Second draft:
I had The Dream again that night, waking with tears running down my face and the old, suffocating weight in my chest. The Dream might start in different places and times, but always ended the same way.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of the van, idly watching the reflection of flashing red and blue and orange lights on wet pavement and broken glass as we wait for the emergency vehicles to finish and move so we can get home. An officer knocks on the driver’s door and motions for Dad to get out. All I hear is, “Are you David Sanders?” before the door closes. I don’t know what they want with him, but as they walk into the confusion of lights I’m confident it will be sorted out quickly. Then Dad stops walking. I roll down the window enough to try and hear what’s going on, but there’s too much noise of rain and engines and men shouting. I roll the window back up until all the sound is cut off. I watch as the officer guides him to sit in the back of an ambulance, like he can’t move on his own. They talk for a while and then Dad slides to his knees on the floor of the ambulance, bent over and rocking and obviously sobbing. I throw open the door to run to him, to find out what happened and make him tell me everything’s all right, but another officer stops me and then I remember I can’t leave Millie and the baby. I ask what’s wrong but he won’t tell me. I’m sitting in a big bubble with two sleeping children, and I refuse to understand what’s going on but I’m sure now that everything is not all right and may never be again. I close my eyes tight, to shut out sight as well as sound.
On good nights, it ended there. On bad ones, it went on. This was not a good night.
I don’t open my eyes until the car door opens and my bubble pops. Most of the flashing lights are gone now, and the rain has stopped. A female officer is standing in the open door. Dad is still in the back of the ambulance, but at least he’s sitting up again. The officer says something about taking us home. I’m really scared now, and try to insist on staying as long as Dad is here, but the sound of her voice has woken Owen and I have to focus on that. I want to unbuckle and rock him but the officer says we need to go, so I wipe off the pacifier he dropped, then tickle and coo at him until he stops crying. Millie doesn’t wake up through this, and I’m grateful. The officer gets behind the wheel. I protest, but she just drives on. Dad looks up as we pass, but his eyes are hollow and I don't think he sees us. When we get home Uncle Jack and Lillian are there, and I can no longer pretend I don’t know Mom is dead. Lillian hugs me with tears in her eyes and then takes charge of Owen while the officer takes Uncle Jack into the kitchen. I pick Millie up to carry her to bed; she wakes and asks where Daddy is. I can tell she knows something is wrong; when I say he’s not here she starts crying and won’t stop. I hold her and let her cry herself back to sleep on my shoulder, while I slowly go numb. I put Millie to bed, then just sit in a chair and wait. I carefully don't think about anything. When they finally bring Dad home he looks almost dead himself. We cling to each other and cry for a long, long time, but we can’t bring ourselves to say the words. I determine never to think them again, and lock them away in a hidden corner of my mind where they can’t hurt me. When I go to bed, I wrap the numbness around me until I feel almost safe.
Waking up “in the bubble” wasn’t too bad, and I was usually able to go back to sleep fairly easily. On the nights when I didn’t wake up until the end, I didn’t dare try — not after the first time, when I dreamed I was in the car with her, trapped and staring at her dead face as we slowly sank into the river.
I looked at the clock; it read 3:47. I switched on the light and pulled a Pratchett novel from my bookcase, hoping that a quick trip to the Discworld would let me sleep.