This is why things like my husband passing out spins me in and out of the past.

PLEASE OH PLEASE

The sound of a kitten in danger grows faint as the whirring blades of a lawnmower draw near. I see a small honey-colored ball of fur up ahead and I have seconds to save it from the mower’s path. I push and pull and shove, but the kitten does not move. Only then do I realize it’s buried up to it’s neck in the frozen, winter mud. The fumes, the roar, the power of the chopping blades attack, and the cry of the kitten is silenced .

I try to shake off yet another nightmare, even though gooseflesh crawls up my neck, around my throat and threatens to suffocate me. Last night's dream woke me up when I heard the loud splash of a brick tied to a bag full of kittens hit the water in Salem harbor. Not nearly as frightening as the lawnmower's whirring blades I still hear now, even though I'm awake.

I close my eyes and listen to my heart ticking out the seconds of my life. I wonder why I dream of dead kittens. Since Dad died, I think a lot about death for a twelve-year-old. He died in his sleep , Nana said, so now I'm afraid to close my eyes for fear I'll wake up dead. Sometimes, I envision myself lying in a casket, my dead hands draped with Rosary beads, just like Dad's. The
only difference is, my flesh is warm and I feel pain.

I sit up lightning fast when my heart stops ticking and starts pounding instead. The whirring sound has been replaced with a rattling gurgle and I know this is not another dream. Alarmed, I scramble out of bed sensing danger. Anxiety twists my stomach tight around my lungs till I stop breathing, then rushes me to my brother's room where I flip on the light. Stephen's chest is heaving, up and up it rises, almost convulsing as he tries to draw an impossible breath.

A burnt bottle cap and a hypodermic needle are on his night-stand. "Stephen?" No response. I see his lips are purple. "Oh my God, Stephen!" I move in slow motion and touch his cold, clammy arm then jerk my hand back with dread. His dying skin reminds me of my father's lifeless hands that made me cringe when I touched them. The only difference is that Stephen's aren't stiff. Yet.

With rubbery legs I fall into Brian and David's room, trying not to panic. "Brian wake up, there's something wrong with Stephen. ******* it Brian! WAKE UP!" But he's high on heroin and doesn't react right away. "David! GET UP! There's something wrong with Stephen." David opens his eyes and hears the gurgle. He rushes into Stephen's room, takes one look and slaps him
across the face. Hard. I turn my face to the wall and try to escape by pushing into it with all my might.

Please don't let him die, Daddy. Please.

I don't know what to do, where to go, how to help. I want to wake my mother up but don't want her to see this. Brian is up now, sitting on Stephen's chest. Slap - Slap - "Stephen, wake up" Slap - Slap. I don't understand why they're hurting him. Please oh - please don't slap the dying.

"I’m going downstairs to get Ma." Hysteria pulses through my veins and catches in my throat.

"No! Don't wake her up! And no cops," Brian warns.

"Get a bucket of water! Now!" David snaps, but I see his eyes are pleading.

Off I go down the curved wooden staircase, putting extra lead in my feet in hopes of waking my mother, who sleeps on the sofa since Dad died. I clang pots and pans around, find a large bowl and fill it with cold water. I’m trying to hurry when I hear her voice come from the darkness in the living room.

"What is it? What’s wrong?" I hear panic in those simple words.

"Something's wrong with Stephen. He can't breathe and he's turning blue," I sputter, relieved she's awake but so damn sad this is all happening.

"Jesus Christ! Why didn't someone wake me?" she asks, not really expecting an answer. The color of fear changes her into someone I don't recognize, but I follow her up the steps, spilling water everywhere.

It's utter chaos now, slapping, screaming, splashing. I think I’ll burst with fear. My mother yells at David, "Hurry up and call an ambulance!" As he runs to the phone she adds, "And tell them not to use the siren!" Guilt and shame make her say that. She doesn't want the neighbors to know the house reeks of addicts.

Both the police and medics are here, shouting their tough guy orders. The commotion and confusion are too much for me to take, so I drift down the hall to my parent's vacant bedroom. I rest my head on the cool window and watch the raindrops flicker, red - white - red - white - red - white. As the ambulance drives away into the pre- dawn hours, I fog up the glass with my living breath and write with a shaky finger.

Please, oh please don't die.