Lucid

She still couldn't shake the previous night's dream. Taylor readied for work, the nightmare haunting her as she brushed her teeth and dried her long hair. Its lucidity was like the snap of January, hard and real, and unavoidable. But it wasn't the dream's outcome that made Taylor uneasy. It was the thing on the fringes of her memory, the part of the dream she couldn't remember.

Taylor's mother had died in her dream. Taylor interrogated herself. Good cop, bad cop. Shine the light in her face, pull her fingernails off, rip out her heart. It was only a dream, why should she feel miserable about it, as if it was her fault?

She was quiet at work.

"What's wrong?" Debbie asked.

"Nightmares," Taylor said.

"They're just dreams," Debbie explained. "You still have to live your life. Don't let it bring you down."

Taylor smiled, and when Debbie turned to leave the smile left with her. Work dragged and the dream lingered, the part she remembered and the part she couldn't. She had to call her mother. It had been a week since they had last talked anyway.

They rarely went more than two days.

If not, her mother would call, voice unsteady. "Are you okay, Taylor? Do you need anything? Is everything fine?"

"Yes, mother, it's fine."

"How's work?"

"I got a promotion, I got a raise, I'm moving up." Lies. Truth was she hated her job, the city she lived in, the weather, and had no reason not to move back home. Except for her mother. Taylor loved her. She really couldn't stand her. She put up with her daily phone calls to counter-balance the guilt from not visiting her in three years.

Work ended and Taylor drove home. She set her purse on the kitchen counter. She ate tuna from the can. She threw the fork into the sink and picked up the cordless and dialed her mother.

"Hey mom, whatcha doin'?"

"Driving to the store, babe. Traffic is killing me. Your brother was accepted into Northwestern yesterday. I meant to call. How are you? You okay?"

"I'm good," Taylor whispered the words, squeezing them out as déjà vu tightened its cold, clammy fingers around her neck. Taylor wondered if it was too late to hang up the phone as the dream's black spot flooded with light. What she hadn't remembered showed itself. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask.

"How's it going with you?" The words echoed from last night.

"Oh, I'm great!" her mother said. "But I'm going to go, it's really hard to drive with one hand through this traffic...."

Taylor pressed the phone to her ear. She had listened to this once before.

Metal crash, a loud pop (was that the airbag?). In her dream she had seen her mother laid in an ivory-white coffin, mahogany trim. Taylor stood next to her brother, dressed in a suit (he had never worn a suit until Taylor's dream). Their father held himself in, a stoic tree, sheltering them from the cold winds of winter when the sun set. It was the part of the dream she hadn't forgotten. This was the part she had. The part happening now, on the line.

"Mom? MOM!"

Taylor slammed her open palm on the table. "Mom, are you there?" Someone shouted in the background, she could hear the radio, she could hear a very tired, gasping breath.

The line dropped. Her ear was red when she took the phone away to redial.

Her body shook. Dreams didn't come true. Not nightmares, not like this. Her mother had simply hung up. It was too dangerous to drive with a cell glued to her head anyway. What Taylor must have heard was the radio when the car was stopped against the wall of traffic, people yelling outside the open window.

She dialed the number again. There was no answer. She dialed again. Someone picked up but it wasn't her mother. Taylor's heart sank like an anchor cut loose from its ship.

"Who is this, may I ask?"

Taylor spoke slowly, quietly. "Where's my mother?"

"Jesus," the man said. Taylor imagined him putting his hand over the receiver and asking the others for help. A long moment passed before he spoke again, time enough for the adrenaline to sear her blood vessels. "I'm sorry, miss, but there's been an accident...."