In the dream, Sheila’s sitting on a pillar, like a first-century ascetic monk. It’s not a tall pillar; standing at the base of it, I’m on eye level with her toes. Her legs cross in lotus position, hands resting palm-up on her knees. It is supposed to make her seem wise.
“Speak to me, O Wise One.” How annoying, to have to refer to her as such.
She grins. Her eyes drift closed. She falls as still as her corpse was when I had to go and look at it in the funeral home. In the dream, she still looks like herself, though. Not painted fake and frozen. Not the freaky Sheila death mask that springs from the back of my mind like a jack-in-the-box at the most inopportune moments.
“I’d like for you to calm down,” she says. “It’s all going to work out eventually.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Yeah. Right.”
“You don’t have any proof of that.”
“I have proof of everything now.”
“Yeah?”
She opens her eyes. “No, doofus. You think I’m all-seeing just because I’m dead? I’m totally bullshitting you.”
“That’s mean.”
“Don’t you think you’ll be happier if you just tell them?”
“Either happier or more miserable, depending on how it goes.”
“They love you.”
“They hate gays.”
“They don’t hate gays. They believe what the church tells them.”
“Which is to hate gays.”
“Well … yeah.”
“Soooo, how am I supposed to…?”
“Buy Dad a book about it.”
“Do you think that will help?”
“Worth a try.”
“Try means there’s a possibility of failing.”
“Do your homework. Prep for class. You’re an honor student, aren’t you?”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“I’m not here to help you.”
“I thought…”
“Dude, I’m dead. I’m just here to annoy you.”
“Sheil.”
“Kerm.”
“Just tell me what to do.”
“Tell yourself.”
“Please.”
“Tell Mom and Dad.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“How about something fucking useful?”
“The sun is warm. The grass is green.”
“What?”
“It’s some kind of Buddhist thing. The Buddhists are big around here. Why do you think I’m on this frigging pillar?”
“Are you Buddhist now?”
“I’m not anything now.”
“Sheil?”
“Can you even see me?”
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.