Chapter 5: Dreams

August 5, 1980

I’d been afraid that I wouldn’t sleep after the nap, even after dealing with things. I shouldn’t have worried. I read for an hour and then nodded off. That night I dreamed.

I’d had vivid dreams before. Some were very vivid. When I was in late elementary school, a recurring nightmare had plagued me. It always ended with me in a desperate situation — often, about to die in some awful way. Being baked to death was common. Along the way it had flying, being naked — all the usual standbys — but the endings were always awful.

It got so bad that I did what any self-respecting nerd plagued by bad dreams would do — I went to the library, checked out a book on dreams, then a second, until I found one that would help. I learned the basics of lucid dreaming — not the whole package, but just enough so anytime the dream headed south I could step in and redirect things to a triumphant escape.

So, I’m no stranger to complicated and realistic dreams. This one still stood out. It was summer, by the lighting, and I was with a gang of guys — a baker’s dozen, counting me. We had all biked to Mike Winterford’s house and were taking advantage of their pool. Mike lived in a giant house. At the time none of us wasted time on social standing, but in retrospect, Mike’s parents must have been good at something. Something that made a lot of money. Three-story house with giant rooms and plush furniture rich. Elevator in the house rich. Giant pool in the backyard rich.

The other guys were Brian, Richard, Andy, Marcus, Dan, Mark & Morty, Eric, Stan, Amit, and Farzad. My first time around, I would have been ignorant of the demographics of this group; this time, I noticed it. The first seven were from upper-middle-class to just plain upper-class families. Mark and Morty were twins, which made them stand out a little. Then two Jewish kids; none of us understood what being Jewish was, just that they were a little different but still friends. And then an Indian kid, and finally Farzad, who, in 1980, claimed resolutely to be from Persia and most definitely not from Iran. We all knew what was going on in Iran. That had nothing to do with Farzad, who was a cool guy and whose parents were loyalists to the Shah.

We batted a ball around, playing a half-assed form of water polo, chased each other, splashed half the water out of the pool, demolished a small mountain of sandwiches that Mrs. Winterford (the second, I was guessing - she was too young to be Mike’s actual mom) brought out, then attacked each other with a bunch of guns that fired little rubber pellets. We played some board games indoors. Good ones; Mike was into that. We watched a bit of TV and then split up and headed home.

The most interesting thing about this dream wasn’t that I could remember it when I woke, nor that it was ridiculously vivid. No, the most interesting thing about this dream was that I was certain it had happened. This summer. Before last night I would’ve been able to have told you Farzad’s name — it was so unusual that it stuck with me for forty-plus years — and that I had had a friend with a three-story house and an elevator. Everything else? There’s no chance I knew any of that. Now? I could walk up to any of those guys and manage a plausible conversation with them. I didn’t know them, not yet, just associated a few details with each of them. But I knew who they were.

Maybe the fourteen-year-old me was in there and the parts were knitting together? I was desperately hoping so.

Dream or not, I was not feeling ready to meet with any friends yet. Staying around the house was my only option, anyway. I was grounded, and grounded meant no friends over. However, grounded didn’t necessarily mean staying inside the house.

“Mom! Um, look ... I know better than anyone what happened the last time, but, I feel like I need to get over my fears. Can I ride my bike just on our street? No going anywhere else, promise. But I want to get back to it before I get scared of it. And you know I need it for school.”

If I didn’t ride my bike to school, mom would have to take me. Or I’d have to take the bus. The bus was a last resort. Only losers without bikes rode the bus. Mom might want to take Angie, but with any luck at all, we could ride together. Angie was riding to the mall today. The mall was two miles past the school in the same direction, so if she could ride there, school would be easy.

“I... “ she sighed. “OK, yes. Just in the neighborhood. But no going into anyone’s house. And no climbing the tree. You can’t take the risk of something happening.”

“Thanks, Mom!”

“Wait!” Uh oh. “There’s more. Doctor Simmons made us promise that you would wear this.” She presented a bike helmet, new, still in its package.

This was 1980. No one wore bike helmets, not yet. In just a few years they’d be common, but right now? I’d look like a dork. I actually believed strongly in helmets, but it’d be out of character for fourteen-year-old me to just accept a helmet.

“Aww, mom! Do I have to?” That was a concession. Anytime I said ‘Do I have to?’ the answer was going to be yes. We both knew it. If I really wanted out of it, I’d have started down a different path.

“Yes. Yes, you have to. And so does Angie. She hated the idea even more than you sound like you do, but she could hardly say anything after what happened to you.” I hoped it hadn’t really upset Angie, because however nice she’d been last night, if this was a surprise this morning I might find that a thing of the past.

“Fine.” I reached out my hand, took the box. “I promise I’ll wear it. Every time. It’ll look dorky, but it’s not like this past week has been any fun for me and I don’t want to make it worse.”

“Good. Now be safe and be good, and I’ll see you when you want lunch.” She hugged me, I hugged her back, and then I headed to the back door. I stopped to sit on the couch, opened the helmet box, and figured out how to adjust it so it fit. It was a bit annoying, but manageable. Once it I had it on right, I headed out, grabbed my bike, and got going.

Our street was a long, curvy street that opened, on both ends, onto Memorial Drive, the major through street in our area. Our area being the suburb it was, Memorial was only two lanes wide and the speed limit was low. From a traffic planning standpoint, it made no sense. From a ‘peaceful suburban oasis’ standpoint, it was great.

When mom said just our street, she meant it. That meant not the handful of side streets that opened off our street, on which friends, or at least past friends, lived. There was still plenty of room to get up a good speed on my bike. I needed to get reacquainted with biking. After all, while ‘I’ might have ridden it up and down hills before wrecking it just a week ago, it’d been ten years since I’d been on a bike in my previous life.

That phrase ‘just like riding a bike’? It applied here. It took me until the third time I stopped and turned around before I realized I hadn’t even thought about braking, I’d just done it. Before school started, though, I wanted to replace this beloved bike with something more practical for school. This bike had coaster brakes and one gear. I needed a better one to commute to school. I’d noticed Angie’s was a ten-speed; that’s what I’d need.

Since I wasn’t thinking about the act of biking, I thought about biking in a broader sense. If you’d asked fifty-five-year-old me, I’d have said I was always fat. Fat in junior high, fat in high school. Fat in college, fat in grad school. It’d ebbed and flowed, but it was a constant.

Turns out, that was less true than I thought. Oh, right now I was almost the definition of husky. Not fat, but not thin. Not athletic, but fairly fit. I was pushing it on the bike and feeling fine, even in Houston’s midday August heat. The plans I made in the hospital had included getting in shape. I didn’t need to get athletic, just in shape. Football was out. I wasn’t kidding when I said that to Angie. Baseball? I don’t think I could hit that well. Soccer? Maybe, maybe not. It’d be brutal in this weather, but I remembered holding my own in pick-up games in PE the first time through.

Then there were martial arts. I’d passed on those before, but even then I’d thought that might have been a mistake. Perhaps that would be a wise move. I didn’t need to be the school hero in anything (and wouldn’t be) but I wanted to be in solid shape, fit, and able to handle myself.

I rode my bike for about four hours. By the end I was sweaty (no surprise there) but not worn out (which was a surprise). I rode up to the house, locked my bike, and headed in, yelled “Hi, Mom! I need a shower!” and headed into my room. Halfway into stripping, I realized this wasn’t a good idea anymore. Angie was presumably still at the mall — her bike hadn’t been there — but who knew what might happen?

I put clothes back on, grabbed new ones, and headed to the bathroom. I’d skipped a shower yesterday — didn’t need one, I’d had one at the hospital and hadn’t done anything since — so this was my first time pulling back the shower curtain and finding that there were plenty of extra bottles and assorted other things. Angie’s stuff. Shampoo, conditioner, lotion. A razor. Shaving cream. Bubble bath. Even a candle. Apparently my sister liked baths. I did too, but it looked like there’d be more competition now.

It was easy to tell which stuff was mine. I hit the lock on the door, stripped, got the water just right, and climbed in.

After my shower, I dressed and headed to the kitchen. By now it was mid-afternoon — late for lunch, but that happened a lot. Mom had made sandwiches, ham and cheese. I was going to have to look into adjusting some things, but these weren’t bad. Worse were the chocolates. I’d eaten too much chocolate before. That was easy to fix. So was the Coke; I drank a bit, but poured most out.

“Mom, I want to change a few things next year. Like, more exercise, less junk food.”

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head again?” She laughed, looking at me. “Seriously, you? I know you tried a couple years ago, but it didn’t last.”

I shook my head. “Different time, different situation. I’m doing OK right now, but you know the doctor wants me to lose a bit. I can, right now, and I’ll feel better, the doctor will feel better, everyone will.”

“That’s fine, honey, if it’s what you want. I’m already buying more healthy snacks for Angie. She didn’t eat much junk food. Well, with Frank, anyway.”

“Just get more of that. Also, I’m going to cut way back on Coke. Maybe some tea? Without a lot of sugar?” Mom’s idea of tea was very sugary instant tea. That was better, but not much better.