This Time, I Know What I Don't Know

Chapter Two

I looked at Mom. “Are we going to the hospital?”

At that moment, Randy walked in.

“Why? She’s fine. It’s just a bruise.”

I stared coldly at him.

Him.

If this wasn’t a dream, he’d be dead.

“I don’t feel good. I need to do my homework.” I looked back at Mom.

I went to my room, pulled out a textbook, and stared at the same page for the next couple of hours without absorbing a word.

My brain kept cycling through the same things.

The house.

Jessie.

That woman.

Mom.

Topeka High.

None of it made sense.

Every time I came back to Mom being alive, I settled on the same explanation. I had to be dreaming. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Maybe my brain was wandering through old memories while my body finally gave out.

Whatever was happening, I wasn’t getting any homework done.

Eventually, someone yelled, “Dinner!”

I walked out and looked at the fish sticks, instant mashed potatoes, and canned peas.

Man, this dream needs to end. This is way too realistic.

I remembered this cheap food. No real nutritional value, just the cheapest stuff they could get to feed eight people on food stamps.

I sat down and ate what I was given. If I didn’t, I would go hungry, and even in a dream, I didn’t feel up to that.

After dinner, I got up to shower and go to bed.

“Excuse me. Where do you think you’re going?” she said.

My father’s mistress.

I hadn’t understood how f****d up this was when I was a kid. Watching it through an adult’s eyes, even in a dream, I wanted to punch her.

“I don’t feel good. I got hit in the face and blacked out. I want to go to bed.”

“And you can, when the dishes are done.”

I looked at her and decided I’d take the dream beating for backtalk.

“There are three adults and four other children here. Why does the injured one need to wash the dishes?”

SMACK!

Right across my already sore face.

This is a dream, not reality. If I don’t stand up now, when?

“Touch me again, and I’ll call the cops myself. Wash the damn dishes yourself.”

I stormed into my room and tried to slam the door.

Oh yeah. This door doesn’t slam.

I waited in the absolute darkness that only a windowless room can have, my heart pounding, until I finally fell asleep.

The next time I regained consciousness, I kept my eyes closed and took a deep breath. It felt easier.

Maybe it’s the last hurrah before death.

That had been a weird dream. I’d thought it was my dying brain, but apparently not.

I forced my eyes open, expecting to see my hospice room through the blurriness of my old eyes.

Instead, I saw utter darkness.

Then I heard Mom calling me to get up for school.

What? No! Is this dream still going?

But I’d slept in the dream. Was that possible?

Clearly, my brain is dying really slowly.

Whatever. I’d play along with my weird-a*s brain’s dying journey.

Wonder if I’ll get to see Doug before it stops.

I dragged myself up, got dressed, and grabbed my backpack for zero-hour trigonometry.

For f**k’s sake. Even if I had to come back in a dream, really? Junior year? With zero hour? Was I insane?

Well, at least it was still warm out. I wasn’t walking in the cold.

I continued on to Topeka High. It looked just like it had in the ’90s. The new building in the middle of the track wasn’t there.

I remembered coming back for a tour during my thirtieth reunion. The school had looked mostly the same except for that building.

Huh. My brain is really good at details even when it’s dying.

I stopped at the cafeteria and grabbed breakfast before zero hour. At least I remembered that school breakfast was hot. What they’d served on this particular day decades ago?

Not a f*****g clue.

As I walked to class, I saw a girl who ran track with me. She was a year ahead of me, but I couldn’t remember her name anymore.

I remembered something else, though.

She would be killed by her boyfriend in a year or two.

Why would I remember that?

Shouldn’t a dying dream be about things that were important to me? Her death was important, obviously, but we hadn’t been close. Why would my dying brain bother bringing her back?

I continued to class and took my seat.

I listened to the teacher for a while, trying to remember his name.

Nothing.

I could remember maybe three teachers’ names from high school. Mr. Adams, Mrs. Jones, and Mr. Collins. I thought my Latin teacher was Mr. Nesbit. Maybe. I had him next period. Seeing him might jog my memory.

As I stared out the window, I suddenly thought about all the rebirth novels I used to read.

Wait.

Real pain.

I’d slept, and nothing had changed.

Mom was alive.

Jessie looked really young.

Nicky was about four and still went by Nicky.

I was literally sitting in high school with a huge bruise on my face.

Shit.

Shit.

SHIT.