A Midnight Sun Page 2

  He’s hurt! Why won’t you help me? Where is everyone running to?

  Screaming from her this time, mine drowned in the loud burr of plane engines. Everybody screaming.

  Another loud explosion and a tremor, like a shockwave followed the first and more screaming and panic. She pushed past the people running and started running herself, back to him, but she couldn’t run, could she? Her legs shook beneath her and she was glued to the earth. She looked down at her Mary-jane shoes, filthy with earth and debris, they would not move an inch. I panicked and screamed for her, with her.

  A hand seized her shoulder and I screamed, but nobody heard because they were too busy being terrified and running away from what looked like…blazing fires.

  The bombs! Take cover! We’re being BOMBED!

  “…BEING BOMBED!” I woke up with screams surrounding me, my own and theirs. They grip me tightly like the damn damp towels, I’m fighting against a wave of panic and then push the towels from my legs, like they had seeped somehow from the dream I’d just had. Unsure of myself, I move away from the pile of damp towels which now seem as dangerous as the ruble with the morning glory wrapping around planks of wood from the lattice. My leg stings. “Where I shaved,” I say perhaps too loudly, still terrified. I can still taste coffee and pancakes. When I shift my gaze to my parents, they look as terrified as I feel. “Did I just vomit?”

  “No, dear. You were in the bath. Did you stay out too long? Maybe it was the heat.”

  “No, mom, I just…I heard water and he’s there. We need to help him!” I blink away tears and try to grasp onto something. I’m at the mercy of the incoming floor and about to collapse.

  “Who, Mirim?”

  “I don’t think I can tell you… I really don’t know dad.”

  I take a towel and wrap it over myself before running into the bathroom of this house, not the house where he was and needed help, but the house where I grew up and had yellow lemon walls and a high ceiling.

  Then, the noise hits me like a bag of bricks on my head. I cover my ears to muffle the noises from the dream I had just been immersed in. I can still taste the dusty air that has filled my lungs and has left my mouth dry, then begin to cry without any absolute resolve or idea as to what I have experienced when my brother burst through the door.

  Chapter 2

  Marquee

  Inside Silent Hospital Rooms, Everyone Beeps

  Oahu, December 8th, 1989

  The beeping of a machine keeps rhythm to the sound of my mounting headache. The sound echoes softly against the austere walls in my room. Wrapped in thick covers, I am barely able to move in the bed, but still, I try to see through the damp windows. It’s private, I think. I chase the lights and shadows around the walls to see if there is anybody else in the room. But it is just me and the grey walls accompanying the distant beeping of the machines. As soon as this thought dissipates, like the memories of distant bombings and people fleeting, I feel movement from the corner, a shuffling I hope is followed by a familiar face. Relief enwraps me -though not as tight as my covers- when I hear my mother ask if I am feeling well. Although the room is dim and I can barely make out a shape in the shadows of the far-left corner of the room, a figure sitting on a plush armchair, the kind that snuggles your body and reclines to serve as a bed for hospital visitors.

  “Momma?” My voice feels odd and weirdly disconnected from my own? Mirim tries to shake her legs awake. “Where am I? Ooh, my head hurts.”

  “Queens Medical, dear. Yes, it’s me. Your father went to get something to eat and to have a shower. Is there something you need? How do you feel? The doctor said you should not-”

  “Momma, where was I? I mean, before the bed and my room.”

  “Where were…what kind of question…I guess outside playing with that mitt and baseball of yours. I think it’s likely you strayed out too long and the heat must have gotcha, or so the doctor says.”

  I fumble for thoughts and ideas, try to put pieces together of this strange and unbelievable puzzle, but nothing fits entirely. “Yes, the heat. Probably. But, momma, I went somewhere else, didn’t I?”

  “What do you mean sweetheart? You were in the tub when we found you.”

  “You found me…”

  “Yes. Your father and I. You were screaming and had this blank stare that was scary, Mirim. I tried drying your face and your father kept tapping it dry with a towel, and I tried to get your attention but you kept insisting he needed help.”

  “He did momma, but I don’t remember much now. I don’t know who he was.” I study her face in the dim light, looking for an answer. “He –whoever he is- was under the lattice and needed help. There was so much dust and I think…I think there were bombs.”

  “Mirim, what are you saying? Shall I fetch the doctor for you?” Mom turns a scary shade of grey.

  “No, no, momma. It was…” I strain to sit as upright as possible so I can speak. “Listen to me. I was on the street. I think it was called something like Wimple or Liberty Avenue or both. Does that sound familiar mom?”

  “No, can’t say it does, Mirim.” She tries to release my hand but I grip harder, urging her to listen. “Let me get the doctor. I think you need to tell him.”

  “Momma, it was really real. I think…did I hit my head?” Mirim explores her scalp but finds nothing out of the norm.

  “I don’t think so, no Mirim. I’ll get doctor Pellman. I think it’s best. Stay put dear.”

  Still protesting, I try to remain standing and reach after my mother before she leaves the room, but my legs feel wobbly and I hold onto the bed for support, my head lowered and sensing gravity pulling me toward the hard cold floor. Momma is already running to find the doctor and I know I am not strong enough to stop her. She’s half into the hallway when the call for a nurse and a doctor comes bouncing into the room. The floor is spinning, a spindle under my feet going round and round. I know she won’t make it to the bed. The chair where my mother had been sitting is much closer.

  “The chair it is.” I croak, harshly under the dim lights, then look at the door just as momma is running toward me with poppa and Truman, who looks unshaven and concerned. I can see alarm in his eyes when he approaches me, even in the dimness of the room, his eyes glint and are noticeably round and alert.

  “How are you feeling, sis?”

  “Poppa, I asked momma if I hit my head…do you know…?”

  “What should I know, dear?”

  “That it…if it was real. The bombs and the planes.” I quietly contemplate how crazy I must sound to them. “And, the house. I was having breakfast, I think. It was pancakes with the most delicious syrup. I…there was a lattice that covered the patio. It was light and covered with a flowering ivy that gave shade to the portico we were sitting on. I need somebody to tell me it was real because I think I might- “

  “Oh, mother, go find the doctor.” My father tries to sound calm but is clearly distraught. He speaks under his breath as if no one can hear him, something he does often and has done since we were little kids. “I don’t think Mirim is well. I mean, worse than we thought.”

  “No, poppa, it was real, I still feel I need to help him.” The sense of despair I had lingered deeply in my mind. It was unnerving enough to make me shake with chills, like a wave of distress ran through my body, a storm I was powerless to ignore. She looks to my brother because he might understand what I’m trying to say. “He is hurt, I think badly.”

  “Mir, I think pops is right,” he says and tries to soothe me. “Why don’t you sit there and let me get the doctor. Relax, I’ll bring water and we can talk about it to see if we can make some sense of this.” He squeezes my shoulder before turning away. He’s trying to comfort me but I am sensing a slight on his part. Maybe it’s because I feel he doesn’t believe me, but I’m beginning to feel upset.

  I sit there wondering briefly how to react. He was bothering me. “Don’t patronize me, Truman. I appreciate the water, thank you, and when you give me a min
ute to talk, I’ll need you to listen. Do you hear me?”

  He smirks, a gesture that softens my heart. “Absolutely, sis.”

  I roll my eyes and nod before he disappears with a plastic pitcher. Even in the dark, I can tell it’s the same pink shade as the rest of the room, a shade I have never liked and try to stay clear of when buying decorative items for my house or clothing, despite the fact that it is so fashionable. The curtains and the wallpaper are the same shade too. Only the chair is different. I’m swimming in a nauseating pool of soft pink.

  “This is very, very bad, Wesley.” My mother says to my father as they walk after my brother.

  I struggle to remain in the chair I had such difficulty sitting in before. My entire body yells for whatever this other place is, but the memory feels faint, already seeping from my mind, milky and liquid, like all dreams necessarily do in time. I wince at the light coming from the window and lean my head into the back of the seat with my eyes shut tightly.

  I remember being outside in the sunflower field. Sunshine for miles in front of me and the morning dew touching my skin. It was cloudless and sunny outside. I remember throwing the ball in the air and catching it repeatedly. I feel the need to write it down before I forget details.

  My father comes in and I ask him to hand me something to write before it leaves entirely. I’m unaware but catch myself midsentence because my words are choppy. It dawns on me that he doesn’t understand my urgency.

  “Mirim, you writers are so strange.” He caresses my forehead before turning to walk toward the windows. “In the middle of waking up from a four-day coma and she wants to write.”

  “Pops, what did you say?” How can I have been in a four-day comma? It makes no sense!”

  He fluffs the curtains. “Like the doctor said Mirim. It was a light heatstroke.”

  I sit bolt upright in shock. “Wait, pops, seriously, I cannot have been out for days! Can you stop it with the curtains, please? Why do you fluff curtains when you don’t know what to say?”

  “I don’t know Mirim. But, yes, a four-day comma.”

  “Like, lights out, good night, see you in four days comma?”

  “Yes. You were out cold darling. I helped mother put you over the towels and lifted your lids to see if…I guess if you were conscious. It was all white at first, then they shot everywhere, your eyes I mean, and you twitched, but only a second or two, and then just still. The weirdest thing, really.”

  “I don’t remember any of it. Was I convulsing? I’ve never had seizures, have I?”

  “No, the doctor didn’t say that, and momma and I brought you to bed and you kept saying somebody was hurt. What’s a lattice?”

  “A lattice? That I do remember. It is so strange how the memory is floating in and out of my mind. That’s why I want to write it, before it disappears completely, you know?” He nods and leaves the curtains. I feel the sting on my leg again. “Did I nick myself shaving?” I touch the spot that stings and feel something smooth over it.

  “Yes, your mother saw it and put a band-aid over it. Then, your brother helped me carry you when you blacked out. An ambulance brought you in and we waited until the doctor told us it was probably heatstroke. That was four days ago, and well, here we are and you’re awake.”

  “Four days.” I say absentmindedly while he kisses my forehead. “It sounds like forever. My dream was only a few minutes. Maybe you don’t dream while in a comma. I need to write it.”

  “Yes, you probably should.”

  “Bring the notepad, pops.”

  “Are you sure? Now?”

  “Dad, yes! Just give it to me.”

  His brow is tight in the middle. I feel like I hurt him. “Sorry pops, I have an urgency to write as many details as I remember now before I can’t remember anything.”

  “Sure, sure.” His forehead softens and the frown lines disappear but he tells me he’s going for coffee and to tell my mother before he offers a fruit cup. When I nod and say thank you, he turns into the bright hallway and my brother crosses paths with him, running in and spilling ice chips in his wake. He’s pale and has sweat droplets popping on his forehead. When he pulls the chord that clicks the light overhead on, I recoil at the brightness. “It hurts my eyes something awful Truman. Can you dim it?”

  He clicks it again and again until only a soft glow lifts into the ceiling. I rub my temples and tell him to sit by me. “Help me remember, Truman. Like when we were kids. You remember? I need to write this clearly.”

  “Like when we played in the treehouse.” He smiles and grabs my hand. “Here. I only found ice chips.”

  “Truman, I don’t want chips. Can you help me please?”

  “Eat some chips, brah. You shouldn’t be working.”

  “This is not work Truman, Besides, how many times do I have to tell you writing is a lifestyle, a lifelong commitment to a poorly accredited art, it is- “

  “…not a choice, I know.” He stares at me for an answer, I think. “How did it go, you can’t turn off the faucet when words pour from your head and you’re a transistor transmitting the info and all that yadda. But sis, I’m just thinking maybe you shouldn’t exert yourself.”

  I reluctantly take the cup that has been dancing between his fingers and lick off the edge. It’s cool and comforting in my hot mouth. It must be the comma, but my throat needs it more than anything else. It coats it with a layer of cold that is both soothing and refreshing. But my headache still remains.

  “Truman, pay attention. I fear my head will explode if I have to talk too much.” Despite the throbbing headache, it begins to clear. The faint lingering taste of dust starts to slowly disappear under each crunch. Each mouthful is a delight I indulge in while my brother watches patiently until I’m finished.

  I rush to speak and spill some of the ice. My mouth has gotten so cold I barely realize until my brother hands me the tissue from the nightstand. “Do you remember the day at the treehouse, Truman?”

  “The time you hit your head and the wasps scared you?”

  “Yes! Remember I passed out?”

  “Brah, you looked so funny when you woke! I had to lie to mom about where you were until the swelling had passed. Anyway, yeah. You passed out for a little bit.”

  “And I told you I’d seen a crazy story in my head.”

  “True, the scaly thief or something or other.”

  “Exactly. The Scaly Thief of Creek Valley actually. The kids in school loved it.”

  “Your first story.”

  “Yes. Like that story, the dream I had would have faded if it hadn’t been for you bro. This is similar. I had a dream during the fainting or whatever it was. It seems important but it’s starting to fade a little. Would you help me, like when we were kids?”

  “Yes, I remember a dream that I was on an airplane and I told the– “

  “Brah, you have to concentrate on this for me, please.” I adjust myself and beckon for him to sit next to me on the chair.

  He lays on the bed instead after pulling on the cord to turn the light off, which clears my head some more, especially now that the throbbing has stopped and the pain has subsided. “Yes, yes…” he starts softly, “Sit back and close your eyes.”

  I see him leaning on his elbows before I close my eyes and let the feeling sink into me. “Take a deep breath,” he continues, “Lift your eyes upwards and try to focus on that spot at the top of your eyebrows. Look up there for as long as you can and relax into it.” He says lastly, echoing my thoughts. I realize he has popped off his sneakers when I hear them tap on the ground one at a time. The sound is loud against the hospital machines, the only other sound in the room. “Good. Breathe in and out.” His voice is just above a whisper. It’s calm yet pressing, but it somehow brings everything back, starting with the odd taste.

  My tongue feels heavy and unnatural. I can’t seem to place it comfortably inside my mouth. But, his voice, soothing and gentle, helps me forget and remember at the same time. At first, all I see is blackn
ess. “Keep focusing on the center of your forehead, just where your brows meet, you know, that spot where pops wrinkles first show when he gets cross with us?”

  The reference to our father almost breaks me away from my concentration. But I drift slowly back.

  “Look there for the memory…breathe.”

  The darkness changes. Just a little and only around the corners of the dream. It turns into static, like a broadcast about to commence on an old television set. I feel the taste in my mouth grow stronger and suddenly crave for more ice chips.

  “Breathe…” my brother continues to beckon as the images begin to materialize. It takes a moment to stabilize the shaky picture. I try to adjust it like on the old set we keep in mom’s living room. The nob on my head less painful than the one forming in my mind, but it moves with my brother’s voice. Soon enough, I see it. I see the lattice. I see…him.

  Chapter 3

  Marquee

  Hillside Jubilee & The Way They Were Downhill

  Oahu, December 8th, 1934

  “Boy oh boy, was that ever a ride!” Parker proclaimed excitedly, as she drew in her hat and tied a bow on the ribbon securing it just below her chin.

  Fitch stood before her while she finished the bow. fluffing it in a gentle swirl under her chin. Her eyes had been closed because the sun was shining directly into her face. When she opened them, she saw a pair of driving goggles going round and round on his index and forefinger, threatening to spin off the tip if he so much as laughed a little too hard. Parker enjoyed his charming laughter, reasonable and quaint without a hint of cynicism. The sound at the end of each chuckle was like the clanking of the bells she heard before Sunday mass.

  Looking up at him, she smiled thinking she’d look up at a church steeple in the same way, with the same reverence and interest. She grabbed both his cheeks and kissed the edge of his mouth. His laughter faded to a warm smile that slowly turned into a fiendish grin.