That night in Palm Springs

About a year after Jake died, I started having a recurring dream.

In it, I am alone, surrounded by darkness, searching for a baby boy I cannot find.  

When I wake, my pillowcase is wet with tears, and I sob silently until I fall back asleep. In the morning, I use ice packs on my face to try and reduce the swelling and redness around my eyes. 

Shortly after I start having this dream, I go to Palm Springs for a few days on a high school trip. I stay in a hotel room with three other girls.  The first night I fall asleep before anyone else and not long after, I wake up crying.  The others, still up watching TV, seem shocked that the girl who has grown so silent, so still, and so cold over the past year is expressing such an intensity of seemingly unprovoked emotion. 

I get out of bed to try and find somewhere I can be alone, but the pain I feel is so overwhelming I stop after only a few steps.  I kneel to the floor, cover my face with my hands, and continue to cry the deep, choking sobs of a mother who has lost her child.

At first, the other girls remain motionless—frozen with the uncertainty of how best to proceed, but after maybe a minute or so, one comes over and gets down on the floor with me.  She holds me, strokes my hair, lets me cry, and when the worst of the crying has subsided, asks if I can tell her what is wrong. 

I cannot, so I remain silent.

I remain silent, because years ago, one night when I was eight, my father taught me not to speak when he shoved razors in my mouth before raping and torturing me until I no longer cried, no longer struggled, and no longer made any sound no matter what he was doing. I remain silent because it was then that I learned it was best to simply focus on not swallowing the razors and let whatever was happening just happen.

I remain silent as I think about the hundreds of pictures, the thousands of minutes of video footage, the German Shepherd puppies, and the jars of peanut butter used to train them for these things.

I remain silent as I think about the summer Jake came into existence. The one I spent chained to a bed, used as part of the entertainment for corporate retreats and the closing package of business deals.  I remain silent as I think about all the men who came and went that year and wonder which one was his father.

I remain silent as I think about the night Jake died, the razors once again placed in my mouth to keep me quiet as I gave birth.  I remain silent as I think about the puppy, now a dog that was there when it happened, and the sounds he made while he was eating afterward.

And I remain silent because I have no way to tell her about the excruciating pain caused by having never found out what color Jake’s eyes were.

We stay on the floor together a while longer until she realizes I am not going to be able to tell her anything. She says it’s alright, guides me back to bed, and we all go to sleep.  In the morning, none of us speak of what occurred the night before.  I have no ice packs, so my eyes remain swollen and rimmed in red for most of the morning.  I do my best to go on with the day as usual and ignore the glances I get while people try to figure out what is wrong with my face. The rest of the trip is spent in a fog caused by trying to sleep only a few minutes at a time so the events of the first night are not repeated.  

Though I don't know it then, I will find that over the years, the dream will come and go.  There will be times when most of my nights are marked by the residue it leaves, and there will be times when months will pass before I wake to a tear-soaked pillowcase and need ice packs for my face in the morning.  The details will change a little over the decades, but the essence will remain the same—I am alone in the dark, searching for a child I will never find.  

Lately, most nights, I wake to a wet pillowcase, use ice packs on my face in the morning, and have been comforted by more than one friend who has unexpectedly found me crying.  Though each time I have lacked the words to truly explain what is happening, I have been met with the same unquestioning, undemanding, kindness I was shown that night in Palm Springs.

Should you be one of the ones who has found me unexpectedly crying in a parking lot, in a store, or at your kitchen table on a Friday night, or should you be one to find me like this at some point in the future, now you will know why. 

You will know that I am crying because I am tired and the weight of the unending pain and grief I carry with me has become, at least for the moment, too great to hold.

You will know that I am crying for everything that once was and that I am crying for everything that never will be. 

You will know that I am crying because part of me is still alone, in the dark, searching for a child I will never find.

And you will know, that like that night in Palm Springs, I am crying because I will always have to wonder what color Jake’s eyes were.