This Was a Dream

Our class was seated at a large table, a conference table, long and rectangular. The room was cavernous; the windows self-contained but expansive. My phone rang.

"Hello. Mr. ____ would like me to invite you to come stay with us for the summer to thank you for caring for his daughter when she died."

"I'm sorry. What?" I said.

"When you cared for ____ in your home. When she died."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I told the woman.

The class had quieted down and I became aware they were listening to me. I made no effort to hide this conversation, to speak in low tones.

"You know, your brother-in-law, he helped, he was there. You will come stay with Mr. ____ for the summer. He wants to thank you."

I began to feel like I was arguing with someone who had dialed the wrong number. Only there was a dead child floating about this conversation, and the reference to my brother-in-law made sense somewhere inside me.

I offered that perhaps I could recall caring for this girl, but that I certainly did not see her die. The lights in the room had gone out while I was speaking. The professor at the head of the table and the other twenty or so students were highlighted by twilight from the windows, their heads each surrounded by a gray glow, a nimbus.

I hung up the phone. I recounted the conversation to the room, who had already heard it.

I awoke.