The Text Message

*Part 3 of a serial story of a Christian with a problem.

Grant knew what the text message was going to say for two reasons. The first is that he’d left the back door open and unlocked. He’d remembered that halfway through the morning, thought about texting Dana about it, and then been distracted during his third cup of coffee by his own sleeplessness and by a sales rep’s story about his weekend.

The second reason he knew is that they’d had an argument last night, and he’d said sorry, but she hadn’t. Dana’s go-to move for that situation was a long, somewhat heartfelt text message apology the next day. While Grant normally appreciated the gesture, or at least accepted it and moved on, today was different. Because today was the first day he’d daydreamed the nightmare while at work.

It had to have been years since he’d had a dream that genuinely scared him. He certainly couldn’t remember one before this, at least not since he was a kid. Nightmares had to have fuel to burn, right Some sort of angst or apprehension to get them going? Well, in most ways, Grant’s life was desirable and easy. He made enough money that they had more bedrooms than people in their household, and last year Dana had started working part-time for her brother’s real estate agency, which added money they certainly didn’t need to the pot. He hadn’t even given much thought to what they’d do with that extra money, other than maybe the vague idea of a trip to Europe or the Caribbean.

But then nine days ago he’d woken up screaming. Dana shot up in bed even before he was done, and the dog started barking downstairs, but once Grant realized he was in the real world with none of what he’d been seeing for however long the dream had lasted, he told Dana he was sure he was all right, sure that it was nothing, and went downstairs to walk their five-year-old terrier, Musket.

He hadn’t wanted to go home, so he and Musket walked for two hours. Grant had made the loop of their quadrant of the subdivision eleven times, thinking about nothing other than the nightmare. How could he have dreamt that? How could that have gotten into his head? And, worst of all, why had the screaming only come when he’d changed characters in the dream? When he’d become Dana, and not when he’d been himself?

They’d been camping. So right away it had the slightly false shade that nightmares always seemed to have when he’d been a kid, because they’d never gone camping, and never even talked about going camping. For some reason they had put their tent in a clearing no more than fifty yards from a cliff. Their tent was yellow that first time, but that detail changed in subsequent versions of the nightmare. What didn’t change is what Grant did.

With the sun just coming up over the valley filled with deep green pines, Grant found himself looking over the edge of the cliff. It was a hundred feet or more to the bottom, so far that he couldn’t even discern one tree from another down there. It seemed to be just an ocean of deep green laying still and waiting for him. And he really did feel it was waiting for him. He smiled wide in the dream, every time, and then he stepped over the edge and felt the rush of wind and saw all that green come rushing up towards him faster than he’d ever imagined anything could move. And he was still smiling.

But then he wasn’t him anymore. He was Dana. And as Dana he was looking over the edge, seeing his body free fall and his t-shirt whip up behind him, and he was screaming and shrieking and wanting it not to be real. And then, as Dana, he jumped after himself.

That first time he’d woken up just as he’d hit the treetops as Dana. But sometimes it wasn’t until he hit the ground, and once he woke up just before he’d jumped as Dana. Some of the colors would change, and a couple of nights ago they had kids they didn’t actually have in real life, two sons, but the features of his own jump and then being Dana and going after him were always more or less the same. And the worst part: The fact that he was always smiling.

“Did you need to check something?”

Grant looked up at Steve, the counselor’s salt-and-pepper hair standing out against the beiges and browns of the coffee shop interior.

“Hmm?”

“You looked down at your phone for a minute. Is everything okay? Do you need to check something?”

“No,” Grant said, knowing the answer was yes but not wanting to admit it.

Steve was silent, and just looked at Grant with all the impervious warmth and awareness of a good dad. After a few seconds, Grant broke.

“Dana and I had an argument last night. That text is her stab at an apology. I apologized last night.”

“Do you want to answer her?”

“Not really,” Grant said, honestly enough.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the same thing she does every time. And I’m sick of it. I apologize for my part right away, she gets to wait a day and then do it over text.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but eventually Grant did pick up the phone and look at it. When he did, Steve gripped Grant’s hand and squeezed it, then tapped it, and gave a medium-sized chuckle.

“I’m going to get a cookie,” he said, standing up. “Do you want a cookie?”

“No,” Grant answered. “Thanks.”

He was reading the text message, a longer one than he’d expected. And he had to read it three times before he believed he’d read it correctly.

“This can’t be happening,” he whispered. And then he accidentally spilled his coffee.