The Visit

I lay in the top bunk listening to Mom and Dad laughing at Johnny Carson’s Karnack sketch. I pulled the sheet and quilts up to my chin, waiting for my body to warm the pocket of air around it under the covers. I rubbed my legs back and forth on the cold sheets, hoping the friction would accelerate the warming process. The bunk beds creaked in protest of the movement.

“Quiet in there!” Dad yelled, impatiently.

I stiffened and said nothing. I’d just have to wait longer to get warm. I slowly drew my knees to my chest and hugged them. The bed remained silent under my stealthy movement. I knew the lower portion of my bed would still be cold when I stretched out, but I had to get warm now.

I heard Johnny say, "A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou."

After a dramatic pause and the rustle of paper being torn, Ed McMahon replied, "Name three things that have yeast."

Mom and Dad burst into laughter, again. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to be out there asking them why that was so funny. It didn’t seem that funny to me.

Soon the voices and laughter of Johnny, Ed, Mom and Dad blended to a comforting drone and the lullaby shifted me into sleep.

I could hear a loud rush of air swirling like a tornado. Above the noise of the storm I heard a voice call loudly, “Sandi!” I felt the fear coming from the speaker. He was so scared.

I felt like I was awake, yet I knew I wasn’t. I could see my Grandpa Damon clearly although my eyes were closed. The whirlwind spiraled in blue and white arcs behind him, like water spinning down a drain. He reached both arms out to me, as if he wanted me to hang on to him. His tan slacks and plaid shirt snapped in the wind pulling at his body.

“Sandi!” He called my name again, still reaching for me. I said nothing. I knew he wanted me to hold him, to steady him against the wind. I knew I couldn’t and I shouldn’t. I felt calm and tried to project the peaceful feeling toward him. His fear was stronger than my calmness.

“Sandi…” As he said my name for the third time, he started to turn with the spiraling storm, slowly at first then faster and faster until he was sucked into its vortex and I could see him no more. The moment he disappeared, the storm folded in on itself and followed him into nothingness.

I woke up as soon as the storm ended. I looked at the clock on my dresser. It was 3:00 a.m. I realized he had told me the time of his death by calling my name three times. I felt upset at how afraid he was as he died.

“I should wake up Mom and Dad and tell them,” I murmured. I started to throw back my covers and shinny down the foot of the bunk bed.

My inner voice stopped me. “You will get the crap knocked out of you, if you tell them Grandpa Damon died. You can’t say stuff like that to people. They won’t believe that you just know.”

I pulled the covers closer to me. I decided to wait. I hugged my knees to my chest, this time out of sadness for the loss of my Grandpa. After a while, I drifted off to sleep.

The phone rang at 7:00 a.m. I sat up in bed. No one called us that early.

I heard Mom in the next room. “I wonder who that is?” she asked in an aggravated tone.

“Mom!” I started to tell her it was Grandma Damon calling to tell us Grandpa died. Fearing a whipping for saying those words aloud, I squelched them.

“What?” came her grumpy reply.

“Uh,” I stammered. “The phone is ringing.”

“I know that!” she said using a tone reserved for me when I did what she thought were stupid things.

I kept quiet as she got out of bed and walked into the living room to answer the incessantly jangling phone.

“Hello,” she said into the receiver. After a moment I heard her gasp, then hang up the phone.

I stayed in my warm bed as she made her way back to hers. I held still, so I could hear what she said to Dad. Grandpa Damon was his Step-Dad.

“Honey, wake up,” she said in a voice that sounded like she was strangling.

“Whaaat?” asked Dad.

“Grant Damon died last night,” she told him. “That was your Mom on the phone just now.”

“What happened?” I heard their bed squeak at he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“He had trouble breathing, so they took him to the hospital in Bend,” Mom said. “He died there at 3:00 in the morning.”

“I knew it!” I said under my breath. I knew it, but I could never say anything to Mom and Dad. Not now. Not ever. They were intolerant of their children telling lies and the truth was so fantastic that I knew they would accuse me of lying or of trying to divert attention from Grandpa Damon’s death to me.

I heard Dad crying and Mom comforting him. I lay back down in my bed, waiting until they were composed before I got up.

As I lay there listening to the sadness of Dad’s sobs, I wondered if I could have kept Grandpa here longer if only I had reached out. Maybe his death was my fault because I dreamt it and did nothing to save him. I felt guilt wrap its tentacles around my twelve year old brain, where it squeezed tightly for the years to come, whenever I had a precognitive moment.