habits of my spirit take over? Will it someday feel like a home, or will I always feel as if I am renting a room? What if I jump into someone’s body too soon and they can’t get back in, even though they are supposed to? That would turn me into a killer.

  This is morbid.

  Beside the woman is a picture of her with a man and two children. I’ve no choice but to cross her off the list. I can’t let her family watch her die and return only to leave them for Jensen. There sure are a lot of factors in this. Why does returning from the dead need to be so complicated?

  In the next room lies a lady whose advanced age takes her out of the running. Even though she is asleep and surrounded by gifts showing overflowing love and support, her being alone tugs at my heartstrings. I touch my hand to hers, wishing I could hold it. Her body remains still and with a bit of a smile across her lips. This lady is old, like great-grand-matriarch type old. Lord, please let me know what it feels like to be her someday—well loved and having lived a full life.

  Suddenly, the machines around her start screaming that her heart has stopped. “Are you an angel?” a female voice rings out from above.

  My eyes go heavenward, where the spirit of the old woman floats. “You can see me?”

  “Yes, honey, of course I can see you.” Her chest expands with her inhale. Her skin turns smooth and free of the signs of aging. Along with it, her grey hair turns cherry cola red. A white light beams down upon her and she faces it in awe. “This is the moment that I have waited my whole life for! Goodbye beautiful people of Earth. A new adventure awaits!” The light draws her away as I stare, forgetting to breathe in the presence of perfection.

  That’s not how I looked when it happened to me, but it is how it should be for all of us—to depart when we are ready in a moment of glory. It is no wonder why I upset God.

  The next time I go, I will give myself that gift of happiness, but first God, please let me fulfill a life of compassion that extends to all creatures. When it comes right down to it, that’s all that matters here. Without boundless compassion, we are nothing. Please, let me help make mankind something.

  A Code Red alarm sounds over the loudspeaker, sending me racing to the Emergency Room. My feet can’t hit the ground fast enough. What if this is it and I take too long?

  Faster! Faster down the florescent-lit corridor I go!

  A car crash victim, of about my age, is being wheeled in. “We're not getting a pulse,” a paramedic yells. The doctor calls for a crash cart as I watch her spirit rise. She looks down upon her body in sorrow, then smiles to the light and lets it consume her. Unlike the woman before, this one leaves a silver cord trailing behind, much like the one attached to me.

  “Clear!” someone yells. The body jerks, but her heart doesn't start. They try it again with the same results. Still, there is no sight of the woman, just a cord ascending toward Heaven. Is she being given a choice? That means her body is capable of living! This is perfect!

  “One more time,” the doctor says. The cord begins to fade, and my excitement builds. She’s going to Heaven! You go girl!

  I close my eyes and dive toward her body. This is it! “Oh God, thank you! Thank you so—”

  Bam!

  I’m cold cocked across the room. The woman gives me the stink eye before being sucked back into her body like it’s a Hoover.

  Harold’s laughter rings out next to me. “You didn't think that lame stunt would work, did you? How many times will I have to tell you that this is not a TV show? There are rules here—like actual rules—not Toon Town rules.”

  I point my finger in his face. “You never said that I couldn’t come back. In fact, you’ve implied—”

  A nurse runs through Harold on her way to assist the girl who's just been revived. Harold motions me out of the emergency area and leads me to where the ambulances arrive. “You have the most interesting way of interpreting things. Now, I'm sure you've noticed your body isn't doing so well. You might want to try to think of something constructive, else I’m going to have to shake you by the shoulders.”

  “Huh? But I don’t even know what I am supposed to accomplish!”

  Harold takes two steps back into an oncoming ambulance. He fades, yet his voice hangs in the air. “You’ve said your prayers, now discover how you can make them come true. Observe and learn, dear girl. Observe and learn.”

  Last time I pulled poison from the trash. This bottle came from the grocery store. I grabbed it without a thought, but an altar boy buying his first nudie magazine would not have felt as guilty and excited as I did when I whipped out the credit card.

  I went for vodka. I never drink vodka, which shows that I’m not returning to my old ways, right?

  Yeah, that’s a bunch of horse crap, and I know it.

  Etta growls as I crack the seal so I can dump the booze down the sink; yet I’m still seated on the sofa. I have no intent of dumping this anywhere but down my throat.

  I can't keep getting like this. I’ll call Jimmy or Paul. They will be more than happy to talk me out of it.

  Shit. Jimmy’s studying for a test that he is probably going to fail, and Paul’s at the hospital. I can't risk Paul answering with Lizetta in earshot and have her worry.

  God, why can’t I feel her? Jimmy said he’s felt her before, too. Maybe she’s floating around and is helping Jimmy with that test.

  This is crazy. I'll call Griffin. He wants what's good for Lizetta as much as I do. He can talk me down.

  Without even a ring, the phone goes to voicemail. Crap.

  I’ll call Mom.

  No, she’ll freak, and I’ll get defensive. Bad combo.

  There is one other person.

  Laura is shocked when I call. She should be. It’s three in the morning, and the last time I called her was back when I was still vulnerable to her ways. She also sounds a little afraid I'm about to tell her some really bad news. “How is Lizetta?” she asks.

  “Worse, and I'm about to lose it.”

  “I'm on my way.”

  I hang up and realize that I just invited my bed buddy over for a drink—a bed buddy that reminds me how badly I want to ride the heroin dragon again. I am so, so screwed.

  Perfect! I knew pulling the, I’ve-got-stories-about-your-comatose-girlfriend card would sucker him in. I’ve got a fifteen-minute drive to come up with more bull shit about my childhood pal that I miss so much.

  I get on the freeway and gun the gas. A shot rips through my leg.

  Motherfucker that hurts! Son of a bitch!

  I pull to the shoulder while using my left foot to brake. As soon as I am off the road, I pound on my leg to loosen the cramp. It only gets worse, and walking on it seems impossible. The pain goes from burning to itching. I yank up the leg of my jeans and scratch, and then scratch more, harder and deeper each time. The streaks grow redder—bloodier.

  Blood …

  I’ve got to get another fix.

  The reflection in the bathroom mirror is of someone who is ashen and hollow. The dark circles under his eyes scream that he is lonely and lost. That figure can’t be me.

  I try to breathe in every molecule of goodness the universe will grace me with. If I get enough grounding air, that figure will look like me again. Though there is not much good in my life, there is much good in the world. The true me knows that, and doing the right things will b
ring him back.

  With another breath, I tell myself I am sinking into the ground. If I can become one with the earth, then so can Lizetta, and we can become one together. When it boils down to that, collectively we are still but a lone unit.

  We are always alone, aren’t we? We hope to find someone to spend our life with, but the image you see in the mirror is always yours, even if it has company.

  There is no escaping you.

  Laura doesn’t need to knock. The second she steps into the driveway, Etta sounds off like an earthquake is about to hit. I open the door and am not at all surprised to find that, even at this hour, Laura looks like her trampy self—except for the jeans.

  Jeans? Holy shit, her legs must be bad.

  The part of me that wants to slide backward is relieved to see that I have somebody I can do it with, but the part of me that wants to move forward is disgusted. Laura is too far gone to be only a weekend junkie. She no longer looks skeletal—she looks hollow.

  “Jesus! This place reeks of vodka and tequila. How much have you had?”

  “Not a drop, but the floor and sink had their fair share. I just dumped the entire bottle of vodka, but I left part of the mess from an accident I had a few days ago with some tequila as a reminder not to fuck up.” I take Laura to the sofa and push her down by the shoulders. “Sit!”

  “Yes, sir!” She gives me the dirty once over. “Stop!” I raise a finger to halt her right there. “No funny ideas! I'm engaged to a woman who may have some problems right now, but I love her and that is the end of that, okay?” Laura nods. It isn’t good enough. “Tell me you respect it.”

  She tosses her hands up. “Fine! I respect it.”