one

Saturday, early morning, 13-Mar-2010
22 days before Easter

Nathan Tate’s recurring dreams were so vivid, so frequent, and so familiar they’d become memories, as real to him as his wedding day to Susannah, as the pot he’d lifted out of the kiln yesterday, as the dead fly on the windowsill.

He flicked the fly away and pressed his forehead against the cool window pane. Moonlight filtered into his bedroom, highlighting sweat-soaked sheets and the water glass he’d knocked over. He couldn’t get the goldfinches out of his head, always memories of goldfinches.

No, they were dream figments. Weren’t they?

Memory was a slippery mistress, indeed.

At least he hadn’t screamed this time. He knew this because Zoe wasn’t in the room with him, hovering, comforting, insisting that it was just a dream.

He backed away from the window and its peaceful view of the pastures beyond his cluttered backyard, taking care not to step on the floorboard that liked to squeal underfoot. He pulled off his damp t-shirt and knelt to sop up the water. The water glass hadn’t broken, and he set it back on the night table.

Behind him, the door creaked as it swung open. Nathan kept wiping, holding his hand steady.

“Dad? Are you all right?” Zoe hurried to his side and knelt. “Here, let me help you.”

“I’m fine. Woke up thirsty, that’s all.”

She plucked the shirt from his hand and swiped at the floorboards he’d already dried. He climbed back into bed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He congratulated himself for not tensing when Zoe kissed him on the forehead as if she were the adult and he the child returned to the nest. Child, no. She was twenty now, but still young in so many ways. She didn’t realize, or maybe she didn’t care, that she’d brought the memories back with her when she’d shown up on his doorstep two weeks previously.

I’ll be fine, he reassured himself as Zoe padded across the room and clicked the bedroom door shut behind her.