Do the dead hate the rain? The way I hate it? I used to wonder that sometimes as I stared out my window, a downpour beating a strange rhythm on my slate roof. I lived in a big old house next door to the town cemetery. I could see the expanse of gravestones from my kitchen table through the falling and streaming water, the window distorting the view. Do they hate the wetness? The chill? Rain made me more than gloomy, it elicited in me a dread and fear that I could never explain to anyone. Perhaps foreboding would be the right word, although I know that sounds ridiculously dramatic. Many times it would bring on one of the migraine headaches that sent me to bed and into the dark for days at a time, wanting to sleep, wanting to throw up, but unable to do either successfully. I would finally lapse into a half-sleep of shadows and noises that I could not quite see or understand fully. Coming out of these headaches was like driving out of a fog so deep that you must rely on instinct and luck to get you through to the end safely. Afterward, I was groggy and a bit shaky, but able to function. I worked from home then, and still do, making my absence less striking for my job, and easier to rebound from. I also had few friends and none who really would check in on me, and no family anymore that I spoke to.
I started having the headaches shortly after I turned thirteen. Other people thought that it was due to the death of my father, a trauma that they assumed was the cause of the deep sadness and quick descent into pain. They were wrong. Yes, I mourned my father, but I mourned the loss of my childhood more. My parents had already been divorced for two years at that point, and although I saw my father regularly, we weren’t that close. He lived quite a distance away, with anew wife, and the visits were just frequent enough so that he could seem responsible, but not so frequent as to cause an unwanted stir in his newly ordered life. He and I were very different – he was sociable, excitable – and I was quiet, shy and socially awkward. I managed to get along with adults only because I was smart and well-read for my age. He quickly realized that he couldn’t show me off to his new friends, given my defects, so we were just around each other at regular intervals, not really connecting at all. He carried out his fatherly duties, per the custody agreement, and I was content to be left alone for the most part. The visits, while not enjoyable, were at least a brief reprieve from my mother. Never truly stable, she had become worse after the divorce. She was loud, often drunk, rarely mothering. Absent on a good day, and holed up with a new “boyfriend” on a bad one, smoking weed, drinking, laughing and having loud sex. I wasn’t dumb. I knew to keep out of their way, only venturing from my room when it was necessary – for food, or the bathroom, or school. My thirteenth birthday was forgotten by my mother, and acknowledged with a fraudulently sentimental card from my father. Within the card, a gift card that my mother took off my hands quickly, because “it was so expensive raising a child.” As if she spared an additional cent apart from keeping me poorly fed, clothed (with worn used clothing store items that I hated) and attending school.
About a week after my birthday, my mother started seeing someone new. Well, ‘seeing’ isn’t exactly right. Fucking would be more accurate. Getting high with and fucking, and arguing and hitting and screaming, to be more specific. I tried to lay low and disappear into the woodwork when they were around. “Joe” didn’t make this easy. At thirteen, I was starting to look more like a woman and less like a child, and although solemn, people said I was pretty, with my mother’s deep green eyes and my father’s light hair. Joe gave me the creeps, and always managed to be around when I was trying to get food from the kitchen, or even read in my room. He came too close, looked at me too long, and was always brushing past me, touching me without it seeming purposeful, though I knew it was. He frightened me, and I became more and more nervous and fidgety, and more reclusive, which gave my mother more of a reason to criticize or mock me. I remember that he was there the day we got the call that my father had died suddenly, a massive heart attack at the age of 35. I stood shocked, thinking through what this would mean. Yes, I was sad, in a distant sort of way, but this would mean I would be home more, as the visits would stop. I dreaded the idea of more time spent in the house with mom and her company. My mom and Joe shared a high five and lit up another joint. She wouldn’t be so happy when she sobered up the next day and realized that meant no more child support.
My mother refused to attend the funeral and refused to take me. My stepmother reluctantly came to pick me up, out of loyalty to my father and because she fancied herself a good Christian woman. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her mascara made tracks against her too-white skin.
We didn’t speak on the trip there. She asked a church friend to bring me home so that she could stay at the wake. The older, well-dressed woman meant well and tried to talk with me, offering comfort, but soon realized I was not going to respond, so that ride lapsed into strained silence as well. She dropped me off with a casserole and a kind smile, and I quietly thanked her and walked up the muddy drive, my used shoes too worn to be made any worse by the rain. It was working itself up to a steady downpour, matching my mood. When I entered the house, I felt that something was off. The TV was on, but I couldn’t hear any of the usual drinking-fucking-fighting noises. I tentatively stepped into the messy living room, where Joe was sitting reclined, drinking a beer, several empties on the coffee table. He offered me a slow smile. He told me that my mom was in bed, “sleeping it off” and that it was just the two of us right now. I felt a chill pass through me and I hurried to the kitchen to put the casserole into the refrigerator. Before I could retreat to my room, there was Joe, blocking my way. I knew my mom was far too gone to hear anything, and even if she could, she probably wouldn’t care. He told me how prety I looked in the dress I had worn for the funeral. I never wore that dress again. He said he knew just how to make me feel less sad.
I will spare you the details because I’m sure you’ve heard this story before. The rain on the roof muffled my sobs after. I washed my sheets myself. It rained hard for two days, and by that second day, I had a headache so bad that I snuck some of my mom’s Vicodin and slept, fitfully, dreaming of water and pain. I missed a day of school, and had to write a fake excuse for the school office. I knew if they called to check, my mom wouldn’t answer the phone anyway, so I was in the clear. Joe left me alone after that, and while I was glad, I always wondered why. Maybe he was worried my mom would notice something. He didn’t realize that my mom didn’t notice anything when it came to me, other than me being in the way. In two more weeks, Joe was gone, but the headaches stayed.
Even more miserable now, between boyfriends and without child support, my mom returned to her part time job waitressing with the occasional bartending mixed in. She got benefit checks from the state, but she often railed about how shitty the amount was, as if she deserved to be taken care of. She didn’t really clean herself up or pull herself far from the gutter for her return to work, but she was functional enough to delight the truckers coming through town. Time and drugs had not yet taken all her beauty, and she took full advantage of it. She was underfoot less, and that meant being left alone more. I had more of the solitude I craved. The headaches were a regular companion, coming every month or so, and staying for a day or two each time. Because my mother didn’t care, she also didn’t get me the medical attention which could have helped me. She often said I was faking it, and when she was home, made as much noise as she possibly could, just to accentuate her point.
Time passed, and more boyfriends came and went. Although none of them ever touched me again, I was fearful and paranoid. My school work began to suffer because of the headaches. I was a smart girl, but my brains couldn’t compete with the absences and missed homework. I dropped out as soon as I could, despite the protestations of the principal, who offered to help if I would just confide what was going on at home. The pity in his eyes made me shut down even more, and I walked out in the middle of the conversation and didn’t return. I got my GED a few weeks later so that I could enroll in college. The state college nearby offered online classes, and I could work around the bed-ridden days of pain and the groggy aftermath. I could also keep the classes a secret from my mother, who thought I was still going to school every day. That truly showed how little she bothered with me. My grades and test scores garnered me several scholarships, as did my low-income status, so I didn’t need any money from anyone else.
As luck would have it, I was able to move out of my mother’s house very soon after starting college. My dad’s mother passed away, and as he was an only child, she for some reason gave me the big old house in the country by the cemetery, where she had lived all her life, as well as all the furnishings within. I remembered visiting there when I was very young, walking through the cemetery in awe of the strange names and very old dates. Sitting on the huge porch, nearly swallowed up by her big rocking chair. I hadn’t seen my grandmother in years, and I’m sure my mom cut off all attempts at contact that she might have made. I do remember that she was very kind and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.
I was puzzled when I received the letter, and even more puzzled when I took the bus into the city to meet with her lawyer. I hid both the letter and the inheritance from my mother, because I knew all too well the opportunity she would see in all this. I wanted out, and I had just been given the means to escape. I had a spark of hope for once. In addition to the house there was an insurance policy and some money in her savings – not enough to make me careless, but more than enough to assure I would be ok. I left my mother’s house for the last time while she was at work, asking a not very close friend to drive me. I had only a few boxes, and I left a brief note, like the coward I felt I was. There was so much I wanted to say, too much for a goodbye note, enough words to fill a book. She never tried to find me, and I never saw my mother again until after her death.
I bought a used car and a new computer. Although my mother had never let me drive, even when she did have a car, my school had offered drivers’ education. I risked driving with my permit for a few weeks, until I could take my driving test. My license gave me a small measure of increased independence. I lived alone but was satisfied with my simple and undemanding life. The cemetery was right there, always in view, but it didn’t scare me. It made me more melancholy at times, and at others it was the background for my occasional solo wanderings and reading. It was beautiful, with trees and paths and old stones with mysterious and worn inscriptions. I used my imagination to dream up the lives of the people who were buried there. I rarely left the house and grounds, but became more courageous about going to the grocery store and shopping for things like clothes. Four years passed uneventfully. Through all this my headaches were a constant, if unwelcome, companion. I had learned to cope with them, and with my life, until two things happened.
First, I decided I was brave enough to try just one class on campus. I had majored in English with the hopes of becoming a writer, and had landed an online editing job after completing my degree. It suited me well, and I was good at it. I was financially comfortable, if not well off, and was feeling a little more hopeful. I thought I would just take an evening class, in advanced creative writing, to better my short story skills. The campus was about a half hour away, and was a strangely comfortable sight. I liked the smell of the books and the long hallways and giant trees. So, I registered for the class, and it started smoothly. It met twice a week. The writing was another kind of escape. I had confided to the professor, by email, that I was a frequent migraine sufferer. My excellent grades from my previous degree program must have convinced him that I was a serious student, and he said we would work around my illnesses.
Second, my migraines began to worsen. What once had occurred perhaps twice a month, now landed me in bed, in pain, weekly. The pain was sharper, and the recovery time longer. If you have ever suffered from ongoing pain, you will understand how this drains the joy from everything in your life, and replaces it with a desperation so acute, you can do little else than hope for the pain to recede or hope for a quick death. As bizarre as it sounds, you truly get to the point where you want it to end one way or the other. My class work was suffering more than I had expected, and I finally set up a meeting with the professor to talk about just dropping out, as this was now much more of a disruption to my learning and his class than I had expected. I would have preferred to do this by email, but he insisted on talking face to face.
It was early evening, in the spring, and the breeze was starting to warm and take on the scent of the greenness just revealing itself. I was headache free at the moment and feeling ok. The walk through the campus was enjoyable, and I saw very few people. I savored the feeling of being virtually alone among the tall buildings and walkways. I arrived a few minutes early, and the professor was still with another student, so I sat quietly next to the bulletin board, casually reading the tacked-up advertisements and flyers. A bright red paper caught my eye, and I stood up to better see it. I had noticed the word MIGRAINE, so I was intrigued. It was flyer advertising a new migraine treatment, still in the experimental stage, and asking for participants. The people accepted into the study would be compensated, it said, and would be given a six-month course of treatments meant to get rid of their migraines for good. Just then, the professor appeared at his door and asked me to come inside. We talked for a time, and though he tried to convince me to stay in the class, I think he knew how impossible that would seem given the frequency of my headaches. He was very kind, and welcomed me to again enroll if things changed. I left feeling a bit sad but a bit relieved to be free of that commitment for now. As I left, I again noticed the red paper. I had forgotten about it while in the meeting. I stopped, ripping off one of the tear strips at the bottom. I put it in my purse, not yet knowing if I would call.
That contact information stayed in my purse for at least another week, forgotten. Just after breakfast one morning I was nearly knocked to the floor by a sharp and dizzying pain in my head. The light drizzle outside heated up into a steadier rain, and the nausea hit. I scrambled to my purse to find the bottle of pain killers I hated to use, as well as the nausea drug that I kept close by. I knew neither would help much, but maybe I would be able to sleep. My hand brushed the red strip of paper and I grabbed it and pulled it out. I set it on the table and stumbled to my room, falling into bed, not bothering to undress.
The ensuing migraine proved to be the worst yet. I was in bed for five days with nothing to eat. I had managed to crawl to the bathroom a few times and drink from the faucet there. I had wet the bed multiple times. I was exhausted, dirty, achy and hopeless. I felt as if I didn’t come out of it fully when it was over. It simply retreated a bit, lurking around and waiting for its next opportunity. I managed to eat some toast, drinking glass after glass of water until I felt full and sloshy. I showered, although it took up most of my energy, and slumped by the computer to check for work emails. I noticed the red slip of paper still where I had dropped it on the table. Because I felt so horrible, and because I was so desperate, I mustered the courage to call the number. I reached a nondescript message at an unnamed lab. I left a message but I didn’t place much stock in them returning my call, as it had been nearly two weeks since I had torn off the strip. Who knew how long the flyer had been on the board before then. The study might be full, or might even be done already – or a hoax. I ate some applesauce and crackers and once that stayed down, I took my laptop to the worn but comfortable recliner that my grandma had owned for years and set about trying to read and edit a bit. I got about two hours in before I fell into a light, fitful sleep. I dreamed of hands grabbing me, running and splashing through puddles, and awoke with a start, sure I had heard a noise. It took me a minute to recognize it as my cell phone, ringing in the kitchen.
The caller had a pleasant, high but quiet feminine voice, and said she was a receptionist for the lab I had called, and wanted to ask me a few questions to determine if I initially qualified for the study. She asked me perhaps 15 questions about timing, duration and severity of the headaches, as well as triggers and historical medical information. It sounded very legitimate. Once I was done, she paused for a moment, asking me to hold the line, then returned and asked if I was willing to come in for a brief physical and meeting. She named a very reputable drug firm, with an office about 45 minutes away near the county hospital. I only mention this, as I am trying to explain why I was so eager, and willing, to engage in experimental science, when in the past I was fearful to the point of paranoia when faced with even a new gas station. The common name of the company, mixed with my hopeless desperation, made me far braver than usual.
I knew of the area, after a couple of trips to that emergency room, but not that specific building or street. I would not normally feel comfortable going somewhere I had never been, somewhere unfamiliar, but the memory of the pain won out. My travel time and mileage would be reimbursed, she said, even if I wasn’t approved for the study. I didn’t need the money, but I also knew not to throw money away. I agreed and made an appointment for the next day, as I thought I might still be pain free if I were to go that soon. I had just climbed out of a severe bout of punishment, and I wanted to see about this study as soon as possible, and before I changed my mind. If this could bring me even some relief, it would be worth it. I wrote down the address and contact person, then hung up and used my phone GPS to get more exact directions. Once I felt comfortable that I knew the way, I dressed for bed and changed my sheets. I had learned long ago that a mattress protector was needed during these bouts, so it was easy to make the bed fresh and clean again. I climbed into the clean sheets, set my alarm, and fell into a short but dreamless sleep. Maybe I felt a slight sense of foreboding as I started to relax, or maybe I just think that in hindsight, as it better fits what was to come.
The next day was slightly overcast, but no rain was expected. My drive was uneventful, and I easily found the address. The building was a dazzling white and chrome, with modern signage and a very clean exterior and interior. It smelled as all labs and hospitals seem to – slightly like bleach, medicine, disinfectant and plastic. I was greeted warmly by the woman I had previously spoken to, and waited in a small, empty room with 6 chairs for a Dr. Belenta to arrive. I expected a white-haired gentleman with a condescending tone. What I got was a woman perhaps ten years older than myself, with an open smile and pink streaks in her hair. She laughed when she saw my expression. I guess she was used to people reacting with poorly disguised shock.
My exam was in a small medical room, with what I assumed was a two-way mirror, but my alarm faded when I was told I didn’t need to undress. The questions were as expected, but the doctor seemed surprised when she heard of my headaches and the frequency and severity of the pain. I was used to doctors feeling sorry for me, but her reaction was different. She seemed intrigued, but not in a cruel way. She said that while she didn’t want to get my hopes up, she did think that she could help me. She went on to explain that the drug was a combination of two compounds that the lab had been researching. It entailed a weekly injection, with additional twice weekly skype calls to check in. the study would run for six months, but if the drug was successful, I was also eligible for long term therapy, at a reduced cost. I would be reimbursed for travel, and would be paid a weekly stipend of $100. This seemed like a lot of money for a study like this, but she assured me it was all preapproved by the very successful drug firm. We talked about side effects, which she said were few. Some people had mild auditory or visual hallucinations at the very start of the therapy. She asked if I had anything further to share that might be important to my treatment. I didn’t tell her about the trauma at the start of my migraines, as I wasn’t comfortable doing so. I wonder now if I should have.
I could think about it, and return in a few days, or start the therapy right away. As I wasn’t sure when the next headache would hit, I decided to throw caution to the wind and have the first injection. Again, I know it may sound crazy, but unless you lived in my head, you wouldn’t understand. They showed me a short film about the study, the lab, and migraine research. It was as cheesy as you would expect, but very professionally done. I spent nearly an hour reading and signing medical releases, consents, privacy policy information, and assorted forms. The injection stung, but I felt no immediate effects. After being assured it was safe to do so, I drove home without incident, and was told to contact the lab if anything at all occurred that I was uncomfortable with. I was given a 24-hour emergency hotline number. I felt fine. I felt the same as I usually did after coming out of a long episode.
I dressed for bed early, as I was still tired both from the long migraine headache, and the unusual although short drive, with socialization and conversation requirements. I awoke in the middle of the night. I wasn’t sure of the time, but I remember the moon being high and in half light. I was at the kitchen table with no recollection of how I had gotten there. I looked down, and I was still in my pajamas, my feet bare. I felt the cold floor and the hardness of the chair. It was raining hard, and as I looked out the window, I saw figures moving in the cemetery. At least a dozen, all within the cemetery itself. I thought it was a trick of the low light and trees in the breeze, but as I leaned forward and concentrated, they came into sharper focus. I knew that they were screaming, though I couldn’t hear a sound. Their hands were out, as if reaching for help, and they were screaming in the pouring rain, and they seemed to all be looking up at me, up at the window where I sat. They looked horrified and horrible, pallid yet bright, and they were in pain. I remember thinking, perhaps the dead do hate the rain. I covered my eyes and began to cry. I felt sick, scared and hopeless again.
I woke up some hours later, in my bed. My clock read 9:12 am, and sun was streaming through the heavy curtains, split into weak columns that landed on my bed and in my eyes. I was sweaty and wrapped in my blankets, as if I had rolled myself several times during the night. It took me a moment to orient myself, followed quickly by a recollection of the kitchen table, the cemetery, the rain and the people. I wondered if it was a dream. I peeked through my bedroom window. The ground was dry, the driveway showed no sign of rain, no puddles. The sky was bright. It had clearly been a dream, I was sure of it. A heavy rain like that would have left some evidence. But it had felt so real. I thought about the injection I had received. Auditory or visual hallucinations. That must be it. I needed to tell the doctor about it later, but it didn’t seem like an emergency, or anything that I needed to call the hotline for. It could wait.
My day was as usual, even pleasant, and passed quickly. I was pain free, and finally better rested. I got more work completed than usual and decided to open a bottle of wine. I rarely drank, afraid of turning into my mother, but I felt good and wanted to do something ‘special’. I stopped short of opening the bottle – I had forgotten to ask about alcohol use during the study, and it hadn’t been mentioned in any of the paperwork. I needed to wait until my skype appointment at 5, and ask then. I put the bottle back on the counter and made myself a sandwich instead. I was hungry, and felt I was still trying to make up for the days of missed food. As the day had passed, the dream had receded, until I felt unsure of what I had seen, and thought it would be a ridiculous thing to share with the doctor. I convinced myself that it was just a dream, and minimized it in my mind. No harm had come to me, and I felt well. I would feel and look foolish, and though it seems silly, I was worried about being pulled from the study. I decided it wasn’t important enough to mention.
My skype session started with the usual strange water drip connection noise on my laptop. I saw the smiling face of the doctor, as she sat eating an apple and talking with me. I told her I felt well, had slept well with just a couple of dreams, and wasn’t feeling any unusual effects thus far. She seemed delighted. I remembered to ask about the alcohol. She told me that a glass or two or even three of wine was fine – but not to drink the day of or the day after my injection. I told her that it wouldn’t be a problem. She looked over her notes and asked me a few questions. As all appeared fine, she said she wouldn’t speak to me again until 3 days had passed. We set a time and disconnected. I felt a twinge of guilt for not mentioning the dream, but I pushed it from my mind.
That night I again dreamed of rain and screaming people. This time I awoke, in my dream, on my side porch – the side facing the cemetery. The weather had been mild all day, but it seemed the wind had picked up. As I looked around me, it started to rain. I felt cold, and wrapped my arms around myself. I was in my big old rocking chair, in nothing but my nightgown, and my feet were again bare. I also had no recollection of how I had gotten out there. Behind me, the side door to my house stood open, a dark eye peering at my vulnerable form. I stood with the intention of going inside. That’s when I heard the screaming. I stopped mid-turn, and looked out at the cemetery, as the noise was undoubtedly coming from there. What I saw made me stumble, and I sat back into the rocking chair, landing hard. So many real sensations for a dream.
In the cemetery, a lone figure stood in the rain. A girl, perhaps a teenager. Her long dark hair appeared wet and matted, her face a smudge in the dark. Her hands were out, and her screams were at first the sound of a rabbit caught in a trap. So loud. So terrified. After a few seconds, I started to recognize words that came in waves, waxing and waning. “…didn’t mean to…you must help me…oh god it hurts…knives in my skin…” She trudged closer, her gait uneven, tripping on the path and slipping on wet leaves. I wanted to run but I felt as if glued to the chair. As she came closer, I recognized her and her name popped into my head. Julie Kern. From my class. I vaguely knew her in school, and never saw her after I dropped out. I had been reading the local news channel’s Facebook page a few weeks ago when I saw the story. Julie was driving too fast. She was drunk. Her boyfriend was with her, and he had survived the crash with multiple fractures and a head injury. Her little sister, hiding in the back seat, apparently as a prank, had not. Julie and her sister were both ejected from the vehicle, and they both bled out before help could arrive. Julie’s sister had been only 10. I thought the crash was a few miles from town, and then remembered that they had died near the raspberry farm owned by the Small family. Also dead were the two young Small family daughters. The crash was during the day. The two girls were running the farm’s roadside stand when the car left the road. The twin girls had just turned 12, and were the Smalls’ only children. It had been raining, according to the story, but just a light rain. The rain stuck in my mind, as rain always meant something different to me than it did to others. I remembered once seeing a handmade cross and plastic flowers near the trees lining the road, just before the farm. I hadn’t paid much attention then, as unfortunately we seem to see those things all too often and get a bit jaded. I wonder now if it was for Julie, her sister, or the two young girls. The farm stood empty and for sale. The story had slid through my mind quickly that day, and I had shaken my head to make it disappear. These details came to me now, in the dream, in a rush.
But Julie was here, coming closer, moving slowly and unsteadily. Still screaming. She was looking at me, pleading with me. The rain picked up as did the wind. She was naked. I could see blood running from deep cuts on her body, all over, too numerous to count. Without realizing I was going to speak out loud, or even knowing what I was going to say, I whispered you deserve this for what you did! A loud boom of thunder shook me from my stupor, and I ran into the house, slamming and locking the door behind me, just as she screamed “it hurts so much…” I ran toward my room and must have blacked out. I woke up in my bed, as before. The sun was again out, the day bright. Once again there were no signs of a rainy night and no figures in the graveyard. And again, as well, I felt foolish. The dream – and it was a dream I insisted – had been so real and so guttural. The medication. It had to be the medication. I still felt fine, really good in fact. I figured I could stand a few nightmares if the medicine worked. I would wait and see, and not rock the boat by reporting the nightmares just yet.
The next two days and nights passed by me with no more dreams, at least that I could remember, but also with no pain, no headaches. No migraines for four days. Not exactly a new record, but unusual given the recent acceleration I had experienced. My work flowed well, I even walked in the cemetery, to show myself that I wasn’t scared of the dreams. I saw nothing out of the ordinary there. Nothing was disturbed or unusual. I didn’t see Julie’s grave, though I wasn’t really searching. I sat under a tree in the very dry grass and read. When it was time for my second skype chat, I wasn’t lying to say things were going well. Since the two nightmares, things had been fine. No side effects, no pain, nothing else to report. It was a shorter check in, and I confirmed my appointment for the second injection, in three days’ time. The doctor smiled brightly and seemed very pleased. The dose would increase a bit, they told me, as I seemed to tolerate the drugs well. The doctor reminded me again about the alcohol rule, and we disconnected.
That night passed for me as if under anesthesia. I remember going to bed and then I was waking up. It was a relief. No rain. No dead people. And still no pain. I decided to treat myself with a dinner out. Well, not exactly a dinner out, but a dinner from out. The town was small, and I lived too far to be able to get many things delivered. I decided to treat myself by ordering dinner from a medium-upscale restaurant, then drive in to get it. I ordered fettucine alfredo with artichoke hearts, a salad, rolls, and a decadent sounding death by chocolate cake thing. I freshened up a bit, put a little makeup on, and got in my car, my sprits high. Halfway there, a loud crack of thunder made me jump and nearly swerve. Then the rain began. Torrents. Crazy rain that your wipers can barely keep up with. I saw little other traffic, and two of the cars I did see were pulled over to wait out the downfall. If I hadn’t been so close to town, I would have pulled over too. Even though I hated rain, I was always prepared, with two different umbrellas in the car. Still, it soured my mood almost immediately and left a sense of dread in its wake. I waited for a headache to start, but when it didn’t happen immediately, I hoped I could just get to the restaurant in time.
I found a spot only a short distance from the front of the restaurant, across from a torn down shop that had left a hole like a missing tooth between two other stores. I glanced over, and it seemed more disturbing in the dark and wet. I thought I saw something moving back there, but chalked it up to wind, rain and heightened imagination. I started quickly out of my car, my coat wrapped tight, the big umbrella almost dwarfing me. That’s when I heard the first scream. It came, as you can guess, from the empty lot. I stood transfixed, alone in the downpour, staring and trying to make out the cause of the noise. I was startled but somehow not surprised. Maybe the rain had made me expect this, even while I hoped it wouldn’t happen. The rain always made me expect bad things. But I was awake, and it wasn’t night time, and I was in a public place. This must be different than the dreams, perhaps a person hurt or mugged. I took a step, then two, away from my car to better see and perhaps help. It was my mother.
She stood directly across from me, seemingly staring into my eyes, naked in the rain. She screamed and her words were coming in and out of coherence, pleading, remorseful in a way I had never heard before. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…hate myself that’s why…have to help me, make it stop…it burns…” She screamed my name, and that’s when I decided it must really be her, she must really be here. But I couldn’t seem to move. She made her way slowly across the street, naked, wet, bleeding from two massive holes in her arms, near the crook of each elbow. She got as far as the middle of the road, falling to her knees and her screams dissolving into horrible, racking sobs. I finally moved, but not toward her. I ran, my own screams hurting my ears, into the restaurant. The surprised and disturbed hostess saw me run in, wet and crying, and kept asking me what was wrong. As she tried to calm me down, I was trying to say I needed help, my mother needed help, she was outside. As they realized what I said, two of the waiters ran outside in the rain. I could see them pacing back and forth through the window, coming in and out of sight between the fingers of my hands, covering my face. As I tried to get the sobs under control, I looked up to see several diners, some annoyed, some worried, and a couple laughing. I was so embarrassed. I felt the urge to flee very strongly. The waiters returned and said they were sorry, but they couldn’t find anyone. Did I need to call the police? I took a deep breath and told them no, apologizing profusely. I quickly paid for my order, and ran outside, sopping wet, my umbrella lost at some point in my flight. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get home.
I ran to the car, purposely not looking at the lot, but not noticing any movement nearby. I sat to compose myself a minute, as the rain diminished. Halfway home, I had to pull over, retching. I tossed the whole bag of food into the ditch, uneaten and unwanted. I couldn’t even think about food right now. I was shaking, and nauseous, and still whimpering uncontrollably from time to time. But no headache, strangely enough. I made it home, I’m not sure how, but I was finally in my driveway. As I grabbed my other umbrella from the back seat, the rain stopped. I ran to the house, unlocked the door, and dropped exhausted into my recliner, coat still on, still soaking wet. I must have dozed off because I was awoken by the sound of my cell phone. It was still in my purse, which had fallen to the floor. I didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.
My mother had one friend, from high school, who tried to stick with her through everything. Even though my mom was sometimes distant, often mean, and generally fucked up, Janice had tried to keep in touch. She occasionally but regularly brought food by, even if my mom didn’t answer the door. Twice she had left bags of clothes, for me, that her daughter had grown out of. I grabbed them from the porch before my mother could find them, and treasured the items, so much nicer than what I had. I last saw Janice about a month ago, in the grocery store during one of my quick trips into civilization. She gave me a sad smile and said “your momma isn’t doing too good honey. I try to keep tabs on her you know, but it’s not easy.” I quietly told her I understood, that I hadn’t seen my mother in a long while. I thanked her for always being there. She said she hoped I was well, and gave me a quick embarrassed hug, before moving along, her cart filled with fresh produce and whole wheat everything. It was Janice on the phone, and I could tell she was crying.
She gave me the news. My mother had died from an obvious heroin overdose. She had a needle in each arm, making it ‘possibly a suicide’. When I left, my mom hadn’t yet moved up to heroin, as far as I knew. I guessed it had only been a matter of time. From the looks of the scene, she had been dead for about a day. Janice had stopped with one of her casseroles, and found the front door ajar. She said she knew something was wrong, “well, more wrong than usual, you know…” so she went in, calling my mother’s name. She found her on the floor near the kitchen table. Spilled salt formed a pool nearby, the salt shaker tipped over and open. In the salt, she had written my first name. Just my name. No other notes, nothing else. My mother had just turned 40. Her house was empty of any valuables, anything of value having been sold, stolen or pawned over time. It looked like it had been tossed a bit. None of the usual boyfriends could be found of course. I doubted she died alone, but I bet she was alone soon after she put the needles into her arms. The guys she chose weren’t the good Samaritan type. No one had called an ambulance. I thanked her and cut off the call quickly, dropping the phone back into my purse.
I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t sure what this feeling was. I believed I had stopped feeling anything for my mother a long time ago, after trying so long to get her to feel anything for me. It made sense, my troubled mind suggested. I had seen her in the rain. I only saw dead people in the rain, didn’t I? So strange that such a bizarre thought should seem so normal. My logical self told me that it was a hallucination, from the new medication. Still no headaches but other effects, like they had warned me. The fact that I had hallucinated my mother so soon after her death was just a coincidence. It had to be. Seeing dead people was for the movies. Perhaps now this was something to tell the doctor, even though I still didn’t want to be pulled from the study. It seemed strangely logical, though now it seems crazy. Still no headache, and that was something. Even with the rain. Even with my dead mother screaming my name. No headache.
I briefly wondered about a funeral for my mother, a cemetery plot, a final goodbye. Even though it might sound cruel, I decided I didn’t want to be involved in that. I would let the county, and perhaps kind-hearted Janice, figure that out. I didn’t want to know where they buried her. I didn’t need a final goodbye. I said mine long ago, and she apparently said hers with a name in salt and a rain soaked visit. That was more than enough. Who would even attend? The house she had lived in, I had lived in, was a rental. Nothing to inherit, nothing to sort.
I again slept like the dead, or apparently better than the dead, if what I had seen was any indication. No dreams, no rain, no visitors. I had another day to go before my second injection. I could discuss the nightmares, the daymares, then. I had work to do, and I did it by rote. Editing felt easy and took little of my attention. My mind wandered. Despite the dreamless night I felt tired again, dazed. I realized that it was noon, and that I needed to eat something. A bland sandwich, some tea. I glimpsed the cemetery out the window, in passing. I couldn’t look for long, I didn’t dwell on the view, hoping to avoid anything that I didn’t want to witness. I now realized I had to worry during the day as well, not just at night. The day passed in this manner, editing, eating, thinking, dozing. I went to bed hoping again for no dreams, no visions. I was rewarded with dreamless sleep again.
In the morning light, the dreams or visions of the last several days seemed to grow smaller in my mind. I know I was rationalizing the irrational, but it’s something I’m good at. Avoidance, minimization, secrecy. My appointment was at three, so I challenged myself by sitting outside, proving all was well. I read for a bit. I ate my usual boring sandwich. I sipped tea, closing my eyes. The sun was out, warming my skin, but not too hot. No rain clouds either. I sat in my grandmother’s rocking chair and tried to relax. I should have treasured that nice day. Maybe I should have skipped the appointment. Instead I got up to tidy myself up, a bit of makeup, a new blazer, and left for the appointment promptly at two.
As I sat in the waiting room, I replayed the recent and disturbing events on a loop in my head. I was trying to talk myself into spilling this to the doctor. Or maybe I was trying to talk myself out of sharing it. I’m not sure which, but when I went into the exam room I made no mention of the specifics. I said I had a few dreams, nothing to discuss really and no side effects. Again I was greeted with the delighted expression on the doctor’s face. Such a model patient, such good data for the study! She seemed so pleased, it almost made me feel better. I had my second injection, my stomach a tight knot, my face a blank mask betraying nothing. I thanked her, and was reminded of the alcohol rule (did she think I was a drinker?) and of my next skype session in two days. Apparently, my desire to please, and my loathing of the headaches overruled the logic that something was not right, something was very wrong. I drove home pretending that it wasn’t true.
As the day passed, the wind picked up, until a warning flashed across the TV I had on for background noise. I heard the beep and looked up from my laptop. High winds. “Batten down the hatches everyone!” the newsman joked. Possibly unseasonal hail. Just what I needed. I threw away the remains of my dinner. After halfheartedly trying to watch a documentary, I retired early, a yawn stretching my face. Warm pajamas, windows all closed and latched, curtains closed tightly. I must have fallen asleep quickly, because I awoke with a start at a crash of thunder. At least I thought it had been thunder. A loud noise nonetheless. I wasn’t in my bed. I was on the porch, heading to the stairs. Heading for the cemetery it appeared. I stopped myself short, the wind whipping my hair and the wood cold on my feet. Was this a dream? It had to be. I looked down as the first hail stones hit my bare feet, like beads from a broken necklace. They reflected the porch light, almost pretty.
Toward the back of the cemetery I could see a big piece of equipment. A digger? I wasn’t a mechanical person. I shook my head with the impatience of the thought. Who cares what it’s called. I could just see a large hole and despite the hail, the wind, and the late hour, the digger was operating, opening its metal mouth to grab more dirt, setting it aside. A scream startled me from my thoughts, and I tore my gaze away from the machine, to a shape near the hole. It writhed, and I slowly realized it was a person. I craned my head forward for a better view, the weather worsening. My feet moved on their own, taking me down the stairs and closer. With building dread, I recognized her. My mother again, on her knees, a keening cry carried on the wind. …” I’m not…I can’t be dead…please don’t bury me…” She jerked her head up, meeting my eyes, and scrambled to her feet, almost falling in the hole. She shambled toward me, mouth open, hands outstretched, palms up in supplication. ...” tell them…tell them I’m not dead…tell them I’m sorry…I can’t…” she again fell to her knees, tripping over a small stone, sobs wracking her wasted body. She was a different shade than the night I had seen her at the restaurant. Was she starting to rot? It was as if small animals had been feasting on one of her thighs, a ragged hole there almost to the bone. Her ribs visible, her naked body covered with small and large sores, her lips a dark bruised blue, the holes in her arms even more evidence of decay where the needles had been. I felt some bit of sympathy. This was mixed with a hot piercing anger that bubbled to the surface, edging out any trace of the pity. In the dream, I remember thinking that she deserved this. Again, moving without wanting to, I ran to her side. Horrified at my own actions, I kicked her. I felt the impact, hurting my foot, and sending her sprawling onto her side. Thick, blackish blood seeped from her nose, her mouth. I let out a sob, covered my face, and ran back to the house, disgusted with myself. Disgusted with her. Why had I done that?
Shivering, I jerked awake to find myself in the rocking chair on the porch, the wind brisk but considerably lowered from the previous night. There was no evidence of the hail, and the air smelled fresh, but it was too cold to sit out here. I realized I was still in my nightclothes. By the height of the sun, I thought it must be about 10 am. I jumped up, looking around, and saw nothing unusual. Or almost nothing. An engine noise confused me, its nearby purr evident along with other sounds that weren’t made by nature. In the back corner of the cemetery a large machine (a digger?) pulled clots of dirt and grass, exposing a dark and expanding scar in the earth. Not sure why I felt compelled to, I ran inside, slipped on shoes and my long coat, and ran into the cemetery. For some reason, I just had to know who they were burying. At the sight of me calling and waving, the operator throttled the engine down, the claw balanced and swaying slightly, but no longer descending. He pulled earplugs out and looked at me quizzically. When I asked the question, I knew what he was going to say. Without a thought spared for decorum or confidentiality, he added that it was sad, a pauper’s burial, paid for by the county. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Why hadn’t I immediately known that my mother would be deposited here, so near to my home? I thanked him, and left him again quizzical, as I hurried back into my house. I don’t think I was even that shocked, I was just empty, hollowed out, drifting. As I ran to the bathroom, I heard the machine start to punch the earth again.
I readied the bath, thinking a soak would clear my head and help me make sense of this lunacy. So many things raced through my mind. Were these just nightmares, with a side of sleep walking, egged on by stress and worry? Was it the drug? Without knowing why, I started to laugh out loud, alone in my bathroom. The sound died in my throat as I looked down at my own feet. A deep bruise was blooming on the top of my right foot. I remembered the kick of the night before, the way my mother had sprawled out weakly, her head snapping to one side with the impact. I started shaking my head, talking out loud - no no no NO NO NO NO – nearly shouting now. I retched, nothing coming up but sour bile.
I stayed in the bath until the water was cold, my head a mess of conflicting thoughts, my eyes regularly straying to my foot, reminding me this was real. Every time I looked I was convinced the bruise would be gone. Every time I looked the bruise was there. Several times I thought I should call the doctor or phone the helpline, but something stopped me. A small headache formed and throbbed in my temples, growing stronger, but it wasn’t a migraine. I couldn’t eat so I took a prescription ibuprofen and napped instead, covered by a big old quilt I had found in a closet. I draped it over me, as I closed my eyes. I had chosen the couch, afraid of the bed. All the curtains were closed, I had made sure of that. I would like to say I had some great revelation, some dawning horror that pushed me to call the doctor that day. I would like to say I acted rationally, appropriately, intelligently. I didn’t. I spent the rest of the day napping, interrupted by trips to the bathroom, and two attempts at food. I returned to the couch, wearing sweat pants and a t shirt this time, to sleep that night. I thought that if I stayed away from the bed, I wouldn’t have another “episode” as I now self-labeled them. I reminded myself that I had a skype appointment the next day, and I could just tell all then, seek the help I knew I needed. If I dreamed, I don’t remember.
The skype conversation opened on my laptop, and I forced a smile at the beaming doctor, the pink in her hair now a startling blue. Dr. Belenta must have noticed something, because her smile faded a bit and she asked me if anything was wrong. This was my chance. I took a deep breath and lied. I made up something about my mother’s death. This had happened before my last injection, but because I hadn’t mentioned it then, I could conveniently use it now as an excuse. I said I had one small tension headache yesterday, but was doing just fine. She didn’t seem convinced, and she looked down to jot some notes, while reminding me that I needed to report anything, and that I should feel free to be honest with her. I assured her I was. Another lie. She thanked me, now not as effervescent, and set the next talk for three days out. I thanked her and forced another smile before I disconnected. My motives were unclear even to me. I breathed with relief and slouched back in my chair. I reminded myself that I was still migraine free, and for me, that was a not so small miracle. I pretended my “dreams” were not a big deal. I was quite impressed with my acting ability.
Another night on the couch, dreamless, but it was taking a toll on my back. I promised myself that since all was well, I could return to my bed that night. I opened my drapes, a slight smile forming at the cloudless sky. The farther I got from the last dream, the better I felt. The bruise on my foot was still there, but it was starting to fade, and didn’t really hurt at all. I was starting coffee, getting cereal from the cupboard, when I heard the muted thud from my porch. Suddenly frightened, my mind raced. It was daytime, sunny, and I was at home. Everything was fine. Maybe a package or a bird or a tree limb or….my thoughts trailed off. I forced myself to the door, and opened it a crack. I couldn’t see anything, so I opened it wider. A small child sat on my steps, their back to me. This was indeed strange - but not frightening. Maybe lost or walking with a parent. I stepped into the sunlight. Hearing me, the child turned. A little boy, perhaps four. I only had time for those thoughts, before I saw it.
The boy was missing part of his face. The nose was there, and one intact eye, but the mouth was ripped almost down the middle, as if made of paper, and oozing. The upper part of his face on the torn side looked as if someone had taken a saw to it. He seemed to try to smile, teeth showing through ragged flesh, a toy truck in his hand the apparent source of the noise I had heard. In his one hand. Just the one. His other hand was gone, nothing there but the bone jutting from his elbow, a screaming red and blue and purple surrounding the bloody bone. Both legs were also slashed, to the bone, one shoe gone. A pool of blood was now appearing under him, on the step where he sat. He didn’t seem to notice his mangled limbs, missing parts, or the blood. A trail showed his path to the porch, disappearing closer to the cemetery. I tried to scream, or run, but I could do neither. He rasped out a word, while my mouth hung open, useless, a small hiss of breath escaping me. I think he said hello. He then repeated a phrase over and over, still trying to smile. Despite my horror, I strained to hear, finally making sense of it. “…. I not afraid now. It doesn’t hurt now…I not afraid now. It doesn’t hurt now….” Over and over, until I thought I might just die there. Maybe I was already dead. Maybe this was hell. Finally finding my strength, I turned and bolted back into my house, slamming and locking my door behind me. I sat on the couch shaking. I could still hear the words echoing in my head, and the occasional sound of the toy truck rolling or dropping to the wood of the porch. After a time, I realized the noise had stopped. It was another hour until I dared to look out the window to my porch. Nothing. Not a trace of the boy, not a stain left to show his presence. I slid down to the floor, and stayed there another hour, numb, not knowing what to do, putting my shattered thoughts back together.
The paper was delivered soon after. Front page, but further down than the latest political news. John Denby, age four, missing. The mother’s boyfriend arrested and not talking. Evidence of blood in the shed, and the boy’s mother mute, with fading bruises herself. The reporter surmising what everyone suspected. They were just looking for a body and hoping for a confession. An interview with the grandmother, heartbroken and accusatory. “He loved trains, and trucks, and animals. He was just the sweetest child. We knew that bastard was bad news.” I put the paper in the recycle bin, far under catalogs and cardboard, so that I couldn’t see the picture of the boy. Cherub faced and blond at a family picnic, with his toy truck. All day I found my thoughts wandering to what he had said. That he wasn’t afraid now, that it didn’t hurt now. I hoped that was true. It was so different than the things the other…corpses…had said to me.
The boy was, as they say, the final straw. I just couldn’t do this anymore. As much as I hated the migraines, I couldn’t keep having these dreams, or visions, or whatever they were. I would have to tell the doctor. I know it seems crazy to have decided just like that, given what I had already been through. I couldn’t believe how long I had waited, and I was afraid of what she might say or do. Of course, they pulled me from the study, as I expected. It took me a tear-filled hour and three cups of coffee to get it all out. By the end of my story, the doctor was crying too. She apologized. Offered full pay and free pain meds for a year. I waved this off but didn’t argue when I was given an envelope and a bag on my way out. The doctor asked me to keep in touch, and said she would also be calling me. I didn’t, but she did.
I stopped the drug cold turkey, no dwindling dose, no other medications. I spent a sleepless night in my recliner after that appointment. No migraine, no visions, no dreams. When I think back, that may have been the best of it for me. Things are very different now. I have not had a migraine since the study started and I had the medication for the first time. The drug was a success. Not only did it stop my migraines then, so far it has stopped them indefinitely. The other side effects have not stopped. My life is now lived with the ever-looming threat that day or night, rain or shine, I may have a visitor. Some see me, some speak to me, some seem oblivious. Some are newly dead, like the mother of the toddler I had seen, also killed by the boyfriend. Some are longer dead. Just yesterday a rotting, shambling version of my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Cane, walked past my window. She died when I was in fifth grade. Last week I saw two small girls, far off up on the cemetery hill. I drew my shades before they could get closer.
Don’t think I am saying this as if its normal, as if it’s not horrific and terrifying and nauseating and heartbreaking. It is. But like anything, the mind can adjust to horrors. It can become numb to pain and you can get used to almost anything. On a good day I can ignore them. Or I try to offer whatever fleeting comfort I can. I never touch them, and I never let them touch me. I don’t want to find out what would happen if I did. I think I can live like this, I really think I can. As I write this, a young man in a tux with his bowels hanging down to his knees is sitting in my lawn, babbling to himself. I pull the shades. I think I can do this.
The rain for me has now lost some of its significance. Some of the dead do hate the rain. Some hate the sun. Some scream, cry, thrash. Others are peaceful, calm, smiling. I think I can go on like this. If I can’t, I know how to end this. People who used to suffer migraines have lots of pills. I think I can go on living like this though, because I have seen what death looks like, and I am afraid to end up like them any sooner than I need to.