Shanta

This is another dream and it’s not a happy one. It’s nightmarish. If you prefer cheerful “news-y” posts about our latest escapades with owning too many houses, then just skip this one. I’m on day 3 of a migraine, and my brain should be back to “normal” soon.

“Oh my God. Oh my God!” 

The camera phone footage swung wildly down and back up again, the scene hazy through the dirty airport windows.

 “It’s sliding! Sparks! Oh God. Jesus. Jesus.” Others in waiting area A-26 crowd to the windows and pull out phones.

“It’s smoking! Is it on fire? Look, someone’s moving! Hunched over…Run! Go! Look she’s carrying – what, a child? Does she have a child? She’s fallen!”

Pain and choking smells of fuel. It’s dim and there’s a chaotic, metallic roar. Something’s wrong with my ears. A baby! Wailing at the top of her lungs, very nearby, yes, I remember them. Next to me. Her mama is Shanta. Santa? Sasha? No, Sasha’s Russian for “Alex.” I’ve got to make my brain work. Songta? Shawna? Baby crying hysterics. Where is her mother?

“Shanta? Shanta? Shanta!?”

I remember, we crashed. We were almost down, almost, almost. I watched the runway out the window. So close. And then such a strange motion in my stomach.

In a crash, the plane will burn. It will burn. It is burning. “Shanta!”

I stole her baby and crawled. The baby’s face was wet. Tears? Blood? Out, out, out, out, out. Run! My body doesn’t work right. Are there flames? Am I burning? I can’t tell. Hold the baby close and roll. Isn’t that what they say, drop and roll? Stop, drop and roll. No, just run, god, hurry, go. The plane will explode.

“How are you feeling, honey?” I opened my eyes and could see colorful blurs. A nurse smiling down.

“Baby? Baby?”

“Your baby’s fine, honey. Would you like me to go get her? We’ve checked her all out and she’s perfect. You did a good job, getting out like that.”

“Baby.”

“What’s your baby’s name?”

Shanta, Shanta, Shanta? What’s your baby’s name? “Baby.”

John’s here to visit me. Am I ugly now? My face burned grotesquely? I shouldn’t care. Vain. I do care. I remember the girl in junior high, her whole body burned. She hardly looked human. As cruel as children are, they did not taunt her. There would have been no point, it was already horrific enough. I knew I should befriend her; I think we could have overlooked it – some of us, to some extent – except she was so bitter, angry, venomous. I couldn’t stand to be near her.

Am I burned? I try not to care, but I do.

The nurse whispers to another nurse. Or is she the doctor? She is probably telling the doctor that I cannot remember my own baby’s name. But she’s not my baby. Shanta, are you dead? Your baby is alive.

Your baby needs you.

They let me hold her. I would squeeze her tight but I don’t want her to wake up and cry, or they will take her away again.

John is talking; he must be telling them she’s not my baby. Of course she’s not my baby, I’m such an old lady now and anyway, Baby’s not my skin color, couldn’t hardly be mine. Maybe they think I adopted her. Or that she’s my grandchild. Maybe they know she’s not my baby and they are just humoring me because I’m off my rocker from the crash. So good of them to let me hold her anyway.

There is noise and commotion, a woman shouting and pointing. She comes closer and demands Baby. What do I do? What if she’s not careful with her?

John moved between me and the angry woman. With her was a well-dressed man, also angry. Suddenly the man swung and slapped the raging woman, telling her to get ahold of herself.

“You don’t tell me to – It’s not your sister who’s dead, asshole!”

“Security!” The nurse shouted, and I heard it echoed over the intercom. Why would they use the intercom to summon security and worry everyone in the entire hospital? Don’t they have some sort of code or a silent panic button?

A policeman leaned down and gently took Baby. I cried.