Bittersweet Dream

I have the American dream, of the future, my future. The white picket fence, the dream job, 2.3 children and a loving wife. Shoulder length blond hair, soft green eyes, freckles, frilly blouse, blue jeans and cowboy boots. Let's call her Alyssa, maybe we met at a local grocery store. The funny thing is, we almost didn't meet. I keep my schedule so tight, I do one weeks of shopping every Thursday at 7pm because that's when the least people are on the road but still be on my way home. Alyssa also shopped there at 7pm because she visited her grandmother at her nursing home. Alyssa always brought her some kind of baked good, but she wasn't much of a baker.

When I first noticed her, she was standing in line in front of me. What she was wearing reminded me of the movie I had watched not that long ago. She was cute, plain and simple. Her eyes shined with a happy glow. She walked with a bounce and was buying cookies; it was kind of a shock to see someone so interesting. But I wasn't that well practiced when it came to talking to women, so I kept my distance.

It took me months before I finally worked up the courage to say anything. As I approached her, she smiled at me. There was a strange air between us, like were old acquaintances or class mates. She was holding what I knew to be a nice looking cassata, a fancy Italian sponge kind of like tiramisu. I myself am kind of a baker, and wanting to impress this cute girl, I said, "Wow that's a fresh looking cassata."

She looked at me like I had just told her that her qarzon are on fire. "Casa... what now?"

It was so cute, I think then and there, was when I fell in love. I smiled and said, "Cassata, it's an Italian cake."

"Oh, I didn't know. I only picked it up because I liked the design. It reminds me of my grandmother." When she said this, her voice dropped a little.

I had mistaken her mannerisms for flirting and lost it. I got all nervous when a cute girl paid any attention. I slipped and dropped a gallon of milk all over the floor. My face turned pink and I lost my nerve. From then on, I kept my mouth shut and even changed my schedule so that I wouldn't have to see her.

But I was a slave to keeping a schedule. I would still show up at 7pm, but I'd wait in my car for a few minutes, waiting until I saw her leave the store. I don't know why, but I felt embarrassed around her. One cold week in November, she didn't show up. I waited for hours, because I thought she was just late, and I didn't want to end bumping to her, but she never showed. Weeks went by and still no sign of her.

I started shopping at 7pm once again. It felt like years, and part of me wanted to see her again, but part of me was glad I could shop on schedule without having to feel embarrassed. Then, one night, I saw her. She didn't have the same bounce in her step that she normally did, nor was she buying any baked goods. Instead of finishing what was on my list, I cut it short so that I ended up behind her in line. When I noticed what it was she was holding, I understood why her cheerful nature wasn't shining through that night.

"Vodka? Rough night?" I said in a gentle tone.

"Oh, hi. It's you" She said, surprised to see me, "It's nothing."

Growing up, I could always tell what people were feeling. I could tell she was miserable, her eyes were dark and tired, her shoulders slack. Although I knew what she was feeling, I couldn't tell if she wanted to talk about it, and I doubted that she would want to talk to a total stranger about something personal. But the problem was, my mouth had already started talking before I knew what to say.

"It doesn't look like nothing. First you stop showing up for months and now you look miserable, and I doubt that vodka's for a dinner party." I said quickly.

"It's my grandmother, she... she just passed away." I could feel her heart breaking as she said it. "She got sick months ago, and just never got better. Before she... got sick, I used to visit her every week. She'd host a little get together at her house, and I was always invited. I'd always bring some kind of cake or something..."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know." I said, dropping my eyes apolitically.

"It's ok, I'm..." Her hand gripped the bottle in her hand.

Before I knew what I was saying, I looked up at her, "How about, instead of drinking alone, why don't you come have a drink with me?"

I saw something dark in her eyes and realized how my suggestion could be misinterpreted. I quickly added "Um... I mean coffee, I've got an early morning tomorrow."

The only coffee shop that stayed open after dark didn't have the same atmosphere of a Starbucks at 8am. It was a warm, cozy, candle lit place... filled with couples. I had never been in a coffee shop before, I usually made my own coffee, so I was a little embarrassed to think what it might look like, walking in with a cute girl and not be on a date.

When the waitress asked us for our order, dark for me and a latte for her, I could tell she thought we were a couple. I tried desperately to tell her with my eyes that we weren't, but she just thought I wanted another refill. I sat there sipping my coffee and just let her talk. She went on and on for what must have been hours, or at least however long it took for me to slowly sip down four cups of rather bland coffee. She told me of her grandmother, Deloris, and how she had been a singer and moved to this country when she was only fourteen. She told me of her job at the local bank and how she wished her boss would notice how hard she worked. She told me of her sister, Samantha, who was always the favorite and how her mom kept bugging her about getting married like Samantha.

When she mentioned marriage, it hit me, I didn't know if she was married or if she had a boyfriend or something. Visions filled my mind of a tall man kicking in the door and kicking my ass because he thought I was putting the moves on his lady.

In a panic I asked, "Well, why haven't you gotten married? A cute girl like you shouldn't have any problems finding a man."

There was a hesitation before she answered, "The last guy I dated turned out to be a jerk, and well, the one before that too. They always seem to care about more about foot ball than me..." Her voice trailed off, she was probably thinking of something painful.

"Well I don't like football." I said, trying desperately to break the silence.

Then and there, I think we both realized it. I looked at her and her eyes filled up with the same cheerful glow that first caught my attention months ago. My mind stumbled over how I should ask, or if I should ask, or if I was stupid for even thinking I had a shot.

Throwing my cautious nature in to the wind, I stuttered, "Would... would you like to go out? With me... sometime?"

She smiled, and then laughed about something under her breath. I felt crushed, and realized I never had a shot with someone like her. I got defensive and my mind scream that she could have at least said no, instead of laughing at me.

But I didn't lose my cool. I straightened my face and asked, "What's so funny?"

"Well, can't we just call this a date?" She said with a child like grin.

My heart started beating again. After the shock wore off I smiled back at her, "Um, I don't see why not. Going out for coffee seems like a normal date thing, I guess."

And it was a guess, I hadn't ever been on a date, but I thought I'd keep that part quiet. Blushing wildly I looked for anything to distract me, the clock. Crap, we had been there for more than three hours, and looking around, we were the only ones left. And I wasn't lying about having an early morning; Fridays were always presentation days at my engineering firm.

I hated to do it, but I said, "Well, if this was a real date, I'd have to say I'm about to make a big mistake, but I'm going to have to call it a night because it's getting late. But what if we went out tomorrow night?"

"Ok, yeah. I'd like that. I'll be our second date." She said with a grin.

I walked her to her car and she gave me her phone number. As I turned to leave, she stopped me. Before I had a chance to ask her why, I felt her lips pressed up against mine, "Thanks for listening to me... um, I don't know your name."

I was glad it was dark because I must have turned beet red. I had just been on a date, sort of, and been kissed by a stranger. I can't believe I didn't think to even introduce myself. Kicking myself mentally, I said, "James, my name's James."

"Alyssa." She said, laughing, "It's nice to meet you."

Our first date was beyond fun. She showed up in a happy little yellow sundress that clashed painfully with my slacks and knit pullover that screamed square. There wasn't much to do in the small town we lived in, but when I picked her up, the world seemed like an amusement park. Not knowing what to do, I went with the old dinner and a movie. We went to see a terrible M. Night Shyamalan movie then grabbed a bite to eat at my favorite dinner. Halfway thought the movie, I worked up the courage to pretend to stretch out and put my arm around her. I know it was stupid, but hey, I didn't know what else to do.

We never talked about me, which I was thankful for. Oh course she asked me the simple questions, but we usually talked about her, or to be more specific, she talked about her while I listened. She was fascinating, and I loved just how amazing she was. Every little detail, every cute little story made my life seem so grey and boring. I didn't know how someone could live like she did, never ever setting a schedule. Other than her job, which she was sometimes late for, she never set a schedule. I guess if it weren't for her grandmother's weekly visits, we never would have met. She was even late when I would pick her up for a date. It irritated me beyond anything else, but I knew that if she was the kind of person that showed up on time, I probably wouldn't be so attracted to her.

It was a warm afternoon in spring when I first told her that I love her. We were at a park, sitting under a tree having a picnic. It was something I had known for a while, but I didn't know how or when to say it. After we had finished eating she sprawled out over the blanket we were on. I crawled up next to her and we just laid there looking up at the clouds. She said one of the clouds looked like a car. I said one of the clouds looked like I loved her. She laughed out loud then rolled over on top of me and kissed me. She whispered that she loved me too before getting up and took off running.

I chased her, wondering what the hell kind of reaction that was, and thinking, it's an Alyssa kind of reaction. She stopped in front of a fountain, tossing in a penny. When I asked her why, she answered that she wished I had said something sooner. Again we laughed.

Our wedding was like a dream, but I don't mean a happy dream. I was nervous, beyond nervous, like those dreams when you're about to take a test you haven't studied for, but much worse. I don't know why I was so nervous, but I just was. Maybe I didn't think I was interesting enough for her, or good enough. I don't know. But I remember what it was like when I asked her to marry me.

We had been living together for a few months. I asked her to move in with me, using her job as an excuse. I lived closer to the bank where she worked and when I told her she might not be so late if she lived closer she agreed. I'm sure she would have moved in with me if I had just asked her, but I guess I wasn't sure. At the bank she worked Saturday though Wednesday, and at my job I worked Monday to Friday, so we couldn't do much far from home. One week, after finishing a project early, by boss let the crew take the rest of the week off, with full pay.

That night, sitting together on the couch, I mentioned, "Hey wouldn't it be nice to visit New York?"

I knew for a fact she would want to go, it was one of the things she told me on our first so called date at the coffee shop. She wanted to see Elise Island, the place her grandmother first saw when she came to this country.

"Yeah it would be nice..." Alyssa said dreamily.

"Do you want to go tomorrow?" I said, explaining about work.

She nodded eagerly. "Um... Yeah let's do it."

I noticed something in her eyes. Like some kind of hesitation. I nervously asked, "What is it"

She waited a moment, I guess she didn't want to say the wrong thing. "Um, it's just, you're not normally spontaneous like this."

I was taken aback. It wasn't like this was news to me, I had always planned everything I ever did and held a tight schedule, but I didn't think it was a problem. I didn't know what to say, but for some reason I said, "How's this for spontaneous?" I got down on one knee and asked, "Alyssa, will you marry me?"

It took me a second to realize I didn't even have a ring in my hand, but that didn't stop her. She threw her hands around me and kissed me yelling yes over and over in to my lips.

We still went to New York.

I picked out a ring and I met her parents. She met mine and before I knew it I was standing in a back room in a church, kicking myself for not sticking to a schedule. I don't know if it was just because I was nervous, but I thought being spontaneous was the worst decision I had ever made. This wasn't planned, but I did love her. I always told myself that I would do anything for her, even marry her without a seconds hesitation, but wasn't I hesitating right now?

As she walked down the aisle, it felt like an avalanche coming towards me. The preacher talked and talked but the blood in my ears drowned out his words. The he stopped and looked at me, and asked me if I did, and I did, and I said I do. And we were married.

I had seen her naked before, but this time was different. When she let the fancy wedding dress fall off around her, it was like watching a flower bloom, a beautiful flower. She had the world’s sexiest body, but as she stood there, waiting for me to approach her, she looked even more. I couldn't explain it, I just couldn't look away. I wanted to touch her, to reach out and make this beautiful woman as dirty as my darkest fantasies, but it seemed wrong. She was too perfect to ruin, to beautiful to touch. She beckoned me over with an alluring gesture of her finger, and I slowly obeyed. I reached out a trembling hand and caressed the side of her face. Alyssa smiled as my cold fingers brushed lightly across her warm cheek, tickling her. As she whispered how much she loved me, all of my worries melted away.

I learned early on that her ears were extremely sensitive, so I used them to my advantage. Between teasing them with my lips and whispering naughty nothings in to them, I felt Alyssa writhing in pleasure at my touch. We were husband and wife, and there was no other place either of would want to be than right there in each other’s arms. I kissed her neck, pressing my lips longingly in to her. Never before had I felt such exhilaration. I groped at her breasts with my hands, feeling her heart beating wildly with in her chest. There was a hunger in the air that I haven't felt again since that night. I wasn't the first time we had had sex, but it was the first time that I entered her as her husband. She gasped up at me as we connected, her body burning hot passion beneath mine. It was more than sex, it was more than pleasure, we were connecting, becoming one. As man and wife we consummated our marriage, forging bonds like hot steel, melding together.

Then the night came when Alyssa came up behind me and hugged me tighter than I had ever felt. She was clutching a pregnancy test. George, named after Alyssa's grandfather, was born in the middle of October, and I couldn't believe the overwhelming feeling I felt in my heart when I heard him cry for the first time. His sister, Elizabeth, was born a few years later.

I was living the dream. I had the perfect family, a great job and still most of my hair. George’s first day of school broke my heart, and teaching him to ride a bike brought tears to my eyes. When it came Elizabeth’s turn to go to school I thought I would be ready, I wasn't. I dropped her off on the way to work, and then ended up calling in a personal day so I could be there to pick her up. Alyssa quit her job when George was born, so she and I waited all day out in front of the school, holding each other's hands. It had been a while since we had a chance to talk, so all day we reminisced about how we met, how we lived and what we wanted to do in the future. When the bell rang, I felt my heart race, wanting to see my little girl again and ask her how her day went.

I always wanted my kids to have the childhood that I never had, which meant friends and having fun. I never once made a schedule for them to follow. It was all so perfect; I never could have imagined it would happen. One rainy night, the mother of George's friend called me and asked if he could spend the night. George was nine years old and I thought having a sleep over would be fine. The mother asked if I would pick him up in the morning, but Alyssa couldn't because she had a doctor’s appointment and I couldn't do it because I had work.

Work... I had work to do. I was in the office, working at the job I loved so much. When the phone rang, I answered, not knowing what was on the other line. If I had known, I probably wouldn't have answered. There was an accident, the roads were wet... Alyssa couldn't continue. I begged her to tell me what happened, but she was crying. She screamed, "Dead. George is dead."

The world around me shattered. As I drove to the hospital, I couldn't feel a thing. Everything seemed far away, fake. I didn't even stop at the stop signs, I just drove. I found Alyssa standing outside of the emergency room, crying. I could tell she needed me but I pushed her aside, yelling at the doctors that I wanted to see my son. They let us in, and I saw him lying there, so small. His injuries were too bad to fix. I fell to the floor crying. We buried George a few days later. And the sky never looked the same.

It was my fault. I couldn't say anything, but it was my fault. That mother asked me to pick up George, but I said I had work. Fuck work, my little boy is dead, and it was my fault. I couldn't talk to my wife, I couldn't go to work, I couldn't even breath without hating myself. I quit my job because every time I sat in my office, I was reminded of when I got that phone call. I remembered how I chose going to work over picking up my only son. Nothing mattered anymore.

I hated myself every time I did it, but whenever Alyssa was late I would yell at her, I was yelling at my wife. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn't made at her, but I still treated her like crap. I started drinking heavily, and things just got worse. I started getting rough with my Alyssa, it was the worst thing I had ever done. I never meant to hurt her, but I did. Everything was my fault and I couldn't admit it.

It was only a few days since George's death, but my whole life had fallen to pieces. I knew it was bound to happen, but I kept pretending it wouldn't. Elizabeth came in to our room one night and asked, "Daddy, when is George coming back?" Alyssa broke in to tears and I couldn't bring myself to answer her.

I motioned for her to come to me and I hugged her, saying, "I don't know sweetie, I don't..." But Alyssa cut me off, "He's not, George isn't coming back."

There wasn't any reason to lie to her, but how do you tell a seven year that her brother is dead?

"Mommy, I don't understand." Her tiny voice called up at us.

Elizabeth never had any relatives or even pet that had died, so there wasn't any way to explain it to her.

"Liz, your brother got hurt," my heart couldn't take the pain of saying it, but I continued, "And he isn't coming home. We miss him so much, but we aren't going to see him again."

"I miss him too." Elizabeth said, with tears filling her tiny eyes.

It was exactly what I needed to get my life back on track, what I needed was a reason. I had to keep living to take care of my little girl. As painful as losing my son was, I couldn't keep living this way. For her, I got my life back together. I got a new job, stopped drinking and treated my wife the way I should have. But I still blamed myself. I hated living, but I did it for my daughter. Every moment seemed like a runner trying to finish a race after it had ended, there wasn't anything to gain, but I had to keep going.

Years later, when Elizabeth was leaving for collage, she asked me if she could have a picture of George to take with her to put up in her dorm. When I told her no she confronted me, asking why there weren't any pictures of George up in our house. I couldn't tell her, I couldn't say that I was the reason he died, I couldn't say that looking at him just reminded me of how much I hated myself. All I could say is that we didn't have that many pictures of him, which was true.

Pictures of George, that was all I had left of him. I kept them in a small photo album and when I ever felt happy, when I ever felt joy, I would pull out the album and look at the child that could no longer feel anything, because of me. I never let myself forget that such a happy boy was dead because I had work to do. Every time I looked at the album, I could feel my heart tearing. The pages were stained by my tears, but I kept coming back to it. It was like cutting myself or a drug or punishment for letting him die, I didn't know.

Then my wife started getting sick. It was caused by the same genetic disorder that her grandmother had. I knew it was a possibility, she had told me years ago that she might get it, but I never thought about it. Alyssa kept getting sicker and sicker and the treatments weren't helping much. I couldn't think of living in a world without her, but as the days dragged on, that seemed to be what was going to happen. Somehow, she was taking it better than I was, but she had always been emotionally stronger than I was. All I could do was cry at her bedside in the hospital.

"First George and now you, I can't do this Alyssa." I cried out, finally loosing it one night.

"It can't be helped... that's how life is." She said, her voice weak and tired.

I couldn't keep it a secret anymore, "But you don't get it, it's my fault George is dead. It should have been me driving that morning, if I had..."

She cut me off, "If you had been driving, maybe you both would have died, and Elizabeth wouldn't have had a father. And I wouldn't have had a husband here beside me now. There's no way to say you could have changed anything."

It felt like George was dying again, "I... I didn't want to pick him up, I choose work over him. If I was a better parent, he wouldn't..."

She cut me off again, "A better parent? You've been a great parent. You can't blame yourself for what happened, it was just his time. And soon it will be my time."

"I can't..." I started

"You'll have to." She said cutting me off once again. "Promise me; promise you won't keep blaming yourself for his death."

I heard her EKG beeping wildly and I knew this was the most important thing that I could have done for her. I made that promise, wondering if it was possible, but I made that promise to her. Less than a month later, I buried my wife next to my son. I never felt as cold as I did then.

At the funeral, I gave the photo album to Elizabeth and told her about how her brother died. She looked sad, but she wasn't really old enough to remember. Elizabeth moved away after college, marring some guy she met. At the wedding she told me that they had their first date at a coffee shop, just like how we did. When I got home I cried, I thought of my wife and just how amazing she really was. I thought of George and wanted to blame myself, but I remembered the promise that I had made, and forced myself not to. I thought of George’s smile, how he laughed when I played peek a boo with him, how he smiled when he saw me the first day after school. I felt joy that died with him coming back in a swell of emotions. And for the first time in a very long time, I cried, feeling the sadness but also the happiness of my life.

Sometimes you can't wake up from your dreams.

Fin

Author’s notes

I really wanted to try something else. This story really doesn’t belong here, but since there was sex involved, I couldn’t place it anywhere else. But I’m really curious to what people think, thou I doubt more than five people will ever stumble across this story.

I’ve got too many people to thank, so thanks to everyone who’s ever left me any form of feedback.