Protected By Death

"Finally," Catherine Dawson said to herself as the Long Island Rail Road (LIRR) train to Farmingdale she was on announced her stop. Minutes later, the train stopped at the right stop, and the door opened. Pulling a small Ziplite Lime-green Samsonite suitcase behind her, relief etched on her face. She eases towards the exit.

As she was about to step out, suddenly, without announcement, the door slammed shut. Then sped away like a thief fleeing a beat cop after snatching an old lady's purse on the streets of New York City.

"What the . . . ? Catherine hollered as the speed of the train threw her body backward. Her right-hand breaks her fall as she plops down on the nearest seat. Her screams echoed, bouncing off the interior glass windows and panels. As the speed increased, she realized her compartment was almost empty, except for three other passengers. Staring at them sitting in the front row, paralyzed by shock, her heart raced in competition with the train's speed.

The three passengers were replicas of her. Attired in the exact outfits she was wearing from her dyed burgundy boy-cut hair. Her grandmother's white gold diamond teardrop earring hung loosely from their ears. A handmade rainbow-colored scarf her sister knitted hugged their necks, adding warmth. The pastel pink and purple polka dot sweater her grandmother wove, a large C made from beautiful multi-colored flowers in the center decorated the front.

A silver pendant suspended from the sterling silver rope chain around their necks, spelling her name in silver decorated with turquoise oval-shaped stones delicately resting on their chest. Light pink dress pants fitted perfectly on their lower bodies. A comfortable black hush puppy loafer adorns their size nine feet. They sat, staring at her, but a dead far away look in their eyes without a blink—a copy of a soft pink and grey crochet handbag in their laps.

Her attention was pulled to a black ink spot on the left side of the front, close to the grey zipper. The result of a mistake she made when her pen ink overflowed inside the bag two years ago—leaving a reminder not to turn her pens up. A bad habit that had ruined several other handmade bags and pieces of her favorite clothing. There is an identical Ziplite Lime-green suitcase beside them on the floor!

Catherine unconsciously clutched the bag loosely over her right shoulder for a moment. A birthday gift from her creative art-crafty best friend, Julia. It was like looking in a mirror. She often wished she could clone herself, but this was terrifyingly weird. Overwhelmed by fear, her terrified eye scanned around.

The train rumbled, picking up speed as it shot out of the tunnel faster and faster, catapulting her back into the present.

She screamed, running from door to door, banging and hollering in distress. They sat as if in a trance. Their bodies and mind seemed unaffected by the increasing speed of the train.

The train swayed to the left, suddenly going off track and heading towards a cliff. Catherine bellowed from somewhere deeper within her and felt herself falling as the sounds of something ringing close by pulled her down.

She woke up on the floor, her cell phone ringing nearby. After a quick area and body check, she sighed deeply, grabbing the phone from her nightstand nearby.

It was 3:33 AM. She was home, scared but relieved and happy to be alive.

"Why aren't you answering your damn phone?" a familiar voice shouted at the other end as she answered.

"It's after 3 o' clock?" she alerts, still sitting on the floor beside her bed.

"Well, dad said he was the one who closed the train's door," her sister said.

Shock and fright plucked the phone from her grasp as it fell to the floor. Trembling, she slowly picks it up. Marva, her sister, shares, "I dreamt about dad. He was wearing a white robe, and he said I should tell you that he closed the train's door because he doesn't want you going over there."

Fear induces pain as the memories of her nightmares feeds her thought. Silence endures briefly as Catherine battles with the mysteries and power of the unknown.

Marva continues, "Where were you going?"

Sighing deeply in fright, smog circling her brain, shoving confusion in her thoughts, Catherine explains, "Patrice said she got me a live-in caregiver job in Long Island, and I am going there in three days."

"Is she tall and dark?" Marva questioned.

"Yes," Catherine answered, wondering how she could have known. While her brain sorts things out, pushing the smog away.

Marva informs, "Dad said you must not go with the tall, dark lady because she isn't a friend."

Catherine's memories pull into reverse, clearing the smog away and reminding her of things Marva didn't know.

"Dad said that this is your fourth attempt to go to her house. He is the one that puts you on the wrong trains when you attempt to go to her house the last three times. What the hell is going on in your life? That our dead-for-ten-years father must be using me to warn you of the danger you are willingly going in because you refuse to listen to your instincts and learn from your mistakes?"

Her sister's remark dragged her memory on a four-year journey of Patrice promising to get her a high-paying live-in caregiver job with rich white people four times in four years.

The first three times she attempts to go to her house, she gets on the wrong train. Confusion and rage gnaw at her brain in mockery. She couldn't understand how she could have taken the wrong train three times. The address and information were in her phone and notebook. Patrice claims that the employers refused to hire her because she didn't show up on time.

"Damn," Catherine said as everything was crammed into her brain, adding clarity and understanding, increasing her pain.

"Sister," Marva encourages. "I don't know the half of it, but our father says you must stay away from her. He also said he put you on the wrong trains three times hoping you would remember what she did to you when you were sixteen years old. Girl, have you forgotten that the number three means death in our culture? And negative anything shouldn’t be allowed to go to stage three?"

That memory stabbed Catherine's heart as she unconsciously jerked her body to the left.

"Dammit! I remember now," Marva refreshed her sister's memory. "It was about the wrong address for the summer job she claimed she got you in high school more than twenty years ago and you had dad driving all over the place searching for the location of the store she gave you!"

Silence grabbed both sisters, sending more pain to Catherine, and she unconsciously said in response to the pain, "and they say death has no power. My dead father remembered, and alive me didn't!"

Silence allowed them time to absorb and understand, and Marva counsels, "You are my baby sister, and I love you. Life and death will only protect some of us, some of the time. You need to learn how to protect yourself all the time!

They say death has no power, but many of us were warned in dreams by our dead loved ones.

Who protected you from the grave?

Half of this story is true. I also have dreams warning me of who and what to avoid.

What about you?

Do your dreams guide and protect you?

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoy it.