Exercise 3 - Misplaced

I wake with a gasp. The streetlight cuts through my shade, casting blue stripes on the dresser. The dog stirs and lifts his head. I whisper for him to go back to sleep and roll over onto my back to stare at the ceiling and wonder why I woke up.

Wait, I was dreaming.

I dreamt that my father and I were fishing. We were in a little rowboat in the middle of a vast lake. It was quiet save the whirring sound of our rods, as we fooled with the lines and awaited nibbles. Occasionally, he'd ask me how I was doing, and I would smile. I didn't know. I was a kid. I only knew I was fishing with my father, and it was fun. He would ruffle my hair and smile that handsome grin of his that made his blue eyes twinkle, and then he would stare out at the still, still water. It was hot. I could feel the sweat rolling down my back from under my damp hair. He rested his fishing pole across his leg and reached in his pocket. A moment later, something glimmered in the sunlight, and he asked me if I wanted to hold it. I reached for it, and the boat tipped a little with my movement. He laughed, the sound echoing off the trees, and he placed it in my palm.

I sit straight up in bed, sleep abandoning me entirely. My heart in a vise, I swing my legs around and clock the dog in his side. He whines in pain and jumps off the bed, trotting down the hall.

"I'm sorry, boy," I call after him. My bare feet smack the floor, and I flip on the overhead light. The windows turn black in the harsh light, and I squint, my eyes finding the clock. 4:12 A.M. I rub my face and sigh.

Where is it . . . where is it . . . where is it . . . a mantra in my head. I grit my teeth and think hard. I can't sleep again till I find it. Where is it? Oh, Christ, what did I do with it?

I bend down and yank open my bottom dresser drawer, pawing through winter sweaters like I actually think I will find it. I slam that drawer shut and yank open another. In the hallway behind me, I hear the dog settling into uneasy rest with a long, loud sigh, his old limbs lowering him to the rug. I slam the third drawer shut and yank open the second, working my way up. Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.

He rested his fishing pole across his leg and reached in his pocket. A moment later, something glimmered in the sunlight, and he asked me if I wanted to hold it. I reached for it, and the boat tipped a little with my movement. He laughed, the sound echoing off the trees, and he placed it in my palm.

When I accidentally slam my thumb in the top drawer, I emit a string of expletives that send the dog skittering downstairs to take cover until the storm subsides. Sucking my thumb, I rifle through my bedside tables one at a time, finding nothing.

"God-DAMN-it," I say, pushing the hair back from my face and groaning. Where could it be? My thumb throbbing, I pull the stool over to the closet and yank the string to turn on the light. Why in the world would I have put it in one of these boxes? Why would I have done that? I start pulling shoe boxes off the shelves, glancing in and dropping them to the floor where their contents spill out in a pile of leather and cardboard.

Through tears, I empty the closet shelves and step down, stumbling into the door. I paw through my clothes, seeking pockets (he reached in his pocket. A moment later, something glimmered in the sunlight, and he asked me if I wanted to hold it) and yanking clothes off their hangers. Where is it - I have to find it - oh, God, if I lost it, I wouldn't have lost it - where is it - put it someplace safe so I wouldn't lose it - how could I have forgotten where it is - oh, Jesus, oh God, please let me find it - please ---

And my fingers hit something solid. I stop. I stumble backward and trip on the stool, falling against the wall and dragging the coat with me. I hug it to my chest like I would hold a child, and I begin crying in earnest (I reached for it, and the boat tipped a little with my movement. He laughed, the sound echoing off the trees, and he placed it in my palm).

I pull it free from the pocket and look at it. Even in the harsh overhead light of the bedroom, it glimmers like it did all those years ago on the lake. The years have worn away some of its luster, but he tied the skirts himself and never hooked it so I wouldn't cut my hands.

I remember turning it over in my fingers, thinking it was something magical. It was so beautiful with its greens and blues, and its beautiful tendrils. I didn't realize then it had been designed to shine to attract fish to their deaths. Moments after he had put the lure in my hand, he had gotten a bite. When he had pulled the fish from the water and it flopped bloodily around the body of the boat, I had cried and screamed for him to let the fish go. He had complied, gently unhooking the little guy and releasing him back into the lake. Then he had pulled me up against him and held me until I stopped crying. The whole time I clung to his shirt, I had held the little lure in my fist. He had never asked for it back, not even when I told him I would never go fishing with him again.

Slowly, I sink down onto the stool and stare out the window at the approaching dawn. From time to time, I brush what remains of the skirts against my palm.

Mostly, I just breathe.