25. Now
Now: Christmas Day
S now is pounding hard against the windshield. I can barely make anything out. I can’t remember why I decided to drive in the middle of a snowstorm, but I needed to get away.
My wipers are swishing at full capacity. I can’t tell if it's the failed attempt from my wipers or how heavy the snow has gotten that is making it impossible to see, but I really should head back home. Or at the very least pull over and try to wait it out. But that could be hours, and I don’t think I have an extra blanket in here. I would freeze if I stay inside the car.
I can’t tell how fast I’m going but it feels too fast
all of a sudden. It’s as though something is making the car accelerate despite my foot attempting to brake. Something isn’t right with the pedals. I need to get home. Which direction is home? Where am I? I can’t see anything in this blizzard.
The car continues to rage forward while snow is now freezing onto my windshield. My wipers are no longer racing along with me; they are frozen. This isn’t looking good, not at all. I need to turn around and go back home, but I can’t. There’s a reason I left, and I can’t go back. But I don’t think I have much of a choice in this storm.
Dad is going to be furious that I took off with Mom’s car keys once again. Mom’s car keys. I’m driving her car. Mom ? —
That’s when I hear the crash. Metal on metal and something else. Someone is screaming. Maybe it’s me? I don’t know. I can’t see anything and I don’t know where I am. Oh, no… What have I done? I have to get home, I have to… There’s a loud ringing in my ears and someone shouting my name. They sound close. Someone has come to help me. They can bring me back home. Help is on the way…
I wake up in a cold sweat. I fly up in bed gasping for air. I can’t breathe. What’s happening? It takes a moment for my vision to clear and for me to bear my surroundings again. I can feel sweat dripping off my forehead and down my back. My hands are plastered to each of my sides, fisting the sheets beneath me. It takes me another moment to realize I’m not alone. There’s someone else here in the room with me. It’s Dad. But what’s he doing here ?
Dad calmly comes over to the side of my bed and starts to reach his hand out to me before changing his mind and dropping it down at his side. What’s going on? My head is pounding, and I can’t think straight.
Dad’s eyes are his tired gray right now. I assume that I’m to blame this time. “Hey there, Sweet P,” Dad says gently, daring to take the smallest of steps in my direction.
If I wanted to I could reach out and touch him, but I don’t dare to move. I’m frozen in place, and my arms start to lightly shake.
“It was a bad dream, love, that’s all. You’ve had them before, I’m sure you remember… but it’s been a while. You’re okay now, you’re safe.” He tries to reassure me, but I don’t feel safe at the moment. I feel sticky and panicky.
I do remember having other night terrors similar to this one. It’s always snowing, I’m always driving, and I always wake up feeling like this.
I look up and notice that Dad is no longer in my room. The door is wide open and from somewhere off in the distance I can hear running water. Did he leave me to take a shower? Why did he leave me like this? I’m used to this, being alone. Figuring things out myself. But he’d come in here to check on me, and now he’s… walking back into my room. He doesn’t close the door all the way behind him. He leaves it open, just a crack, allowing a sliver of light to peek through from the hallway. His eyes crinkle in a soft smile as he moves towards me. There’s something tucked into his hand and I look down. It’s a wash cloth that is starting to drip onto my sheets. Oh.
I gladly take it from him and place the cool rag against my forehead. I instantly feel a little better. It’s a small gesture, but it’s something I can remember Mom doing years ago when I was little and had been sick with a fever or had woken up like this from a bad dream. How he still remembers is lost on me.
I can hear him awkwardly shuffle from one foot to another. He does that when he wants to say something but can’t find the right words. I’m not sure if he’s always been this way, but he has for as long as I’ve known him. My eyes hurt and are heavy, but I steal a glance in his direction.
He looks up at me, his eyes full of concern. I don’t pull away this time, I hold his gaze in mine. “What is it, Daddy?” I ask like I’m six again.
“I just didn’t know if it was something you’d like to talk about, that’s all,” he offers.
It’s nice of him, really—but this is a nightmare that will haunt me forever. So, no, I don’t want to talk about it. Thank you, but no thanks. But still, it’s nice of him to offer. I don’t remember the last time he’d wanted to just “talk.”
“That’s alright, Dad. But thank you,” I say, closing my eyes as I press the damp rag into them.
“Okay, that’s fine. Please know that I’m here for you, okay?”
Without opening my eyes I decide to ask him something. “Dad, what day is it?”
I’m not asking because I’m clueless, I’m asking so I can prove a point. I know what day it is.
“It’s Christmas, honey,” he says gently. He knows precisely what this day means to me. Or at least used to.
Christmas. I knew it. Of course, it is. I don’t have some terrible memory of Christmas being awful, I’m not a Grinch (even though sometimes I can sure act like one), but this day, like all holidays, reminds me of the one person I wish that I could forget. Especially on days like today. Especially on Christmas .
My mom lived for the holidays, and without her here to celebrate them—well, they just aren’t the same. We don’t pick out a live tree from her favorite farm, we don’t go see the town’s annual lighting festival, and we don’t stay up late pretending that Santa is real, even when I was long past the age for believing.
We don’t do any of those things anymore. In fact, we don’t do anything. Depressing, I know. Holidays are tough, but this one always hits the hardest. Every single year. And it’s always the same terrifying nightmare that forces me awake in a panic this time of year.
“Merry Christmas, P. Why don’t you get some more rest and then we can spend the day together, okay?” Dad offers into the silence that I’ve created.
I nod my head as I plop back down on my pillow, closing my eyes and pulling the blankets as high as they will go without covering my entire face. I drift back off to sleep in no time. I know Dad means it when he says he wants to spend time with me today, but the only thing I can hope for is to sleep the rest of the day away. And when I open my eyes again, Christmas will be over, and I won’t have to face it again until next year.
No more bad dreams.
No more cold sweats.
No more panic attacks.
No more Christmas carols.
I can wait a full year, and do it all again.