SEE YOU IN DREAMLAND

Fiction

 I step into my father’s closet and am instantly greeted by the scent of my childhood. It feels like an old friend that I have grown apart from, and am too busy to appreciate. His closet looks the same as it did when I was a kid. My dad was an old fashioned guy that was set in his ways. For the years that I knew him, he was always the same. Same cologne, same socks, a button down shirt, black slacks, loafers. And that hat. My dad was never without his black flat cap.  Many who knew him contribute this to a forbidding case of OCD, but I like to consider it just one of his many charismatic quirks. My younger sister and I would rummage through this very closet in search of his vast collection of ties, persistently trying to convince him to let us pick one out for him. Many years later, here I was, staring at the rack of ties, getting my chance to pick one out for him. At the age of twenty-three, I had to decide which tie I was going to bury my father in.

*****

I awake with a start, in the middle of a senseless dream, feeling an unwarranted sense of anxiety. I instantly grab at my phone for the time, thinking I’ve slept through my alarm and am late for work. It’s 6:00am and I’ve just missed several calls and voicemails from my sister, Cecilia, a consequence of leaving my phone on silent during the night. Cecilia was home for the summer, on college break, and rarely awake before noon. I knew instantly that something was wrong. “Sophie. It’s Dad.” The rest of her words were hard to comprehend. They sounded distant. “He’s unconscious. A neighbor found him in the garage. Get to the hospital now, we’re on our way.”

The next eighteen hours go by in an equally comatose and accelerated fashion. Freak accident. Fell down the stairs. Brain hemorrhage. Blood thinner medication. Emergency brain surgery. High risk. Lawyer. Will and Testament. Decide. Now. Can’t Wait. Post-Op. Coma. Rapid heart beat. Too rapid. ECG spike. Beeping. Beeping. Running. Commotion. Flatline. Wake up, Dad. Wake up. WAKE UP.

*****

“Mom, I need help with this stupid zipper, it keeps getting caught.” I yell down the hallway, towards the general direction of my mother’s bedroom. I hear the faint hum of a hair dryer in the distance and I wonder if she can even hear me. Just as I’m about to yell louder, the hair dryer stops and the phone begins to ring.

“One second, honey!” my mom calls back as she picks up the other line. “Hello? Hi. Yes. This is she.”

My mother instantly enters “legal business, formalities, and other miscellaneous aspects regarding a recently deceased person” mode, and I know I’m on my own as far as my stubborn zipper is concerned. This is how it’s been in our house since “that day.” The phone calls come every ten minutes, and my mother fields all of them. Though my parents had been divorced for almost 15 years, she knew just as much about my dad’s life as he did, if not more. So whether she intended to or not, she has taken on the role of a literal and figurative mitigator.

I meander down the hall to my sister’s bedroom and rap lightly on her door, apprehensive about what kind of mood I’ll find her in. Cecilia opens the door in a clamor, hobbling over to her bed as she buckles the straps on a pair of Mary Jane heels. “Is this outfit depressing enough? I feel like I’m going to a fucking job interview at a legal firm. What kind of outfit exactly is one supposed to wear to your father’s funeral anyway? I’m trying to convey the message ‘Hi, I’m on my way to bury my own father and then return home to drink an entire bottle of vodka in somber solitude while playing Joni Mitchell softly in the background and bawling like a toddler.’” she huffs in her signature unfiltered manner. She’s always quick to deliver the highest degree of shock value, leaving the person on the receiving end of her dialogue feeling conflicted on how to respond. Having many years of practice, I ignore her outburst and ask her to help me zip my dress up.

Despite having a sense of conservatism that my sister lacks, I understand her desire to shelter her emotions with dry flippancy. Historically, neither of us have ever been good at discussing our feelings. Though our method of coping differs, we both share a sense of discomfort when it comes to expressing emotion. When I was thirteen years old, my mother brought me to see a psychologist, out of a concern for my unwillingness to verbally express myself. Session after session, I would sit in silence, ignoring any and every advance of Dr. Brown’s attempts to converse with me. Eventually, Dr. Brown grew weary of the silent treatment, and my mother realized she was getting very little return on investment. She bought me a journal instead.

Cece zips me up and I turn around, taking in her outfit. “Here.” I say, slipping off my dad’s aviator watch and handing to her. “This will go nicely with your dress.”  She gives me an apprehensive look, as if I’m pitying her. The watch was our dad’s favorite possession, and she must wonder why I would voluntarily relinquish it, especially right before his funeral. Perhaps I am pitying her, but she has a panicked look on her face, and quite frankly, I don’t want the whole “bottle of vodka with Joni Mitchell and waterfall of tears” scenario to come to fruition. She accepts my offering, and my mother appears in the doorway as she finishes fastening it around her wrist.

“Oh” she gasps loudly. She’s been big on the over-animated delivery of her words lately, as if she is addressing two small children. “You girls look so elegant. The dresses you picked out are wonderful.”

 A few days prior, mom took us both shopping for “appropriate” dresses at a high end department store, the kind where personal shoppers offer you champagne, and vie for commission by telling you how fabulous you look in their overpriced clothes, regardless of whether or not you actually do. Mom picked out the most expensive dresses, as if the amount of money we spent was directly correlated to our level of grief. The personal shoppers ooh’ed and ahh’ed at us, with dollar signs in their eyes, making me feel as if I was trying on dresses for some sort of morbid prom.

Within five minutes, mom has ushered us out the door and we’re on our way to the church, where our family and friends await us. During the short drive, we briefly review pallbearers, speakers, and a few other items and it seems wrong to be talking about my father’s service in terms of logistics. It feels too business oriented, and I wonder when I’m going to be allowed to sulk in the corner, instead of being forced to make executive decisions. I step out of the car, covering my face with a pair of oversized sunglasses. Part of me does this because I’ve seen it in movies and it seems like something that would be included in some sort of “Funeral Etiquette: 101 Ways To Properly Mourn” handbook. Another part of me does it because I don’t feel like looking anybody in the eye, and I’m too ashamed to admit it.

The service goes by in a blur of prayers, songs, candles, and tears. I haven’t quite finalized my beliefs on the notion of an “afterlife” and I’m distracted by the fact that my father’s dead body is sitting motionless in a large metal case just a few feet away from me. I want to walk over and talk to him, I want to ask him when the joke is going to be over. I want to tell him how ridiculous this is and also that I really enjoyed that new restaurant we tried last week. You can wake up now, Dad. You really had us all going there for a minute. We won’t even be mad. Just please wake up. I want, I need, to talk to you. I stare at the casket hard, willing for something, anything, to happen. The priest drones on and the casket remains still. My emotions flicker between anger and numbness.

Outside of the church, I feel as if I have just starred in a Broadway play and I’ve come out at the end of the show to bestow my gratitude to the audience members for their support. Thank you for coming. Nice to see you. Yes, I thought the gospel was lovely as well. Shake hands. Kiss cheeks. Nod my head. Blow my nose. Crack awkward jokes and feel weird about it immediately after. It’s not long before I’m ushered into the limo (cue the Ms. America wave), and we’re off to the cemetery. It’s time for my family and I to spend thousands of dollars to put my dad in a hole deep beneath the ground, never to be seen again.

The drive to the cemetery is somber. Even mom has taken a step back from her “code red” mode and stares out the window, her chin cupped in the palm of her hand, elbow resting against the windowsill. It’s strange to see her so withdrawn. I can only recall one other instance in which I’ve seen her like this. When I was in high school, she was denied a promotion at work that she had had her eye on for months prior. For a whole week, she went about her days as usual – making dinner, unloading the dishwasher, reading her book – but with much less gusto than I was used to. By her lack of emotion, I knew she was hiding the way she felt inside, and I wanted to make it stop. I had hoped I would never have to see her in that state again. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a can opening. I look over to see Cece cracking open a beer that she must have found in the limo’s refreshment cupboard. When I shoot her a look, she simply shrugs her shoulders and says “Dad would be doing the same thing right now if he was in this position.” Despite the fact that my father was never a big beer drinker, mom and I glance at each other, and we both grab one and follow suit. The rest of the car ride is quiet, the silence punctured only by the sound of gulps of beer and cars passing by.

As we pull up to the burial site and exit the car, my eyes are drawn to the gaping hole in the ground, with a small mountain of dirt resting beside it. My muscles constrict as my mom walks up next to me and rests a hand on my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her place her other hand on my sister’s shoulder. The vehicle carrying my father pulls up, and the final preparations to lower him in begin. As the casket hangs above the burial plot, I quickly run through a list of ways to make them stop. Yell “FIRE!” Pretend I have fallen and twisted my ankle. Inform the gravediggers that they are at the wrong plot. I suppress a sudden urge to jump into the hole myself. Anything to make time stop. Once the casket is buried, it’s over. It’s real. If there was any chance of my dad still being alive, it will be gone. Signed, sealed (literally), and delivered. I look over at my mother and sister. If they’re also contemplating escape tactics, or possible ways of defying all known forms of science and evolution, it doesn’t show. They appear stoic, eyes fixed. My dad is lowered into his “final resting place,” as the Catholic church likes to often say, and the tears begin to fall down my face as heavily as the mountain of dirt that begins falling onto the casket.

Despite the fact that I’m ready to slip into my favorite pair of sweatpants and retire to my bedroom to do anything ranging from drinking to reading to crying to sleeping, we still have a luncheon to host. For most people, the “post funeral activities” signal the time when it’s socially acceptable to make the transition from formal and grave, to lighthearted and casual. The heavy stuff is over, we made it through. Now let us celebrate with food and drink! The thing is, most people here are a few short hours from returning to their normal daily lives. They will go home and watch television with their significant others, they will take their children out for an afternoon at the park. I, on the other hand, will return to a life that I have never known. The reality that I have built over the past twenty-three years is gone and I will spend the rest of my life constructing a new definition of “normal.”

As I walk into the restaurant, my dad’s favorite of course, I see his childhood friend, Carmine, already positioned at the bar, waiting on a drink. He’s a real godfather type, the Al Capone of his generation, and his pension for drinking in the afternoon does nothing to surprise me. He waves me over while he asks the bartender to make it two. I approach the bar as an old fashioned is placed in front of me, and Carmine and I cheers.

“Salute” he says, in a deep raspy voice that can either be attributed to many decades of chain smoking, or many decades of putting people in their place. “How you hanging in, kid?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink. I shoot him a look that requires no further explanation. “I know, I know. I just. I never thought I would be having this conversation with you. I also never thought I would outlive your father, so, there’s that factor as well.”

“Car, the fact that you’ve outlived the hamster I had in fifth grade is a miracle.” I say, taking another sip of my drink.

“Yeah, well. We were friends for a reason I suppose. Never quite got the hang of the whole ‘abiding by the rules’ thing. Live fast, die young.” He pauses, looking down at his drink. “You know, your dad once called me up on a Friday afternoon asking if I wanted to go to Costa Rica for the weekend. He had rented a plane and was going to fly down there with whoever wanted to go. He wrangled up a couple of our buddies, and off we went. In the air a few hours later.”

I smile, thinking about the photo album my dad had kept from that trip. It was filled with snapshots of the group participating in a variety of activities. Sitting by the pool with a cigar. Having dinner and drinks, all of them decked out in floral print shirts, each one unbuttoned and sporting a plain white tank beneath. Fishing on a boat, way out into the ocean. One of the framed photos that I keep on my nightstand is from this album. My dad is standing at the edge of a boat, during one of their fishing excursions, holding up an eighty-pound Marlin, with an exuberant grin on his face. The sun is beginning to set (or rise, I never could tell) in the distance, casting a soft glow around my father. He looks immortal.

“You know, for such a calculated and steadfast guy, your dad had these random bursts of extreme spontaneity.” Carmine continues. “Most things he did in life were heavily premeditated, as you know. Ate at the same places, listened to the same music, drove the same car.  Yet every so often, he would come out of left field and surprise the hell out of me with some grand idea. Let’s ditch Algebra class today. Let’s take out a grand and hit the casino tonight. Let’s fly to Costa Rica for the weekend. All the small details of his life were planned precisely, but when he did let loose, he went big. And you’d never know when he was about to strike next. One of the things I loved most about him.”

A few minutes later, everyone takes their seats for lunch. Between my mother, sister, and I, it was decided that I would read a eulogy. I saved this piece of the service for the luncheon, as I didn’t want to feel pressure to keep my reflections upon my father’s life to a predetermined time frame. This way, I could talk for as long or as little as I wanted. I could stand there crying and and dripping snot down my dress. I could start laughing uncontrollably like a maniac. I wanted to talk about my father on my own terms, without someone staring me down while nodding at their watch.

Somewhere between the veal and the cappuccino, I find myself standing at the front of the room, asking for everyone’s attention. As the chatter dies down and I adjust the microphone (Where did that come from by the way? Is a microphone really necessary?), I take a quick visual sweep of the room. I am equidistant to the bar as I am from the door. I could drink or run. Despite my urge for the latter, I stand in place. I clear my throat and unfold my printed speech, hands shaking, as I feel all eyes in the room on me. I begin.

“Dad always said he would rather live a shorter life that was full of passion and action than live a longer life spent sitting on the sidelines. I think it’s safe to say that he lived his life on his terms. This became evident to me at an early age, as he successfully installed car seats into his perfectly polished 1960’s cherry red Corvette. I would later realize, after spending many of my childhood days inside a bar or nightclub, that this was more than a pattern, more than a notion. This was Dad’s mentality. His way of life.

“Perhaps to an outsider this may have seemed like poor parenting, or a lack of parenting, as my friends spent their weekends playing video games, and I spent mine in the upstairs offices of the piano bar, learning about Frank Sinatra and listening to the men talk shop. But wouldn’t you know it, I learned more about the values of life from these moments, than anything I could have learned from a book or a video game. I learned what it means to work long and hard, and that it is possible to never work a day in your life if you love what you do. I came to understand that the most rewarding and fulfilling deed a person can accomplish in their life is to have a passion.

“My dad’s unwavering devotion to music, and the stories it can tell, gave him a perspective on life, that unfortunately, some people live their entire lives without. And, at the end of day, I think I learned a little about good negotiating.”

This gets a chuckle from the crowd as they remember my dad, always bargaining his way through retail stores, business decisions, and afternoons to the park.

“Dad, you left us way too soon, and although we are all royally pissed about it, anyone who knew you knows with certainty that you lived the life you wanted to, the way you wanted to. Not everyone can say that when they look back on their lives, and it’s inspiring. I know how happy you were, and when I miss you the most, that will make me happy. I love you.”

I fold my paper up and begin walking back towards the table as a soft chorus of applause breaks out. A lump forms in my throat and I fight back tears as each person I pass embraces me.

*****

Once the luncheon is wrapped up and we’ve made it back home, mom pours us each a cup of coffee while we kick off our heels and settle in on the couch to decompress. There is a stack of cards from the wake, most likely containing some form of money, on the table in front of us. They loom menacingly, daring me to open them. Although I know they are sent with good intentions and well wishes, they make me feel uncomfortable. It feels like pity. ‘I’m sorry your dad died, here’s some currency to for you to hold on to when you wake up panicking in the middle of the night.’ We take a stab at the pile of cards, Mom opening them, Cece reading them aloud, and me keeping record of who sent what. After an entire pot of coffee, and about two dozen cards, we’re only halfway through. Cece is already distracted, play fighting with our family dog, and Mom has slipped back into her ‘call center’ duties. We agree to save the rest for tomorrow.

I close my bedroom door behind me, after saying my final goodnights, and I immediately hop beneath the covers, waiting for sleep to envelop me. I’ m exhausted and I expect to slip effortlessly into unconsciousness. Sleep does not come the way I had hoped, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. As a kid, I always had trouble falling asleep. It could take me over an hour before I was finally able to rest my eyes. I would reposition my pillow, I would sing myself lullabies, I would even go as far as to count sheep.

Whenever I would grow frustrated of trying to fall asleep, I would call for my dad. Night after night, he would come into my room and go through a routine.

“Dad, I can’t fall asleep.” I would whine. He would come sit on the edge of my bed and tuck me in like a mummy, teasing me that he had to make sure I wouldn’t fall out of bed in the middle of the night.

“You know, the sooner you fall asleep, the sooner you can go to dreamland.” He would say. “And trust me, dreamland is a place you don’t want to miss out on. In dreamland, you get to do whatever you want. You can eat as much chocolate as you want. You can ride your bike wherever you want. It’s your own playground, to do as you please.” My eyes would widen with curiosity at the sound of this. It sounded too good to be true.

Once I was surrounded by blankets, my dad did his signature goodnight send off. Butterfly kiss. Eskimo kiss. Kiss on the forehead. As he would bat his eyelashes against mine, and gently rub his nose against the tip of my nose, tickling me, I would shriek with laughter.

“Dad, tell me more about dreamland.” I would ask. I wanted to know everything. I had almost every dream encyclopedia that was ever published, and I would read them extensively, often delivering miscellaneous facts to anyone who would listen. ‘Mom, did you know there are four stages of sleep? But that you can dream in any stage?’ I was fascinated by this subconscious world, where your mind could construct a form of reality so detailed, yet so untouchable. The intangibility of dreams kept me racing after them, like a dog chasing it’s tail.

“I can’t tell you any more than I already have, sweetie” he would answer back. “Everyone’s dreamland is different. Yours is different than mine, and mine is different from yours. Dreamland is what you make of it. Whatever your heart truly desires, you can find it there.” Giving me one last tuck, he would stand up and head for the door.

“See you in dreamland, Daddy.” I would call as he flipped the light off.

Laying in bed, many years later, I think of those nights I couldn’t fall asleep. I want to call out for my dad to come tuck me in and tell me about dreamland. I want him to send me off to sleep with his butterfly kiss, eskimo kiss, kiss on the forehead ritual. I suddenly feel a breezy sensation and for a brief moment, I think that I can feel him fluttering his eyelashes against mine. My glee quickly turns to heartbreak when I realize that it’s nothing more than teardrops forming in my eyes, causing my eyelashes to tickle. As the tears begin to roll silently down my cheeks, I resort to counting sheep. One sheep, two sheep, red fish, blue fish. The cow jumps over the moon. Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. I give up.