Trembling With Fear 5-5-24

Dreams of Me, by Chip Houser

I remember the rush of excitement as Mom painted my new room, laughing and talking to me, sunlight streaming through the window.

What a wonderful room, a wonderful color!

I remember her putting my crib together on the floor and hanging the mobile above it.

I’ve been dreaming of you my whole life!

I remember her in the rocker in the corner, stitching squares of fabric together, telling me all the things we would do together. I remember the smell of the fabrics, their textures when she rubbed them in her hands, against her cheek, across her stomach. I remember the warm feeling as she draped the finished quilt over the edge of the crib, her laughter as she set the pastel plushies of the mobile spinning, her anticipation as she turned out the light.

What fun we’re going to have together!

I remember the two of us together, endlessly laughing, playing, and hugging in her dreams.

I remember her curled up on the rug, sobbing.

###

My room is different now. The quilt is folded at the foot of a bed, a ceiling fan with flower-shaped glass shades has replaced the mobile, the curtains are closed against the sunlight. A life-sized doll stands in the corner next to the rocker. The doll looks just like Mom imagines I would have looked at five. It’s wearing a yellow Easter dress, wide satin ribbon around the waist, brown bangs pin-straight, long hair pulled back in a matching ribbon and a big bow. When the breeze from the ceiling fan stirs the doll’s hair, it almost looks alive. It’s not, it’s just a pretty thing Mom talks to when she misses me.

She sits on the bed at night, rubbing the patchwork quilt, smiling at the doll through silent tears.  Some nights, when she’s especially sad, Mom sits in the rocker and brushes the doll’s hair. While she brushes, Mom tells me stories. What she was like as a girl, all the things she did, all the things we would have done. Her palm settles each stroke, her love racing along the synthetic strands like electricity and pooling inside the dark hollows of the empty doll.

One day, when I’m free of this world, we will be together again. Together forever.

Her smoothing hand is everything to me in these moments.

Eventually, she kisses the doll’s head and turns off the light.

I love you, sweetie.

The doll’s perfect porcelain face floats in the blackness, glossy eyes and cheek dimples catching the night light. It is smiling but it isn’t happy, it’s just a doll, a pretty shell that collects Mom’s love. The doll doesn’t feel the love, but I do. That love is what keeps Mom and me connected.

###

Mom has nightmares sometimes. She thrashes about, cries out, wakes herself in a sweat. On those nights, she visits my room and falls asleep on my bed, or sometimes in the rocker. She never has nightmares in my room.

###

If she doesn’t visit me for a few nights, I take a tiny sip of her love, just enough to animate the doll. I step it awkwardly off its metal stand, porcelain forearms heavy, stitched joints swinging awkwardly. I lurch it down the hall to Mom’s room, where I watch her dream. She looks peaceful when she’s asleep. I know she’s dreaming about me, about us, together and happy. There in the dark, I remember the warm, safe feeling of being part of Mom, and I want that again. I miss being loved.

###

Mom hasn’t had nightmares for a while now. And lately, she spends less time in my room and more with her new friends. I hear her on her phone making plans. Sometimes they’re all downstairs together, talking and laughing. The distance muffles their words but not their joy.

Mom still visits my room most nights, she still talks to me, she still cries sometimes. But her voice has a different tone, and less love trickles into the doll when she brushes its hair.

Sometimes now when I watch Mom sleeping, I wonder if the soft words she mumbles are to me. I wonder if she still dreams of me, or if she’s dreaming of her new friends, laughing with them like she does downstairs.

###

One night, Mom’s friends stay later than usual. Their voices are very serious, and I hear Mom sobbing. I can’t hear what they’re saying to her, but Mom’s tears are for me. I need them.

Later, when they’re gone, she slumps on my bed. She’s still crying. I want her to brush my hair, but instead she mumbles like she’s half asleep.

They’re right. I know they’re right. I need to move on.

She seems so sad when she says it, which I don’t understand. Her friends are right. Then we can be together again just like she promised.

###

Mom doesn’t visit me for a whole week. This has never happened before. I’ve mostly been thinking about what her friends said. They know what Mom wants, and I will help her since she can’t seem to do it herself.

I walk the doll down the hall, dragging its metal stand. Mom is snoring softly. I have watched her dream of us for so long. I raise the metal stand high over the doll’s head. I remember Mom’s words, and I feel warm all over.

When I’m free of this world we’ll be together again, forever.

With the strength of her remaining love, I bring the metal stand down. It makes a terrible sound. The doll collapses in a heap on the floor and I float free. 

Mom’s body is shaking a lot, like it doesn’t want to let her go.

It’s okay, Mom! I’m right here!

Her body stops shaking.  I reach out for her, but I still don’t see her.

I’m here, Mom! Where are you?

I remember, she told me how it works. We’ll be together forever.

Mom?