Mothered (47)

29


She knew it was a dream. Unlike some of the other nightmares she’d had, this one wasn’t trying to fool her into believing it was real. But that didn’t make it less unnerving.

Grace accepted that the setting was her bedroom, but in the manner of dreams, it didn’t much resemble her room. Or rather, it did, but the dimensions were all off. It was hard for her to see exactly where the walls were, but the presence—the volume—of so many bodies gave the impression that they were very far away. Her bed was behind her, but as the human figures pulsed around her—jammed together shoulder to shoulder, pushing—she found herself drifting away from the safety of the one solid thing she recognized. Like a small boat carried off by the current. Soon she was amid them, lost in a crush of people.

They were meant to be her damsels. This her subconscious registered, even as the forms around her barely resembled human beings. They looked more like life-size dolls made of flesh-colored fabric. Featureless. Hairless. They ambled aimlessly in the crowded room.

Grace tried to worm her way through them, hoping to find the door and get out. But with each passing second, the physical pressure around her increased as more and more of the damsel dummies moved toward her. It was getting hotter and harder to breathe. If they all pressed against her, they would smother her like a mass of animated cushions. The very thought made Grace panic and start to push against them with more urgency. Sometimes one turned toward her, its blank face nonetheless seeing her—condemning her.

“Excuse me! I’m sorry!” Dream Grace could do nothing but apologize and try to force her way through. But it didn’t matter how many she squeezed past. There were always more, their padded feet swish-swishing against the floor, blocking her exit.

She was ready for the dream to end. As she gasped for air she became aware of another sound in the room—a muffled murmuring. The sound of someone trying to speak while a pillow was pressed to their face. Multiplied by a hundred. The damsels were trying to tell her something, but they didn’t have mouths.

A particularly determined one blocked her head on. In its desperation to speak, the fabric on the lower part of its face started to twist and strain. Hidden teeth were going to break through, and Grace didn’t want to be there when it happened. Frantic, she scanned the others, attempting to look over their heads to find the door.

A phone rang.

Miraculously, the damsel dummies started backing away, opening a path so she could find the phone and answer the call. Halle-fucking-lujah.

Grace bolted into full consciousness. Her phone was alight, jangling against the darkness of the room and the hour. For the briefest moment she was relieved—to be out of the dream and awake. But then she saw who was calling and knew something was terribly wrong.



“Miguel?”

She heard gasping on the other end of the line. Then—“Sorry to wake you.”

“What’s wrong?” Grace threw off the bedclothes and turned on the light, getting ready for what was coming.

“I’m really sick, I don’t think I can drive.” Left unsaid was the emergency, the need for medical help.

“I’m coming to get you. I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

Grace disconnected the phone, and in her panic wasn’t sure what to do next. Was there time to get dressed, or should she just grab the keys and go? Quickly, she pulled on yesterday’s pants. And put a bra on under her sleep shirt. She grabbed her phone and ran.

At the front door, she hauled her purse over her shoulder as she stuffed her feet into a pair of shoes—she didn’t even look to see which ones. The light came on at the top of the stairs.

“Grace? Where are you going?” Jackie held her arms against her body.

“I’m taking Miguel to the hospital.” She unlocked the door, ready to flee into the night.

“Shouldn’t he call an ambulance? You’ll catch your death.”

Grace didn’t have time to argue with her. She plucked a mask from the hook where she kept her keys and raced out.



It was so quiet outside. Grace could barely remember what day—night—it was. She drove too fast, but the empty streets didn’t care. She was hyper with adrenaline, close to weeping in despair.

As she screeched to a stop in front of Miguel’s apartment building, she slipped the disposable mask around her ears, pressed it tight over the bridge of her nose. Miguel, in a matching mask, was waiting on the sidewalk, bundled in a fleece blanket.

“Oh lovey,” Grace cried as he got in. His eyes were red and terrified. She waited until he buckled his seat belt before heading away. “Which hospital?”

“Presby,” he wheezed. “Oh Grace, it’s so fucked up. Carolina isn’t feeling well. Her maid of honor is on a ventilator. So is our aunt.”

“I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t tell if he was crying or struggling to catch his breath—or both.

“Thank you for doing this.” As he began coughing he pressed the mask tight against his face and opened his window all the way. “I didn’t want to call nine one one. I was afraid . . . just afraid, of everything. But I don’t want to get you sick—I guess we’re superspreaders.”

“More like supergetters,” she cracked, trying—and failing—to lighten the moment. The boorish part of her hoped she didn’t have Miguel’s unlucky genes. She rolled down her window, too, to let the deadly germs escape, and took a better stab at reassuring her friend. “It’ll be okay, we have the best doctors.”