This Time

In my dream last night I was sitting at a table with my friends at our 10-year high school reunion. Greta had just said something profoundly witty, as are most of the things she says, and we were laughing. Across the room our AP English teacher, Dr. Babienko, rose from her table and made her way toward us. Jessica pulled up an empty chair and Dr. Babienko sat down. Instantly our faces dropped. We knew, as dream people always do, that whatever our former teacher said to us right then was going to hurt.
     She made eye contact with each and every one of us. She took a breath and folded her hands on the table. After a moment she spoke. "She didn't mean to die," she said, almost at a whisper. "She didn't mean to leave you."
     We had all lived every day with an accented voice in our heads, had all caught ourselves referring to each other as "kidlets" and "bubbleses." We had all checked the internet every week for news of a man in a jail cell who had murdered our teacher.

Every other time in my life when I've woken from nightmares the first thing I've felt is an overwhelming sense of relief--relief that I'm not falling off a bridge to my death, that I didn't just lose my legs in a shark attack, that my house isn't burning. Every time I realize my nightmares aren't real I feel lucky and grateful.

This time I didn't feel relieved. I didn't feel lucky or grateful. This time I just felt hollow. I think I always will. What happened on December 24, 2011 can't unhappen. It'll never be okay. Somehow, though, Dr. Babienko assuring us that Hockley never meant to leave us comforts me more than most things. I know it's true, and that if she could have she would have followed each and every one of us down every crooked path of our lives until we said, with love and admiration, "I'm here, Prudence. It's okay. You can go now."

But that, I know, would never happen. We would never want her to leave.