Dream Angel : Heaven Waits (20 page)

“It’s not often that one keeps a friend by cheating death, twice,” she said and handed me the goodies. “I’m so glad to have you around my friend.”

Smiling, I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath of the overly sweet substance. I guessed double fudge brownies, and in looking, with nuts. Devilish!

“You always said I should bake more and drink less.” Her voice trailed off. “I-I think it’s time we start doing all those things we said we would.”

I reached out and grabbed her to me. We held each other, both of us shedding a few silent tears.

“Let’s go home and have a taste.” I said, and then remembered her plans. “Oh, I forgot, wonder boy is waiting.”

“He can wait.” She dabbed a tear from her eye.

“Of course he will,” I smiled happily while Heather gave me one more hug, and then surprisingly hugged Jimmy too before leaving.

We watched in horror as she bounced back into traffic, giving little pause. Her careless maneuver inspired a collective blare of disapproval, coming from the drivers in both directions. As the ruckus roared, her tires grabbed pavement and with a screech, she was gone. I could only shake my head.

“May I ask you something?”Jimmy asked by my side, and his tone sounded with a personal note that put me instantly on edge.

Holding my gaze downward, I turned to unlock my car. “Would you like a slice? I can share, but only a small piece.” I kidded, knowing it wasn’t cake he had in mind.

“No Sam, but thank you.” He chuckled, and the gentle sound of his laughter stirred the butterflies inside my stomach.

I hadn’t felt that since? Never mind.

“Bunco wins over treats, huh?” I turned back to him and those hazel eyes of his, so concentrating and warming, made me feel all cozy inside despite my lack of a jacket.

“Did he break your heart?” He’s eyes scanned mine, searching for the truth.

I have no idea why his question stunned me, but it did. And though I'm sure my wide eyed expression gave away my shock, Jimmy looked away first.

“I’m intruding.”

“No.” I quickly took his hands in mine. “He didn’t hurt me, he loved me.”

The word “love” felt good on my lips. It rolled off my tongue so naturally, even I paused. I had never spoken so honestly with one man about loving another. And while I was busy feeling exposed from such openness, Jimmy’s eyes remained soft. I wondered if he had a love story of his own to share. The empathy I saw in his eyes told me he did, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I couldn’t bare another love story with a sad ending.

When he drew me in for a hug good bye, I instantly resisted — a reflex I hadn't yet overcome.

“Maybe you’ll share your story with me one day?” He eased me out of his arms, and looked down to me with eyes that were now as misty as my own.

“Maybe, if you share yours first.” I grinned up at him, and watched closely as he struggled to restrain his knowing smile.

“Someday,” he said with a nod, and then a cautionary wave of his index finger.

***

When I walked through my front door, right away, I heard Heather rummaging around in the kitchen. What was she up to now? Surely her domesticated self was worn out after the trying task of baking brownies? I inwardly snickered as I headed to join her in the kitchen. And I was just about to cross over the threshold when a loud crash, like glass to tile, sounded and an “I’ll replace that” followed. Now, I openly laughed.

“Did you invite him to join us?” She asked with her back to me, and her hands deep inside my cabinets.

“In so many words, yes, but he declined.”

She shot me a grimacing look over my shoulder.

“I did!” I was aware that Heather feared I’d be alone forever, but such things weren’t ours to worry about. Everything in God’s own time — I’d learned that the hard way.

“That’s it then?” She dropped a plate in front of me with a clamor and a frown. It rattled around, and then settled face up, thankfully unbroken.

Accepting my thoughts on the matter, she turned without a word and went back to busying herself with the business at hand, whatever that was.

“Well,” she finally sighed, “I suppose when it’s time you’ll step back into life.”

“I suppose.” Normally I hate negativity, but as far as I was concerned, the game of life had all but rejected me. The next move wasn’t mine, I wanted to say, but I held back any further retort.

Leaning a little to the right, I watched as Heather opened the fridge and began a whole new quest. And when she quickly spun around, a bottle in one hand and what looked like chilled wine glasses in the other, I quickly sat up straighter. She was headed right for me, wielding the bottle while balancing glasses and simultaneously tugging on the corked top. I thought how she looked like an uncoordinated juggler, and cautiously scooted back to give her more room. A second later a pop echoed.

“We can’t have brownies without champagne.” She smiled triumphantly.

“Of course not!”

Not an aficionado, I had never even tasted champagne. Alcohol just wasn’t offered in my family circle, not even at weddings, there for an opportunity had never presented itself. Looking back now, it seems fitting that Heather should be the one to pour me my first glass.

I was fascinated as the sparkling beverage hit the side of the glass and bounced in festive spirits. Terrific, I thought as the fizz raced to the top, and not a drop foamed over. She was indeed talented.

“Here’s to a new start.” I lifted my chilled glass, and tilted it her way.

I was eager to experience my first champagne toast, but she didn't budge.

“What?”

Her frown deepened. “You’re really going to toast to a new start and not tell me what happened tonight at Dalton’s? Why you raced to aid a stranger?”

“I paid her bill, so what.” I didn’t want to talk about my new gift. I was tired of being “that” weird friend.

Her gaze was penetrating. And as she sat there with her flute up, but not moving, I kept my eyes steady and my smile big.

“Liar,” she finally said, and then we toasted with stemware that not only chimed but hummed.

“Are you alright with me leaving?” Heather asked, standing on the front porch, hesitant to say goodbye.

“P-h-e-s-t,” I waved a hand at her.

“I always said you should drink more but two glasses, Samantha, that’s all you’ve had.” She shook her head at me and then leaned in closer. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I’m fine, really. Go have fun.”

“Don’t get in your car and drive, Ok?”

“Check.” I said with a wink.

Unconvinced, she made no move to leave.

“Where’s your key’s?” She let out a conflicting sigh.

I scrunched up my nose in an effort to think, but when nothing came, she grunted and stomped passed me. As she headed for the phone station, and I assumed my purse, I looked up into a sky now blackened by the storm from earlier.

When I’m right, I’m right
, I nodded to nobody in particular.

“Now you
can’t
go anywhere,” Heather shook the car keys at me as she passed through the front door.

“Check.”

“Stop saying that!” She spun back to me with a scowl, and merely I flashed a silly grin.

“Call me if you need something,” she hollered over her shoulder as she stepped out into a wet night.

Just for fun, I considered throwing out one more “check”, just to get under her skin, but decided against it. She was already two hours late for her date because of me, and I could tell by the sporadic bounce in her gate that she was excited.

If she was happy, I was happy, she was happy
. I paused, and then hiccupped.
Whatever
.

I closed the door, locked it, and then I rechecked it, but only once. That’s an improvement, I thought with a smirk, and if I don’t recheck it all night, a new record. Course the night was young.

All and all, I'd had the best day. I’d spent it driving aimlessly — going nowhere important — eating with great company, and now with a glass of newly discovered bubbly warming my belling, the evening held promise. It promised me a good night’s sleep, that’s what it promised, I snickered. Admittedly, I was sleepy, loose as a goose, and if I thought about it long enough, drunk. Turns out, I liked wine. Who knew, I thought as I toddled down the hallway. I’d say I staggered, but a lady never staggers. At least that’s what I told myself as I stepped through the threshold of my bedroom, took one steady step, and then tripped over my own two feet, stumbling to the bed.

“S-shush.” I placed a finger to my lips, and stereotypically inspected the floor. “I-I gotta fix that.”

Except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan over my head, the room was quiet with a peaceful fuzzy glow. Then I looked up, and my eyes followed the spin of the fan blade. Oh! Quickly, I averted my gaze and set the champagne flute to the night table.

“Stay!” I pointed at it, still blinking in an effort to stop my internal spiral.

Unzipping my dress, I gave a little wiggle and the fabric fell to ground. Next, I twitched my foot, and flung the garment across the room.

“I’ll call the maid tomorrow.” I laughed at my own joke, and then in looking at the clock by my bed, realized… it was tomorrow! Where did the time go?

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I was pondering the night's events when my stomach spoke up. It sounded angry and bitter. On second thought, I’m not sure I like wine, I reflected as I rubbed my tummy. Not so much.

With a wobbly hand, I snatched my nightgown out from my secret hiding place — under my pillow — and slipped it on, backwards. I didn’t care. Crawling into bed, I banished my down comforter to the foot of the mattress, and pulled the sheets up to my face. I was finally settled.

Outside, I could hear the faint sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. Since my attack, I found it hard to sleep during a storm but tonight was pleasantly different. I suppose the alcohol helped, but I was very relaxed. And as the wind rattled the windows on my tiny house, my eyes became heavy, until soon, a veil of darkness fell.

As I sank deeper, a surge of remembering rushed in. Maybe it was the wine, or possibly plain human weakness that led me to my true hearts desires, but I was powerless to stop it. Memories flashed through my head at the speed of light. That laugh, those sapphire blue eyes, and that voice. All of it stirred me closer to what I longed for, what I desired.

The time travel was instant. One moment I was in my warm bed and the next I was standing upright, looking down at a set of delicate feet. The toes were familiar, petite, and painted in the same color as the red shag carpet that enveloped them. Bewildered, and half believing I must still be drunk, I gave my own foot a quick shake and saw the appendage I was admiring move. Yup, they’re mine, I thought, and I'm not sure why, but I let out a sigh of relief.

Inspecting the carpet closer now, it seemed so — dare I think it —
1970
. And as I stood there an understanding raced, one filled with a truth that I wasn't sure I could face. I had been here before, but still, I refused to look up.

Why was I bent on torturing myself? The question spun as I used my peripheral vision to peek at my immediate surroundings. In front of me, I could see the front door, a white colonial style door. And when I looked to my left, at the farthest of my parameter, I realized the red carpet wove through the entire foyer and well into the living room. The red was so vibrant; it accented the white and red velvet furniture perfectly. My heart skipped a beat. At this point, there was no need to look any further. I knew that beyond the formal living quarters, I'd find yet another entrance, decorated with two stain glass peacocks, and once across that threshold, a grand piano — also known as the music room.

I was at Graceland! Not Graceland of present, but worse — Graceland of the past. The question was when? What year?

“77.” I heard myself say, and then I squeezed my eyes closed, not wanting to believe it.

A tiny seed of worry festered. It started in the darkest corner of my subconscious, and quickly reached the forefront of my psyche. There was no ignoring what I “had” to do now. I had to go upstairs, and yet what was the point? I had come so far accepting my fate — plus or minus — why put myself through the misery? He wasn’t here, the thought swelled as I lifted my eyes and my attention fell to the stain glass “P” placed over the doorway.

Presley
. I covered my face, and let out a painful moan.

Once again, I was sabotaging myself, inhibiting my recovery. It was always the same, one steps forward two steps back. And while I was busy ranting about that very fact, a ruckus rumbled from upstairs like that of a book case falling to the floor. I looked up to the chandelier that now swayed with the vibration, while straining to hear the smallest sound coming from “the room”, I knew, was over me.

This is just a dream
, I could hear my own thoughts as they narrated the action like in a movie. As I stood there, I struggled with the idea that my loving compassionate friend, and the man I still loved, could very well be taking his last breath while I stood by doing nothing.
No, this isn't real
, I shook my head. This was not August 16th. This wasn’t even 1977!

“This is a dream!” I shouted, stomping my foot against the floor.

This nightmare was the booze talking, that’s all,
I nodded to myself as if it was just that simple. Course, I’ll never drink booze as long as I live, I thought, and crossing my arms defiantly across my chest.

My imagination raced as I conjured up a fear as real as any I’d ever felt before. The rhythm thump-thump of each inhaled breath clattered like an out of tune symphony in my ear. The more I did nothing, the louder it became.

“Uh-h-h,” I groaned, and a moment later, I blasted up the white plush staircase.

I took the steps two at time, racing my reflection in the mirror at my side. On my next inhale, I reached the landing, grabbed hold of the spindles, and flung myself through the turn. On the exhale, I arrived breathless and shaky at the top. Panting, I reached out for the door that led to Elvis’ private sanctuary. I paused only briefly before grabbing hold and giving it a good yank.

The door creaked as it opened. My gaze floated down a shadowy hall, but I didn't move a muscle. My feet simply wouldn’t budge. The passage was deep and narrow. And with a low ceiling, it reminded me of a closed up attic. The mere sight of such a slight space inspired a familiar panic, and the phobia’s I’d worked months to overcome — such as dark spaces with no way out — crept back with a vengeance.

My hands began to shake. And in an attempt to control my escalating emotions, I forced myself to focus on what I knew to be true. Like the fact that there were three bedrooms, not counting Elvis’, on this floor. Which meant the hall only appeared to end in blackness. In reality it turned to the right, and led deeper into the house, back to more rooms. That meant the main room — Elvis’ room — was off to my left. I could see it from where I stood. All I had to do was take that first step.

As my anxiety rose, my surrounding blurred. The floor under my feet went soft, and I felt divided, as if I existed in two realms. I clearly felt my body lying in my bed back in Atlanta while I stood at Graceland. Part of me just wanted it all to end, but my reckless nature — dare I say my dysfunctional half — clung on to the vision with all my might. I had to know if he was here, and wouldn't leave until I'd checked for myself.

Determined, I swung my arms and jumped through the threshold like an Olympian in the standing long jump. I landed flat footed, and without hesitation took off at a dead run. I hit the first set of double doors at full speed and pushed through. Glancing around, I noticed one small piano, a good size desk, and a gun collection in a case over the couch against the wall. I cannot say what else, as a second later I found myself in front of a second set of double doors, padded leather and unlike anything I’d ever seen before. And just like the previous room, I didn’t stop to admire them. I laid my shoulder into the door like a line backer and exploded into the main room — Elvis’ bedroom.

The first thing I saw was a nine foot by nine foot bed. It was decorated with a dark rose velvet comforter, and I admit its grandeur made me pause. I’d never seen a bed that size before. It practically swallowed up the room, and though it was a show-stopper, I only briefly considered it as I continued through to what looked like a small dressing room. Upon entering this room, I made an immediate turn, and finally came to a halt. Immediately my gaze bounced from the black porcelain commode to the sink and then… to the vacant floor.

He isn’t here
, I heaved a sigh of relief.

Drifting further into the room, my heart raced as I leaned heavily onto the black marble vanity top. With my head hung low, I was gasping for a breath as the tears streamed. I knew it was silly to cry, but a mix of overwhelming happiness and desolate sadness filled me.

He wasn’t here
, the words just kept repeating, and had I not been clutching the sink basin, I would have melted to my knees in a sobbing heap.

When a few moments had passed, my emotions settled. My trembling hands stilled, and my mind cleared — as much as one can expect for a dream. Soon, my curiosity raged and the details around me beckoned. Everything, from the wide mirror, framed in large cosmetic lights, to everyday items such as tooth paste and antacid, strewn about the counter in a disorganized mess, captured my interest. They sparkled like treasured gems rather than ordinary everyday condiments. And this moment was so surreal, yet only one thought reigned — “I” was standing in Elvis’ private quarters.

A new excitement swelled as I eyeballed a dark green bottle of Brut, pushed off to the side with the lid cracked as if it had just been used. I goaded myself to touch it, pondering the ramifications, for the time span of a heart, before grabbing it and lifting it to my nose. I inhaled deeply, relishing a scent that was so familiar but not “quite” right. In fact, it was downright wrong, I thought. The aroma without the man was not at all as exquisite as I remembered, and I could only rationalize that the chemical makeup of the man, mixed with the fragrance, is what had created this love potion I so craved. Disappointed, I returned the bottle back to its rightful place.

More at ease, I finally looked up and caught my likeness in the mirror. Beads of perspiration glistened over my face, and the matted mess my hair was in horrified me. Gathering my locks with both hands, I wound until my long strains served as its own make shift pony tail. Crafty, I thought. And when I stepped back to get the full picture, my chuckle died. What was I wearing?

Leaning forward, I inspected a blue satin shirt that was so long it reached down to my thighs. Disbelieving my own reflection, I lifted my arms, and my wrists disappeared inside the cuffs. I shook the sleeves and grimaced, instantly feeling like some kind of circus clown. And to make matters worse, at further inspection, I had no pants. Great! Where were my pants? I was busy pondering the mystery, when I noticed two embroidered initials, sewn onto the breast pocket of my shirt, seconding as a tent. My eyes widened as the letter’s “E.P” told me all I needed to know.

“Looking for me?” A familiar voice drawled.

Hovering over the sink, with my nose practically touching the mirror, I glanced up to my reflection and then behind — to Elvis. He was leaning casually against the door frame, arms crossed over his bare chest and a grin fixed on his face.

“You have my shirt,” he said with a gleam in his eyes and a measure of attitude in his tone.

It was only his reflection, but still, I struggled to hold his gaze.

“You have my pants.” I turned, and mimicking his in-charge stance, I folded my arms rather defiantly across my chest.

Now face to face with the actual man, my confidence waivered, and with circus clown cuffs drooping over my elbows like a wet dish cloth, it was a stretch from the start. And when I caught him smirking at me, I knew I'd lost my edge.

“I rushed up here to—” I tried, but the sight of him already nodding along made me pause. Why is he looking at me like, like I’m lunch? I thought and then cringed, remembering my thoughts were not my own.