I finally spotted the lights from my aunts car. I jumped up, ready to squeeze through the tiny secret door. She pulled up, and I noticed that my cousin was not in the car. On the seat next to my aunt, lay a small skull. "You can't go with me this time, Deb."
"Why?" I whined. I didn't want to stay by myself. I didn't want to actually have to get in the tub.
"I'm going somewhere you can't go, yet. You'll understand one day. I have to go see my baby," she motioned toward the skull. I looked over and saw a small boy sitting beside her where the skull had been.
I woke up feeling really strange. That wasn't how the dream was supposed to go. I looked over to see my cousin, Faith, still asleep on the pallet my grandmother had set up for us to sleep on. I crept into my aunt's room to check on her. She was snoring lightly, so I snuck upstairs. I was wide awake. I grabbed the book of nursery rhymes off the shelf and began to read.
* * *
My mom answered the phone. The expression that crossed her face was one of anguish. "Come on, Deb." She was crying. I followed her down the hill to my grandmother's house.
"What's wrong?" I asked. She just shook her head. She could not answer me. We were greeted by a police officer at the door. My mom ushered me past him into the living room. My Granny and Paw-Paw were crying inside. Within a short period of time, we were surrounded by more relatives. I walked among them, soaking up their conversations like a sponge. They ignored me, wrapped up in the grief over the loss of Aunt Keeley. "She was only 28." "She was hit by a drunk driver." "She was dead in seconds." "She hit the steering wheel, and it stopped her heart." "What will happen to Faith?"
Several of my cousins began to huddle around me. They wanted attention. They wanted entertainment. I just wanted to continue to listen, to absorb, to find out what was going on, but I knew my cousins needed me. I grabbed the book of nursery rhymes and began to read. I had the rhymes memorized, and I could get through the book without having to ask for help from an adult.
Then my cousin, Andy, brought me Scuffy the Tugboat by Gertrude Crampton. This book was harder to memorize, and I knew that taking it on would mean that I'd have to interrupt someone about a word, so I told Andy that I didn't want to read it. I felt bad, seeing the hurt look on his face. Then I became of aware of a stifled laugh that came through tears and became a snort.
I turned to see my mom watching me. "Andy, she can't read. She's just memorized the rhymes in that book." I was hurt. I could read; I was learning. I was trying to be a good girl, to keep the rest of the kids out of the way, and I was being mocked for my effort. I grabbed up the books, and my cousins and I went to the stairs to sit and get out of the way.
* * *
I walked into the funeral home with my mom. The large doors opened into a room furnished with a comfortable couch and a couple of soft, deep chairs. I could smell coffee, carnations, roses, and baby's breath. People stood around, welcoming us and offering condolences. We made our way down a hallway and entered a peaceful room full of flowers, people, more comfortable seating, and a strange box. My mom led me to it, and I looked inside to find my aunt still and peaceful. I looked around at everyone crying, and I knew that things would never be the same. I sat down in one of the chairs, taking it all in, beyond emotion, my thoughts going back to my dream.
I was pulled out of my reverie when Faith walked past me and said to my mom, "Why isn't Debbie crying?"
I wanted to explain to her how numb I was; how I couldn't quite understand what was happening or why; how I was so overwhelmed with emotion and questions that I felt unable to even move. Instead my mom looked at Faith and said, "Faith, she's only four. She doesn't understand what's going on."
