"Me & W.C." 

by Monica Petter


It all started when I needed to go get gas. It was a beautiful winter day; a fresh snowfall had caged me inside working. My anxiety had been high lately. Doing mindless things always seemed to calm my nerves. The solitude I had been escaping into had me wearing blinders. Work was always there and I was losing myself.
I was too old to be on this track.

I woke up in a hospital bed. I looked around this cold, metallic smelling room wondering how I got here. I noticed my hands first. They were older, had age spots I hadn’t remembered. Had I been working that hard? Outside my window, I noticed fresh green sprouting on the trees as if spring were around the corner. The warmer weather must have tricked the trees into blooming. This happened frequently in Decembers past. This is when I noticed him sitting in the chair across the room. He was a tall man with brown hair and a familiar smile even though I knew I didn’t know him. He rose from his chair and approached me.

“We thought you were a goner, dear.” He smiled and I somehow thought I was supposed to know him, but I didn’t.

“Who are you?” I was embarrassed to ask.

“W.C.” He saluted me as if he was at my service.

“Do we know each other?” My amnesic memory was showing.

“Not really. You had an accident and I brought you here.” He was vague.

“How long have I been here?”

“Long enough, I hope. You’d better get some rest. We have a lot to do.”

With that, I fell asleep rather instantly. I began dreaming. I was with my brother and we were children. We were on our old street riding our bikes. It was summer, hot and humid as sweat poured off our foreheads. We smelled like wet dogs, had been playing in a neighbors sprinkler with our clothes rather than bathing suits. It was almost sunset and our parents had forgotten to call us inside, or so we thought.

They were sitting out with the neighbors as we ran around both houses with bags of chips leaving breadcrumb trails the birds would find after we left. I felt so carefree. My parents so young, babies. Had I ever remembered them this young? My father had hair on top of his head. It was sparse, but I only knew that from pictures. I could hear the crickets and locust sing in harmony and I realized I was hearing the world through a child’s ears – much more acute and aware. It was refreshing. The last thing I remember was sitting under the carport, eating a pop ice and panting hard as the day gave, the dream gave to darkness.

“You sure were a cute kid. Very creative.”

W.C.’s voice could be heard. I must have been under sedation because I couldn’t move or open my eyes to see him. How did he know my dream?

The stereo lights of the dashboard were shining a light green color. Like a neon sign. There was a tape deck playing softly. It was “Pretty Woman” by David Lee Roth. We were driving toward the sunset, our first date. He was in his mother’s car. My stomach tickled with butterflies. His eyes saw to my soul, scaring me. I didn’t know him, but I thought he was magnificent. I wanted to marry him and I was only a teenager. His first kiss curled my toes. I knew he was special, would always be part of me. I fell in love with him at that moment. I think he did, too.

“You sure are a good looking couple. Always were.” His sentence was past tense.

“How old am I? I know this sounds strange.” He could hear my fear.

“You’re fifty five.” I began to cry.

“My last memory was when I was thirty five. Have I been out for twenty years?”

“Maybe.” He didn’t want to confirm anything.

“Is he gone? You said we were a good looking couple.”

“He’s alive if that is what you mean.”

“Divorced?” I was paralyzed and could only whimper.

“That’s up to you.”

“Why?” The lights faded again. Echoes of voices past filled my mind.

“I don’t know. It may have something to do when you stopped loving yourself.”

The light was blue, steely blue giving everything a reminiscent tone. W.C. was standing beside me and we were walking down my old street. Ahead of me, I saw a woman walking her dog. Her dog was frolicking and taking in the winter breezes that would make for great dreams. Her head was covered, but as she walked toward us, I saw her face. It was distressed, lost. Fine lines were beginning to form around the edges. Stress had begun to take its toll on her body and spirit. I recognized the face. It was the one I looked at each day in the mirror. It was me.

“This is what I last remember. What happened?”

“Life. You let it take your drive. You didn’t make time for you. You put yourself last.”

“Am I dead?” I felt weightless somehow.

“No.” W.C. just smiled.

“Then why do I feel so light and open?” I felt as if my feet were a few inches above every step.

“Your burdens and anxieties have been lifted for now.”

He was a skinny man. I had forgotten just how fragile he appeared. He was always strong and inspired in my eyes. We shook hands as we were introduced. He seemed like a kismet spirit, someone I could trust. I had lost that connection earlier and it had stifled my creativity. He was speaking in a beautiful language I understood. The language of words and dreams. He made me want to chase those dreams. I let those old feelings seep in again. I hadn’t felt that silky, mountaintop high in ages. When he died, a part of my dreaming did. W.C. held my hand and didn’t speak, but he knew the magnitude of this person.

“I miss him.”

“I can tell. He was very important in shaping the inspiration you feed from today.” I looked at W.C. oddly.

“Why am I here with him again watching this?”

“How does it make you feel deep down, truly feel?” His dimples seemed deeper now as he smiled at me.

“Free, inspired, alive. I miss that.”

“You don’t need him to feel that way again.” The scene grew gray and foggy until it disappeared. I looked and W.C. was gone. I heard him whisper in my ear close your eyes.

I was standing in my Mother’s living room as she sat, reading. She had a very stoic, sad look on her face. She was reading legal documents with my brother. He was crying. I peered over her shoulder and I realized what she was reading. It was my Father’s will.

“If he had just quit investing so much in futile things and more on the important things that don’t cost a dime, he’d still be here. He wouldn’t listen to us.” My Mother just stared at the paper.

“The will is pretty worthless since he invested so much of his savings and retirement into ventures that never paid off. He was a dreamer, but he sometimes forgot to live the dream along the way.” My brother’s beard showed signs of gray. My Mother’s eyes haunted me. Who were these hollow people? W.C. put his hand on her shoulder, but she could not feel it.

“Is this what happened?” I was terrified.

“It could. If you don’t start enjoying the little things.”

“Who are you really? The angel of death? How do we know each other?”

“Let’s just say that I never got the chance to live out the little things with my family.” He squeezed my hand twice and I heard the laughter of children echo as if in a well. Everything was blurry and red. Then the focus began to return to the picture. It was Christmas, a tree with red and green lights came into clear sight. Bing Crosby was singing Christmas tunes on the radio. A mother was chasing five children of varying ages around the house. She was pregnant with her sixth. I had a startling feeling of connection although this wasn’t my family Christmas. I understood their camaraderie. This scene became blurry again and turned on its side making me dizzy as if I were spinning on a roller coaster. Then abruptly, the ride was over.

My head was throbbing and I could hear it in my ears. I was cold now. I thought to myself that this must be death's signature. A rush of scents from my olfactory overwhelmed me dumping waves of emotional current over my heart. I cried, but there were no tears. I laughed, but there was no voice. Years of pent up endorphins rushed through my body like adrenaline leaving me light and weightless. All the anxiety sludge dripped like molasses to my toes and fell out of me with the weight of an anvil hitting the ground. My body burdened by disease all my life was strong, functional. Disease must have taken my life, I assumed. What I hadn’t realized is that it wasn’t disease of the body, but of the spirit.

Everything was so bright. I opened my eyes partially because of the intensity of the light. This must be heaven for it was warm like the sun. Suddenly, the light was interrupted by a tall shadow. This must be God.

“God? Is that you?” I moaned almost inaudible.

“It’s W.C. and this is as close to heaven as you’re going to get right now, dear.”

“I’m not dead?” I mumbled like a drunk.

“I thought so there for a while. I think you’re going to make it.” I was getting colder by the minute, my lips barely able to form the words.

“Who are you, really?” I mouthed as best I could. I never heard the answer. I blacked out again. I heard the rhythmic sounds of sirens as I opened my eyes to see the whirling red lights come in and out of focus. I could hear people talking, but most of it was merely chatter. I could tell it was paramedics. I distinctly heard a familiar voice out of the roar of noise.

“Yes, she’s my wife. She’s thirty-five. I was worried she didn’t call me back when the weather was getting bad. She was stubborn and wanted to go get gas.” It was my husband, such a lovely sound in his scolding. I couldn’t move to argue back. I was actually laughing inside. It felt joyous amidst the pain.

I had been the only one out doing anything that bad weather day. I stepped out of my ride to get gas and my feet hit black ice disguised with snow. I fell out of the vehicle hitting my head suffering a concussion and catching my arm in the steering wheel breaking it. I lay in the freezing weather unconscious for what seemed like hours until a big truck driver came though and found me.

Our unconscious can play tricks on our conscious to get us to listen to the undercurrents we ignore that could wreak havoc on our sanity one brick at a time. It is our protection from the ‘could haves’ of our life. Angels in our midst?

When I got home, I asked my Mother if she knew anyone named W.C.? I wondered if he had been the truck driver or one of the paramedics that had helped me or if he was a figment of my overstressed imagination. She smiled rather oddly and pointed to a picture of my grandfather. The one I never knew.

“My Mother called my Father W.C. – short for Willie Clyde.”

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