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In the dream I see him falling away from me, into the fog. Towering redwood trunks surround me like majestic pillars in some otherworldly cathedral, pushing me back, keeping me from him. I can hear the dull thumps his body makes hitting the duff-covered slope, and I hear rushing water beyond the trees. I open my mouth, but the forest presses in on me, deadening my shouts as it has deadened his.
I strain to push past the largest redwood separating me from him, but it holds me back, the rough, shaggy bark scraping my cheek. I wrap my arms as far around the tree as they will go, but they barely reach halfway. The streaked bark is damp as I scrub my face against it, trying to dry the tears, not knowing whether the tree is crying or me. Overhead, a spotted owl hoots once in outrage, and I wake up.
I reach automatically for the alarm clock, still sleep-dazed by the dream images unfolding like a series of photos-except for the sounds and feelings, of course. You can do a lot in a photograph, but you can't hear an owl or water (or his body), or feel tree bark against your cheek or soft, woody duff underfoot. But those were just sensations between dreaming and waking-the owl was only my alarm. I fumble to push the switch and realize I'm not in bed, with the clock on the side table beside me. I'm in the closet under the stairs.
It's just a storage closet-unpainted planks, uncarpeted floor, with a strange shaped door that fits the slope of the stairs above. Some people might use it to store a vacuum cleaner, but it has another purpose in Dad's house. I don't remember coming down here. Was I sleepwalking again last night? Sometimes I get all the way outdoors, but usually I only make it as far as the closet. I shut myself inside, curl up and slide back into deep sleep again. I must have done that, maybe while I was dreaming. Sometimes I come down here on purpose, but I don't think I did this time. I can't be sure, though-sometimes I think I remember how things happened, but then Dad says that's not what happened. Or he gives me a strange, sidelong look, and says that never happened at all and asks if I dreamed it. I feel off-kilter when he does that, like I'm walking in the forest and the duff slides down the slope underfoot without warning, and I'm falling down an eroded crevice or a hidden streambed, helpless to catch myself.
I can't remember for sure why I slept in the closet, so I just go upstairs, hurrying in hopes that no one will notice me, and get ready for school. It bothers me a little that my cheek looks red and creased in the mirror as I brush my teeth, but I must have been leaning the left side of my face against the closet wall-that's all. When I go downstairs as quietly as possible, I'm relieved to see Dad has already gone. Mom must be back in bed, so I take the time to toast a bagel and eat it with cream cheese and some juice while I read the comics and flip through the rest of the paper. I only glance at the sports section-the student jocks haven't made news lately so I don't have any photos there. Dad's already read the paper and it's okay to look at it, but just in case he looks again when he gets home I'm careful not to crease the pages.
After carefully washing up the plate and knife and glass I used, and putting them away, I heft my backpack and head for the side door to put on shoes. The hiking boots I wear lie there, on the scrubbed outdoor carpet Dad chose to line the little room where we leave outdoor clothes and shoes. The boots have been half kicked under the row of coats and jackets, their soles caked with dried woody duff from the forest floor.
I stare at the boots, rubbing my sore cheek. Please, no.
Copyright ©2003 by Elaine Marie Alphin