Charlie Mad Dog Madson - Post #4 - "Dreams"

For the rest of the night, I hibernate in my room. I stay up super late watching baseball bloopers on YouTube. I’m an average baseball player and I’m just not tall enough to ever be any good at basketball. Like all the McMurtrey boys, John is a good athlete – way better at baseball and basketball than I am.

We both like Major League Baseball way better than the NBA. Somehow, John became a Yankees fan – probably because his dad is. And I like the Red Sox mainly because of Dustin Pedroia and Mookie Betts. I love that they’re both pretty little, but still made it to the bigs.

Back when we were friends, John used to say how lucky I was to have a computer in my room. All John’s siblings have to share one computer that is kept in the dining room. And his parents make all their kids wait until they’re 16 to get cell phones. And even then, they have to pay for half of it. I don’t have a cell phone either, but I think it’s because Mom can’t afford it.

Once during 8th grade, when I asked Mom about getting a phone, she said, “We’ll discuss a cell phone when the time comes.” I’ve stopped bugging her about it because what do I need a phone for? It’s not like I have anyone to call or text.

So, it’s 2:00 am and I’m watching some of Mookie’s highlights on YouTube when Mom comes to my room.

Rubbing her eyes and letting Evie in, Mom says, “Honey, why ya still up?”

“Mom, I don’t want Evie in here,” I say.

“She just wants a comfy place to sleep,” Mom says.

“Let her sleep with you then,” I growl.

“Charlie, come on. She wants to be with you. Now shut that thing off and get some sleep.”

“Ok, ok,” I say, clicking out of YouTube and shutting down my computer.

“You alright, kid?” Mom asks, straightening up the blankets on my bed as Evie makes her own bed in my dirty clothes on the floor.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asks suspiciously.

“Nah, I just got into watching Mookie’s highlights.”

“Ya sure? I can call Dr. Shirley,” Mom says gently.

“Mom, no. I’m fine.” And I hunker down in my bed trying to look as exhausted as I feel, but knowing I probably won’t be able to fall asleep.

“Alright, but tell me if things get weird again,” Mom says and then adds, “and it’s ok if they do. We can deal with it.”

Mom kisses my head and turns to go.

“Take the dog with you,” I say.

Defeated, Mom calls to Evie. They both leave my room and I get up to close the door.

The day after Pete died, even before the dreams started, Mom made me go see Dr. Shirley. I was pretty much in a daze, so I didn’t resist. For a month, every Tuesday I spent one hour, 5:30pm-6:30pm, in Dr. Shirley’s office. Things were definitely weird then.

God. I hated talking about how I felt all the time. But I’ll give Dr. Shirley props for one thing. She never made me feel dumb for blaming myself. I kept waiting for her to say the same thing Mom said – that it wasn’t my fault Pete died. And Dr. Shirley never made me talk about any part of that day I didn’t want to. She encouraged me to talk about Pete as little or as much as I wanted. And John too, but I didn’t like talking about John.

Sometimes we talked about my mom and wannabe step-dad Marcus. Dr. Shirley’s the only one who asked me how I felt about Marcus being black and my mom being white. I didn’t know what to say. So, we talked about something else.

It was alright seeing Dr. Shirley, but I was glad when she said I didn’t have to come anymore unless I wanted to. I didn’t. But then, less than a week after my last appointment with her, the dreams started.

At first, they weren’t so bad. They were mainly just different versions of me looking at Pete in an open casket. I would always see blood trickling down the side of his forehead toward his ear. In all the dreams, though, I never say a word, even when a million people – some I know and some I don’t – keep walking past me to look at Pete in the casket. None of them talk to me.

The worst part of those dreams was John. He was in every single one, sometimes leaning in to the casket, shaking Pete trying to wake him up. Sometimes, asking every person walking by, why hadn’t Pete been wearing a helmet? And I’m standing there like a statue watching the whole thing. Even though I’d wake up in a cold sweat, after a little while, I usually went back to sleep. No big deal, right?

That’s what I thought. Then the dreams got more graphic and they moved to the train tracks. In these, it’s winter with snow falling and piling up around the tracks, but not on the tracks. Next thing I know, I’m in slow motion trailing Pete on my bike. I’m wearing my Red Sox tank top and black athletic shorts, just like the day of the accident, but I’m freezing my ass off and then as soon as Pete’s tire touches the steel rail of the train track, KA-BAM!

Out of the blue and scaring the shit out of me, the car comes from behind me, barreling up to the tracks and then past me, blind-siding Pete and trapping him and his bike under the front bumper. Just like the day it happened, in the dream the stupid car just keeps skidding across the tracks and my vision blurs with tears and fear. But I can still see Pete's bloody body being dragged across the tracks under the car until finally I can’t see him at all. The sick part is, I don’t want the dream to stop – not there, where I can no longer see Pete under the stupid car. I don’t want him to disappear, but he always does.

So, when different versions of that dream didn’t stop, I decided the best thing to do was to avoid them completely by staying awake. If I didn’t sleep, I couldn’t dream. My record was 55 solid hours before Mom realized what was happening. The 55-hour marathon cost me another 6 weeks with Dr. Shirley. Finally, the dreams stopped.

And I thought I was home-free until I heard Pete’s voice this afternoon.Thanks a lot, buddy.