Natural Life

Natural Life

In the world outside the room, the wind is picking up. A generally
sunny day with no intent of storm, but by noon definitely more than a
breeze is blowing. The room seems to warm with the lulls in the wind
and cool softly, with moments of pure chill, when it returns. A
particularly branchy thin tree rubs hard scratches into the north
window, which make a surprisingly soothing sound; relaxing in how
natural and poetic it is.
"Lindsay, I'm dying," I say. My uncontrollable shaking makes my
stomach queasy. My heart clenches for another bout of panic and another
wave of anti-endorphins rattles through my body.
"Oh, honey," she says to the back of my head, "no, you're not." Her
hand caresses my arm, careful not to apply pressure. Still, I feel the
tension in her fingers, telling me she wants to squeeze me and kiss me
and wrap me into her. She at least wants to turn me over and face me;
wants me to look at her. But she knows how touch and movement affect me
right now.
Under four layers of bedding, the top being a blue and white quilt
that looks handmade but probably isn't, and the bottom being a spread
of sheets with lightly drawn pictures of leaves and dragonflies, I
continue to shudder. My skin is naked, except for my socks, but it
isn't the temperature. I am the only thing comparable to the wind
outside in the stillness of this room. Stillness like the breath of a
dead baby, and just as perfect in its completion. I should be comforted
and secure here in Lindsay's mother's bedroom, with the pastel white
walls and tasteful light brown ceiling fan. Yet inside my body
convulses and collapses and stops feeling.
"I am," I say, "I really am this time." I pull like I have no legs and
claw my way out from under the sheets and throw myself off the bed. My
hunched, crippled-looking body shambles to the bathroom. I sit down to
pee, and can't stop my knees, but that's because the problem isn't in
my knees. It's the way I'm rocking my legs on the balls of my feet. And
the problem isn't in my feet, either. It's just a symptom of my
overwhelming need to force the circulation of my blood. Despite the
ridiculously speedy pace of my heart, my extremities still seem to lack
oxygen.
I release a loud fart, and dread the defecation to follow. This
disorder is nasty in every possible sense and rude as well.
As I rise to return to the bed, the room warps and blurs. This may be
because I am not wearing my glasses, or it may be the withdraw of my
brain from conscious life. Either way, it leaves me weaker, and for the
first time since the start of my panic attacks, I feel unable to move
as I wish. I stumble to the nightstand, catching myself on the corner
of the dresser and reaching for the purple cup of water that Lindsay
brought for me. It tastes good, and I feel the hydration in my throat.
Osmosis feels shimmery, like magic defeating black poisons. Then
nothing. My stomach rumbles and I accidentally swallow some air in an
attempt to quell it, causing me to belch.
Landing in a heap on the mattress, I feel too weak to pull the sheets
over me again. My muscles lack the strength to even lie there pushing
against gravity. The wind tosses the branches into the side of the
house, and I begin cooling like a pie on a windowsill. The weather
outside is so pleasant, full of birds and gentle sun. I can see it.
Even through the closed Venetian blinds, I can see it all.
I turn away from the window and look up. I want to close my eyes, but
before I do, I notice one of those Indian dreamcatchers hanging from
the ceiling fan. Store-bought, obviously. Probably the only tacky item
in an otherwise elegant boudoir. I've never been a large fan of
capitalizing on the heritage of other cultures, especially the Native
Americans. Not dramatically opposed to it, but it reeks of thievery,
imperialism, and seems to be an attempt at adopting the benefits of
their nature-oriented lifestyle without adopting the belief system
behind it. A truly empty gesture.
In this dreamcatcher, I notice two distinctly odd characteristics.
Other than two strips of leather wrapped along the outer-ring that hang
unevenly, everything inside this cheap novelty is perfectly centered.
Normally, in the others I have seen, the gaps are spaced with no
discernable geometric design, giving it a more spiritual feel. But this
one is a web of mathematically similar diamonds radiating around a
concentric circle to the whole. Also, instead of being just string in
this pattern, it appears to have been woven through a thin scrim, like
shaved cheesecloth. The only way this is visible is when it spins to
partially obstruct my view of the grey air condition vent behind it.
The color of the vent appears fuzzy through the dreamcatcher, as
opposed to a crystal clarity around it. As much as can be perceived
without my glasses, at any rate. And so I wonder what the need for this
extra cloth is. Why have all the others gotten by without it?
Lindsay gets up to go somewhere, the kitchen or the other bathroom.
She is also naked, and I get a beautiful eyeful when she bends over on
her way off the bed. She steps over our clothes, which are haplessly
strewn and commingled about the ground. Then she disappears out the
door.
Alone, I begin the process of convincing myself that she is right. The
only thing wrong with me is a mild hangover. The left side of my body
is not going numb, indicating a stroke. I don't care about the tingling
coursing through my left arm. It is not the beginning of a heart
attack. My air passages are not clogging, shallowing my breathing. That
sting against my temple is not the thin wall of a blood vessel in my
brain bursting open. And the near-constant bearing of lukewarm terror
just below the surface of my skin is not my lifeforce burning out like
used dendrites. I'm just a little sick, that's all. Thinking about it
is causing an over-awareness of my viscera, which are not functioning
abnormally. I'm probably hyperventilating as I focus on it more. My
heart won't explode because of it. My bowels are not trying to escape
and leave me a disgusting lifeless shell for Lindsay to sweep up.
"No, I'm serious about it this time," I call to Lindsay, who I realize
has gone to the kitchen. The cats have been screaming all morning.
Summoning all the muscle in my muscles, I leap out of bed again and
hobble down the hallway to find Lindsay pouring cat food onto paper
plates. "I need to go to the hospital."
She doesn't even turn to me. She stays busy. "You are fine, Trevor."
She hides an insecurity in her voice. Lindsay probably wants to take me
more than I want to go. For a moment, she pauses in her activities to
watch me clutch my chest. She knows that I am serious, so she has to be
just as serious. "You don't need to go to the hospital."
"I know," I say. I turn around, making the world spin hazy. I don't
move with a purpose. I'm just shuffling in the cold of the house, naked
and getting in Lindsay's way. "I know I don't really need to go, but I
seriously need to go to the hospital." This isn't my usual argument
about a distressed heart or an inability to stay awake. This is tainted
in absurdity. This time I am fully cognizant of my lack of a condition,
yet completely convinced that this condition, which I lack, is
assuredly going to kill me within ten minutes. "Please, Lindsay," I say
as I walk back down the hall, not really looking forward to the bed.
"Please, call 9-1-1." But don't, I also say with the childish pitch of
my voice, don't really.
"Goddammit, Trevor, you can call them your-damn-self." As much as
she's done for me, she can't keep it up.
I spin on my heels, smoothly with the socks on terrazzo, and march
right back toward the kitchen. "You're right," I say. "I'm going to do
it." I reach past the jar of sunflower seeds and over the package of
Milano cookies and pull the phone out of its cradle. My thumb barely
needs my eyes to search the buttons. They beep as I put them in. When I
finish, the cursor waits on the display screen, wanting me to press
more than three numbers. Such a small phone number. My thumb goes to
the "TALK" button. It waits, then moves over and presses "CLEAR"
instead. I carry the phone back with me as I hurry to the bedroom,
floundering.
Falling onto the bed, I somehow manage to land the phone between my
forehead and the pillow. Not as though anything would be comfortable
right now, but it smarts a little, fragile as I am. Lindsay comes in,
too. Her knee lands on the bed. "Run me a bath," I say, just as her
body leans in to kiss my shoulder.
"Run you a bath?" she asks, confirming my request with tender
assurance.
"Yeah, run me a bath. A warm bath."
Lindsay places the kiss on my shoulder, and nods as she does so. Then
I feel the weight of her move backwards and step again out of the room.
In the next few seconds, the sound of the wind playing with the
branches playing with the window returns. Shortly, it is overshadowed
by the sound of the faucet across the hall. My hand reaches up and
stares at the purple cup on the dresser beside me. My fingers pause and
shake, just thinking about the cup, but entirely unable to bring it
over to me. My hand collapses beside my head.
I roll my eyes upward. The dreamcatcher spins and twists, like there
were breezes in this room. That thin netting inside it obscures the
ceiling behind it. I'm almost angry at it for being made the way it is.
I think about reaching up and ripping the netting out. Who am I
kidding? A feat of such strength? My eyelids are enough of a pain to
hold open.
Why am I holding my eyelids open, I ask myself. Because darkness makes
me think of death. That's one reason for sure. Because if I fall
asleep, I won't get dreams. I won't get anything. The odd part is that
I don't believe that. I think sleep would provide me with the necessary
rest to recover, and I would wake up fresh and unafflicted. The real
reason I don't just conch out is because Lindsay is running a bath. I'm
trying not to be rude. So I release my manners and stop caring about
the bath. She can let it run all day. Ruin her carpets and soak her
dog. I want this feeling gone.
The first thing that happens when I close my eyes is a tugging of
fishhooks yanking me numbly into a nauseas oblivion.
"Are you going to sleep?" says Lindsay somehow right in front of me
without my knowing. Her hand touches me like a defibulator to the
heart. My eyes spring open. My thumb flies across the number pad on the
phone still clutched in my right hand. 9-1-1. But when it gets to
"TALK," it stops again, as if it was robotic and had run its course.
Now it waits for a second command. Again, I press "CLEAR." Tears tickle
the inside corners of my eyes without falling. "Aw, honey," Lindsay
says, "if you really want to&;#8230;"
"I would be out money and so embarrassed if I'm wrong and I call." My
voice is crying but I am not. "But I can't afford to be right and not
call." Lindsay takes the paradox and nods on it. She's just a powerless
transformer. I send her go and stop and don't give her anyway to
translate them into one command.
Then comes a thought with grandiose potential. Indeed, this is the
winning password in my game. This is full salvation without
embarrassment. My thumb races with new vigor to put in the number, and
doesn't think twice about pressing, "TALK." The phone rings that stale
electric tone just once. Then it picks up. "Dad?" I say.
"What's up, Tiffy-buddy?" he sends back, unable to hear the
desperation.
"Dad, I'm dying."
He laughs, but with his lips together so it sounds like white noise.
"You're not&;#8230;" and he cuts himself off with laughter, then
returns as seriously as possible. "Trev, you're not dying."
"I need to go to a hospital, Dad. I really&;#8230;"
"Trev, are you listening to me?" He talks as if I were a disobedient
but exceptionally cute feline. "You're not dying. There is nothing
that's killing you."
"Dad."
"Trev. Seriously, you're okay." He disappears for one second, saying
something to one of my brothers in the background. "Just calm down,"
says Dad when he gets back. "Breathe."
"Dad&;#8230;"
"Okay, son, what do you need?"
"I need to go to the hospital."
"No, you don't."
"Dad, come pick me up and take me to the hospital." Immediately, it
occurs to me that that would mean putting on clothes. I can't lift a
glass of water and I'm considering dealing with a belt.
"Trevor, I can take you," Lindsay yells, interrupting my thought. I
try my best to hold up an I'll-Explain-In-A-Second-Honey finger, but it
winds up being a condescending pat on the leg.
Fortunately, my father understands. "Okay, where are you?"
"I'm at Lindsay's. Do I need to tell you how to get here?" My body
rings with ache, picturing an attempt at getting my shirt off the
floor.
"No, I remember how&;#8230;"
"Here," I say, thrusting, or lobbing, the phone at Lindsay. She
catches it in spite of her bewilderment. "Tell him how to get
here."
"Umm&;#8230;" she hums as I stumble out of the bedroom and race for
the tub. I tear my socks off just in time to feel the iciness of the
blue bathroom tile, and then I am striding into the tub. The water
surface burns me, because this house is colder than it should be.
Nevertheless, I fall almost entirely into the water, and then shut off
the tap. In the bedroom, I can hear Lindsay in her confusion trying to
talk to my dad. "Right&;#8230; No, no. North of that." I can hear
the beep of the phone when she hangs up.
Lindsay comes into the bathroom, still holding the phone. "Bring me a
paper bag," I say. My voice is unquestionable authority. If there is a
moment of hesitation, it will resort to yelling. Lindsay, sensing this,
runs out of the room and down the hall. She's back to me within
seconds. She hands me a paper bag and sits down on the toilet. As I
fumble to get it open, she rises and exits the room. "I've gotta get
dressed," she says and walks back into the bedroom.
My wet fingers stain the outside of the bag. The water makes the bag
weaker in places. I worry that it will tear as I use my hand to shape
it into a balloon. Finally getting it how I think I want it, I put the
opening to my mouth.
Truthfully, I've never done the paper bag thing before. I'm trying it
because my cousin Roger told me to. He seemed to be one of the few
people who could actually relate to my experience. So many others had
just given me a simple, "I know what you mean. You feel like you're
going to die." That's wrong. You don't feel like you're going to die.
You feel like you're dying. Like this breath is the last breath you
will ever take. Like you're not going to get a chance to tell people
you love and hate how you feel about them respectively. Like you're
already dead, and these few seconds are reflexes and impulses. Roger
knew just what I was talking about. I told him that I couldn't do drugs
because I had these panic attacks. And he said, "Oh, an anxiety attack.
Yeah, I had one of those." One being a key number because it shows that
there was a different between that moment and all other moments of his
life. Other people had said that they "have those," which says to me
that they can vaguely recall feeling fear at some point in their lives.
If you have had them, you could count them. "It was so bad that I
wanted to call an ambulance. I mean, I was this close to dialing 9-1-1.
If I can walk into one of the best parties I've ever seen and want to
leave in an ambulance before I even have a drink, something is
definitely wrong. What happens is you think you're having a heart
attack, and it just feeds itself, and you start hyperventilating. Next
time that happens, put a paper bag over your head. You'll be
fine."
Roger was right about the symptoms, about the onset at strange places
with no apparent reason. But as I lay here sucking in air from this
bag, it appears he may have been very wrong about the treatment. The
crinkling sound hurts my ears, though it isn't as dramatic as I would
like it to be. My head doesn't seem to be getting any lighter. My chest
isn't slowing down. The air doesn't taste as good and that's about it.
"How the fuck do people think this is supposed to work?" I yell as I
toss the bag at the toilet.
"Excuse me?" Lindsay comes in. Her hands busily work to affix her
black bras in the back. It's the only thing she's managed to get on
yet, which means I probably didn't give the bag enough time to do its
thing.
"I was just saying that the bag wasn't working."
She gives me a little pout. The phone rings from the counter. Lindsay
grabs it. "Hello." I know it's my father. "Actually, we just tried that
and Trevor said, 'How the fuck is this supposed to work?' Then he threw
it away."
"Tell him not to come," I say.
"Hold on," Lindsay says into the phone. "What, Trevor?"
"Tell him not to come. Tell him to meet us at the hospital."
"Okay, now Trevor is saying that he wants you to meet us at the
hospital." I start to pull myself out of the tub. "No, he wants
us&;#8230; Okay, Trevor, you're dad says to stay put. He says he'll
be here in just&;#8230; No, he's right here in the tub&;#8230;
Yes." Lindsay hands me the phone.
"Dad, meet us&;#8230;"
"Trev, listen to me. Stay where you are. Turn the faucet on some
extreme temperature and then thrust your hand under it."
"I'm holding the phone, Dad."
"Do it when you get off the phone. Do you have any allergies?"
"No."
My father pauses for a second. "Okay, I know what I have to do. All
right. I will be there in just a couple minutes. Hang tight, bud." I
hang up and do the faucet thing, turning it on pure cold. I can see
what he's getting at. For a moment, my hands feel normal, and the rest
of my body feels like it could follow suit. It doesn't, but it was a
nice try.
Realizing that an obituary can say that I died in the tub as easily as
it could say I died in the bed, I decide to get out. Water causes
tickles as it falls from my shoulders down my body and back into the
tub. The resulting cold causes a new shivering, more violent and
spastic than before. I grab a towel off the clear plastic rack. It
feels heavy and horrible in my hand. I cringe as I lightly pat myself
down. Then I toss the towel to the ground and lean forward until I have
enough momentum to launch myself straight onto the bed. Lindsay, still
dressing, pauses to pull the blankets out from under me then lay them
back over me.
I can't hold onto the time between getting out of the bath and when my
father arrives. And I'm trying to hold onto all the time I come across.
The only things I can do are listen to the branches scraping against
the window and try to time my breath to it. As long as I can hear the
subtle noises of the wind, then I can breathe. As long as I can
breathe, I'm alive. Of course, that only starts me thinking about what
I will do when I stop breathing. Will it be too late by then to tell
the operator what has happened to me? In life management, I was told
during CPR training that if someone's has stopped breathing, his heart
might still be beating. However, if someone's heart has stopped
beating, there is no way he is still breathing. I wonder how true that
is.
The knock of my father is loud, and preceded by his engine disrupting
the flow of the wind outside. Lindsay goes to greet him. His voice is
also loud. The second I hear him, I knew I did the right thing. I
didn't need to go to the hospital. I needed to commit to the idea of
going to the hospital so that I could chicken out of it. And I needed
my dad. I hear him make some joke about me being a patient and he and
Lindsay laugh. Then I hear him try to whisper something. I can't make
it out, except that it is a whisper.
Collectively, his and Lindsay's feet start pounding their way down the
hall to find me. My head protrudes only slightly above the covers. My
father walks all the way around the bed to sit where I lay. He pats
where he thinks my shoulder is, but it's actually my chest. He asks how
I'm doing. I mumble back something less coherent than I could, but as
incoherent as I feel.
Then he starts. "Trev, you know, this really needs to stop. And I know
how much you want it to. I've been there. I know what they're like." He
starts in on the story of when he was 20 and he had just broken up with
some chick named Debbie. This apparently destroyed him to the point of
having these attacks. He talks about stopping his car and running just
to get air. I believe my dad, too, just like I believe Roger. Maybe
that's just because I always believe my dad, no matter what crap he's
selling me. But really, with the amount of drugs that I know went
through this man, I believe he's probably experienced every sensation
imaginable. I certainly don't discount the fact that the first time I
ever had these was back when I smoked pot.
"Then I met Linda," he continues. This is when he says they stopped.
Linda was this friend of his mother's. An older woman. Linda had had
them as well. Psychoneurosis, she told him it was called. And the
second he heard that someone else had been through this, "they stopped.
That's what you need to find, Trevor. That would end them immediately."
Of course, there was an obvious flaw to this plan. I knew him, didn't
I? And Roger.
I knew my mother, too, whom I also believed had had one. I was with her
when I had the first one that wasn't induced by marijuana. We were
driving to get lunch. The day was warm and gorgeous. Melbourne Beach
was having a grand opening celebration for its new library. My mother
asked me if I wanted to get a hotdog. Suddenly, I became afraid that
the next thing I would say would be vulgar, offensive. I was afraid
there was no way of stopping it. Like I was just going to start
shouting, "Fuck!" with no motive at all. Then I wondered why I couldn't
say anything I wanted, and why there was such a heaviness in my chest.
Then it was all about the chest. I couldn't get enough air. I couldn't
air fast enough. My heart felt like it was trying to burst. Then WOOSH!
I get hit with this blast of electric warmth running through my body. I
feel like I'm going to pass out, like I've exerted myself just sitting
in this car. And I tell my mom, with the sun lighting a perfect blue
sky, to take me to the hospital. Or home to lie down. Anywhere but out
to eat. Somehow, she manages both to understand and to be sympathetic.
She confirms that I really want to do this, and I say that I don't
know. That maybe I'm all right. I just don't feel well, but I can't
explain it any better than that.
So my mother continues to drive. And she starts to tell me about when
she was trying to work and go to school and raise my sister and me. She
says that one night, on her hour-long drive from the Cocoa campus of
Brevard Community College, her nerves just broke down. She pulled the
car over to the road, unable to comprehend the concept of speed
anymore. She coasted the whole way home at 10 miles-per-hour. She says
that she didn't know what was wrong, but she just felt like she
couldn't go on, or wouldn't. She called that her nervous
breakdown.
We get to a tiny Italian restaurant that has wonderful raspberry iced
tea and delicious ravioli. My mother goes on to say that she
understands my intrusive thought syndrome as well. She used to think
about terrible things, she says, as a child. She felt like she had no
control over these thoughts. Hers were mainly about murdered children.
But she believes that mental illness is a choice. You can stop it. I
don't want to agree with her, but she's probably right. My hand shakes
as I lift my glass. She tells me that that is just familial tremor. My
grandmother has it, too.
"Now, Trevor," my father says, resting one hand in my hair, "what you
really need is something to stop these attacks. I mean, something
real." And his eyes get big, like the opposite of a wink, but meaning
the same thing. "I tried to pickup some Valium, but none of my
connections were home. But you should really look into getting put on
something, or getting something, to help you until you get through
this."
"Yeah," I say, working myself out from under the covers until my bare
shoulders are exposed. I suddenly realize that I'm naked in front of my
dad, covered only by the covers, and for some reason it feels a little
weird. "That's what the psychologist was saying to. She was debating
over an 'as-needed' medication or something constant."
"You know, Trevor, I would say you should get on something 'as-needed,'
because you don't really want something&;#8230; You don't want to
turn&;#8230; robotic, you know." And he starts talking about Evan,
my brother, and the different medications he was on. Then we get into a
tennis match, tossing names and side effects back and forth. He likes
Xanax, obviously, and he can't quite remember what Effexor does. I
don't like any of it. I think drugs will only add to my fear. I'll
start thinking that I've overdosed. Plus I am seriously protective of
my dreams.
But after the talk of candies dies down, we just sit quietly for a
moment. I see him exchange a glance with Lindsay. It makes me happy
that the two of them are finally bonding. And it occurs to me that if
anything is making me happy, I must be feeling a million times better
than I was before my father got here. In fact, other than some residual
quavering and a light nausea, I'm feeling fine. My arms and legs feel
complete strong again, don't they?
"Trevor, what really causes this," my father says, "is our
over-developed sense of importance."
My throat is feeling clear, no longer like my epiglottis trying close
it off. Right?
"We think that if we die, the world will be missing out on us."
My head doesn't feel murky and&;#8230; uh-oh.
"We start focusing on the idea of us being dead. We think of how we
know that we will die, and it just kills us to think of everything we
won't get to do."
The haze starts to return to my eyes, like static covering the
room.
"And we think of how special we are, and what we need to realize is
that we aren't."
Swallowing takes 30 pounds of pressure. Air isn't filling my lungs.
It's going straight into my stomach.
"I mean, as cool as we are, we really nothing. The world goes
on."
This is it. I'm shutting down. My dad will say, "It was so weird. We
were just talking. He was doing just fine. Then he just died. I don't
know anything anymore." Lindsay will bury herself with me. The paper
will run a story on how people can die without any reason at all. It
will talk about what a fantastic writer I was, but how sadly the world
will never get to read the vast majority of works that I had stored
away in my brain. I will become the poster child for the pointlessness
of trying, for absurdity. All countries will attack all the countries
they ever wanted to. Because why hold back now? If Trevor Fraser can
die unpublished at 22, whose accomplishments matter?
"We will die someday, and all we can do is turn it over to God and say,
'It's in your hands.'" Well, that put a quick halt to that. I'm not
going out on that tired and corny philosophy. I respect my father's
position, but I can't die with my last thought being, Wait a second, I
don't believe in God. "You know, Trevor, I mean, even if it isn't about
God for you, you have to know that things are what they are. Death is
just a release. It's not cutting you short." Okay, that's better. But
now I'm not dying. You're too late, Dad.
My mother also thinks of death as a release. She thinks of it as really
good sleep. She won't kill herself, but she says that she would do very
little to stop death. She can't imagine why I'm afraid of it.
"Trev," he continues, "I have so many serious health problems right now
that if I still had panic attacks, I'd be dead. If every time my heart
felt pain I thought I was dying, I'd die. Because of my heart
condition, I feel real, real pain all the time in my chest. Hard-core
hurting pain. And I just have to go, 'If it's my time.' You know,
that's the philosophy that's really gotten me through this. That was
Ken's philosophy."
My uncle Ken. That was the philosophy that led him to drive a
Volkswagen van on the wrong side of the road, passing 83 cars on a
blind narrow highway going up a mountain in France. That was the
philosophy that got him named the "base drunk" on an army base of
probably 9,300 troops in Germany. Ken said that you went when you went,
and if your time was not up, then you could do anything you wanted. Ken
had been raised religious, and was one of the few people I knew who
truly believed in God and hated him. He could quote scripture better
than Paul.
Interesting irony to Ken's philosophy: The day before he turned 50, Ken
ate nearly a box of pills. He said that he never wanted to see 50. What
he didn't know was that the pills were all expired. Instead of dying,
Ken just slept for two days. I guess it wasn't his time. His time came
the following November, when he found some pills that were a little
fresher.
I tell my dad that I agree with him. He's gotten absolutely everything
right. He says, "You know, Lindsay really did a good thing by bringing
you that paper bag." He turns to her and gives her a little smile. She
smiles back, and I can see how quiet she has been this whole time. It's
in the nails and fingers that she has chewed to the bone. "That paper
bag will calm you down if you do it long enough." I knew that was my
problem. "You need to get some carbon monoxide in you."
"Dioxide, Dad."
"Right, dioxide." He laughs. "Yeah, Lindsay, why don't you go start up
the car and run a hose from the exhaust pipe in through the window? No,
you need dioxide, not monoxide." He laughs and rubs my head. "Try the
bag again the next time this happens. And the bath was good, too. You
need to expose your body to different temperatures. Make yourself
realize that your arms and legs have feeling in them."
I tell him he's right again.
"Okay, so, are you going to be okay?" I nod. "All right. Let's pray for
a second." He drops to one knee beside my bed. I clasp his hand.
"Father," he begins. I stop listening. It isn't that I don't appreciate
it. It's that I'm suddenly absorbed with loathing for the dreamcatcher.
It doesn't symbolize the spiritual side of natural life. My feelings,
my father's prayer, Lindsay's gestures of care, these are the spiritual
things. I watch with a continuing anger as it spins overhead. That
stupid thin cloth that the string is woven through, that is what
disgusts me about it the most. It seems so cheap. The intensity of my
abhorrence grows and grows until I hear my father say, "Amen." Then he
stands and pats my shoulders.
"But the real reason these have to stop," and my Dad gives me a nod
like I already know what he's talking about, "is that you look like a
pussy. I mean, think about it, Trevor. Imagine if your friends were
here."
My friends have seen me like this, and he's right. The very first one I
ever had was when I was 14 and I smoked pot for the very first time.
Michael was there. I didn't know how to interpret the happy lazy
feeling you get, and so I was sure it was death. My heart pounded my
rib cage enough that everyone could see it. I told Michael that this
was it; that I was dead where I lay. I remember being panicked about
what he and Ricky were going to do with my body. How were they going to
explain it to the police, or to my mother? Michael just kept hitting me
and telling me I was stupid. Eventually, that brought me out of
it.
I wrote one of my very first poems after that:

I smoked pot for the first time yesterday.
I thought I was going to die.
But then I could see
This was not Death over me
But Michael, how he looks when I'm high.

Somehow I had yet been unable to make the message of that poem stick. I
hadn't thought about it from the point of view of Michael, or anyone
else for that matter. It must look pretty weird with me lying here,
crying, "Wolf!" and I'm the only person in the room who can see one.
And it isn't a big room.
We wrap it up. My father reiterates the points he's made like any good
guest speaker would. He reminds me to look into drugs and see what my
psychologist says. He tells me to take care. He tells me to come down
and watch football with him and my brothers when I feel up to it. I
take one last look at him as he walks out the doorway. Before I fall
asleep, I hear him whispering something to Lindsay again. This time I
can kind of make out what it is. He's telling her to how to deal with
me. He also tells her that she's been very good to me, and thanks her
for it. That's what I hear, anyway.
Even though I feel like I could get up now, I don't want to. I close my
eyes, and this time all I feel is the sweet euphoria of sleep. I'm out
within seconds.
The comfort that surrounds me when I do wake up is exactly what I've
been waiting for all day. I feel like the heaviness of the weather
outside. My dick is hard, left over from some dream I was having about
Mandy Moore, even though I don't know what Mandy Moore looks like. I
call out for Lindsay to come back to the bedroom. She doesn't respond.
Somehow, I recall that she left to run errands while I slept. I know
that I am alone.
Then I spy the dreamcatcher. It rotates in its suspension. I think of
how I wanted to tear it apart earlier. But something is different about
it now. Something is missing. I sit up, and then rise to my knees,
making me exactly eyelevel with it. Just to confirm my suspicions, I
put my finger through the hole in the center, then through one of the
outer-holes. The netting, the thin cloth that made it look like a
sew-by-numbers set was gone. It was just string after all.
So what was making that smoky quality in the spaces between the
strings? What was filing the holes of this trinket with murky visions?
Why was it empty now?
Outside, the wind continues to blow softly into the trees, and the
branches rub another scratch-mark in the window.