A Marble Garden in China

The presence of a beloved individual with whom I share an unbreakable connection makes an idyllic day for me. The setting is the embrace of nature and a serene garden. Feeling the sun's warmth on our faces while a gentle breeze cools us. The fresh air of a new season carries the fragrant aroma of blooming flowers, delighting our senses. It wasn't until my thirties that my life made that outing far better than I had ever dreamed.

It started when I was seven, my first encounter with a haunting dream. It transpired after my mother and I left a concert, having reveled in an evening of cheering for my favorite pop star and singing along to every song. Exhausted from the excitement, I settled across the backseat of my mother's 1984 Volkswagon Rabbit. The familiar sounds of the ignition's ding-dong and the jingling of keys, which often accompanied my mother's late-night work routine, brought me solace, assuring me that I would soon find myself nestled in the comfort of my bed.

As slumber enveloped me, I found myself suspended between an ethereal realm and my own world of premonitions. The soothing scent of the vinyl seats, transporting me further into tranquility, became the backdrop for a dream within a dream. In this surreal vision, I gazed upward to witness an oncoming truck hurtling towards us. The impact of the collision jolted me awake, akin to the sensation of abruptly halting from a falling dream just before reaching the ground.

Upon opening my eyes, I discovered my mother coming to a stop. Alarmed, I urgently conveyed my fear that a truck was about to crash into us. Anxious, I implored her to keep driving. Yet, she dismissed my concerns, assuring me that it was merely a figment of my imagination. To my astonishment, my premonition unfolded exactly as I had foretold. A tow truck recklessly collided with our vehicle, propelling us through the intersection until we met the resistance of a storefront. The wreckage rendered my mother's car unrecognizable, its mangled state merging seamlessly with the architectural façade. Escape proved impossible through the jammed doors, necessitating the shattering of the remaining windshield to extract us.

During the ambulance ride to the hospital, my mother repeatedly questioned me about how I possessed such prescience. I recounted that I had witnessed and felt the impending calamity within the depths of my dream, moments before its actual occurrence. Fortunately, our injuries were minor, but regrettably, the responsible party behind the collision was never apprehended.

After my mother introduced me to ten to fifteen different psychics, I began to realize that they all shared the same message: I had the gift of foresight. They told me that I shouldn't be afraid of my visions and that I should use them for good. Since then, I've had many dreams that left me uncertain of which visions would become reality. But I'm determined to use my ability to help others.

I was the last person to see my uncle alive, halfway across the country. He was sitting in the chair where my aunt later discovered him dead. When I received the call the following evening, my guilt was unimaginable. He’d been my favorite uncle. I couldn’t save him.

Understanding my role in these dreams didn’t come easy, especially with my mother as my only support. My biological father was merely a sperm donor.

I was fifteen when my stepfather played the role of a father in my life. He had successfully fought leukemia and was in remission. At that time, my mom was highly sought after as a massage and physical therapist in Seattle, having worked with many athletes from the Seahawks, Sonics, and Mariners.

My dad was an investor for a local man’s fortune. In addition, he invested in assets belonging to certain athletes. As a congratulatory gesture, they bought my dad a massage from my mother. Cancer patients were prohibited from getting massages as they may spread cancer cells through the lymphatic system, which resulted in him not having one for years. Upon meeting, my mom and dad instantly fell in love.

They got married just two months after their first encounter. He was perfect, and his mere presence made up for all the pain caused by the sperm donor. He taught me how to drive and expressed his love for me. He brought happiness to my mother.

When I became pregnant at seventeen unable to complete high school, he supported me, helping me prepare for my G.E.D. With him, disappointment or shame didn’t exist. He found praise in everything, and when my daughter was born he chose her name, Payton.

He was Payton’s grandfather. It became an Easter tradition for my parents to take my daughter to Colorado for their annual ski trip. Giving me a week alone. The three of them held immense importance in my life. When I was twenty-one, I briefly saw a life without them, which left me feeling emotionally distressed.

I observed them from a distance as they tragically drowned in Lake Michigan. Together, the three of them jumped into the water, exerting force with each breaststroke. They playfully raced to see who could reach the pier the fastest. Suddenly, in an instant, they lost control due to a swift current.

Their faint screams grew shorter as the silence grew longer. As they gasped for air, I witnessed their panic, their tears, and their desperate cries for help rapidly fading away. I was powerless, my attempt to save them was hopeless.

The voices that I cherished so dearly had gone silent. I could no longer hear my mom saying “I love you” or my dad saying my name in his soothing way. My daughter would never call me “mommy” again. My sense of balance, safety, and purpose in life had completely disappeared.

I cried for more than an hour as my pillow seemed to be submerged in water, creating an incredibly realistic sensation. I was overwhelmed by a sense of impending doom and questioned whether this experience was a foreshadowing or an actual occurrence. It felt so genuine that I couldn't bring myself to drive my daughter to school that morning. Throughout the entire day, I assumed the role of a deranged girlfriend, incessantly calling my parents as if they were my boyfriend and bombarding them with numerous voicemails.

Since that evening, the sound of my phone ringing has never been as comforting. It was my mother and father on the other end who saved me from the distressing effects of that horrible nightmare. Their voices acted as a cure for my anxiety. My father couldn’t say a word. My mother was talking a million miles an hour, explaining their changed plans for Easter. They wanted to spend it in Michigan.

I dropped my phone and almost fainted. My daughter had to help me sit up. This time I told my mother to heed my warning and not ignore it. That Easter, the four of us spent time at home. My mind is still confused, wondering what would have happened if I had brushed it off like any other “bad dream.”

After fifteen years of being in remission, our worlds shattered when my father received a second diagnosis of leukemia. He was not only my dad but also my daughters' grampa and my mom's soulmate. He was incredibly kind to us, treating me as his own daughter and being my daughter's favorite person. It felt unjust that the universe allowed this to happen to us and to him. It simply wasn’t fair.

While undergoing chemotherapy, he had to stay in the hospital for a month. Each day, his condition worsened due to the radiation. Initially, I would bring my daughter to visit him for the first week. However, I decided against letting her see him in that state thereafter. Despite his longing for her presence, he understood my decision.

Consequently, my mother and I would go to the hospital while my daughter was attending school. During our time together, we dedicated our efforts to examining the real estate market. His intention was to purchase a home for my mother as a precautionary measure in case he faced any uncertainties. He wished for her to have a sense of security. However, it proved challenging to locate a house that met his standards.

After being discharged from the hospital, he was captivated by a piece of Seattle architecture - a recently renovated Old Victorian that a skilled interior designer had just completed. Its exquisite beauty was showcased in a magazine due to the use of imported Italian marble in every corner, including the bathtubs. The marble was so heavy that it had to be brought in carefully, fragment by fragment. The foundation had to be readjusted to accommodate its weight, costing a staggering two million dollars. Surprisingly, despite not being available for sale, my father insisted on making an offer.

My mom fell in love with it too. After the escrow closed and they finalized the papers for them to move in, my dad fell seriously ill. I never witnessed my parents enjoy the house together they both loved so much. Four months after moving in, my dad died. The time he got to enjoy his house was limited to just two months. We lost him to graft-versus-host, after spending the last two months of his life in a shitty hospital, two days before Christmas. His body rejected all transplants, gave up, and shut down. He died in my absence.

I received a plane ticket to Missouri for Christmas and New Year from my dad to visit my now ex- boyfriend. That winter came to be a record-breaking snowstorm and a major inconvenience to Seattle. It barred access to all the airports from Washington to Oregon through the tip of Idaho.

I felt my mother’s pain through her phone call on December 23. She struggled to speak through her tears. My daughter had spent Christmas with her dad that year. My mom had nobody there with her and I was a million miles away stuck.

My guilt knocked me to the ground after cruelty ripped my heart from my chest. Hysterically I wept and paced for hours worrying about my mother and how to get home. I was depleted everything in me was drained but I could not sleep. Xanax proved to be my best friend in the fight against anxiety.

I was sedated the moment my head hit the pillow I fell asleep. I found myself in my parent's kitchen, gazing at a garden covered in a snow blanket, so white and bright it lit up the interior of the house. The wood popping in the fireplace gave it a cozy sentiment. Behind me, footsteps persisted coupled with a comforting voice that said,

“Hi Elisa,”

I turned to see my father standing in his bathrobe and hospital gown. We embraced as I expressed how sorry I was for not being there to say goodbye. Placing his finger on my lips to hush me he expressed his concern. I needed to let go, say goodbye, and stop feeling guilty. He wasn’t in pain anymore.

He let go of hugging me but I grabbed him for one more and I asked him to somehow show me it wasn’t only a dream. I was tired of not knowing when my dreams were trying to tell me something. He told me to turn around. When I did I saw my mother frantically putting away dishes.

(If I could have only one word to describe my mother, it would be turbulent. In anything she did. The manner in which she put away dishes was a perfect illustration. Countless times hearing them slip through her hands. Almost as if she had a personal vendetta against them.)

“Tell your mom I said to slow down, put one dish away at a time or I won’t take her to China. And tell her I said I love you, baby.”

I believed that moment would be the last time I would hear my dad say my name.

I awoke to the feeling of his finger on my lips and the embrace of his arms. The scent of his cologne remained on my shirt while the noise of clattering dishes slowly diminished.

After two weeks, the snow cleared and I returned home. As soon as I reached Seattle, I departed from the airport without claiming my luggage. I hopped into a cab and headed to my parents' house.

The pain of her broken heart was excruciatingly intense the moment she opened the door. We hugged and cried together. My mother was now without the other half of her heart. She was in a state of devastation, wondering what she would do. It was difficult for me to fully understand and share her sense of loss. I wanted to share my dream but felt that it wasn't the appropriate time.

During his funeral, half of his ashes were scattered around his favorite fishing hole in Colorado, while my mom had not yet chosen a location for the other half. She instructed my daughter to decide on a place, where the remaining half of his ashes would be spread. My daughter enthusiastically embraced this suggestion.

The pain of losing my father didn't become any easier for any of us even after six months. My mother, feeling exhausted from living alone in her house, proposed that my daughter and I move in with her.

Everything seemed perfect. I observed that my mom had acquired the skill of calmly putting away dishes. She carefully unloaded each dish from the dishwasher, one by one. The familiar habit of forcefully slamming and banging dishes into the cupboards was no longer present. No longer stacking multiple plates at once, as she had always done in all my memory.

When we were finished moving in my boyfriend relocated from Missouri, which brought joy to my mom and daughter. On our initial night, my dad paid me another visit, but this time he stood outside in the garden. As I gazed out of the kitchen window, he motioned for me to join him. Without hesitation, I eagerly dashed outside and embraced him as he enveloped me with open arms.

"Hi Elisa."

Words I never expected to hear from his voice again. I couldn't help but express our sadness and how much we missed him. This time, he was a bit more serious. He hushed me once more, placing his finger on my lips and cautioning me about the vile character of my boyfriend. My father was concerned and advised me to distance myself from him before it became too late.

Once more, I requested him to demonstrate that it was not merely a dream and that it was indeed him.

"Tell your mother that I want my ashes to be placed where Payton talks to me every day. And China is not as far away as it seems."

After that, he disappeared. At that moment, I couldn't comprehend what the whole China situation was about. Up until then, I had never overheard my parents discussing China or expressing any desire to visit the country.

Approximately one year later, a childhood friend paid me a visit. He expressed concern as we hadn't seen or spoken to each other since my boyfriend moved in. After spending about three hours together, my friend had to leave. He asked if I would accompany him to his new car so he could show it off. I quickly put on my jacket and shoes and joined him, eager to see his new vehicle.

We sat in the front seat, enjoying the music and engaging in conversation. As my friend rolled down the window to dispose of his gum, someone suddenly punched him, causing blood to gush from his nose. I was stunned and unaware of the situation when I found myself being forcibly pulled out of the car and punched in the face as well. The events unfolded so rapidly that I couldn't even identify the assailant. After countless punches and several kicks to my head, I lost consciousness.

As I opened my eyes, I observed my neighbors and the police surrounding me. The majority of them were repeatedly inquiring about my well-being. I nodded in response, shifted my gaze, and noticed my boyfriend restrained with handcuffs inside a police vehicle.

My friend suffered from a broken nose and dislocated shoulder, while I had a concussion and sprained wrist. I was unable to write my police statement, so the officer had to do it for me.

It was hard to believe that such an incident had occurred, and it took some time for me to fully comprehend it. My friend, the state, and I decided to press charges, resulting in my ex receiving a sentence of only eight months in county jail. However, I couldn't bear to simply discard all his belongings, so I sought permission from my mom to temporarily store them in the attic until his release from jail. With her approval, I began packing up his possessions.

As I was bringing up the first load, I noticed a box in the corner, which seemed to be big enough to hold a set of dishes. The box was wrapped in Christmas paper and on top of it, there was a note with my mom's name written in my dad's handwriting. I quickly rushed downstairs to inform my mom about the surprise that awaited her in the attic.

Initially, she had doubts about my words. However, when I presented her with the card bearing her name, her disbelief vanished. Hastily returning to the attic, she let out a gasp as she realized I had been telling the truth. Excitedly, she tore off the wrapping paper from the box containing her pristine china. She then passed me the card, allowing me to read the heartfelt message my dad had written for her.

Genia,

Baby, I know how much you desired this china. I informed you that you wouldn't receive it until you were able to calmly place the dishes away individually. Kindly avoid dropping them on the marble. It pains me to witness my sweetheart feeling down. Merry Christmas, I love you.

Steve

At that moment, I realized it was the right time to inform my mother about my dreams. Additionally, I desired to let Payton know the specific location where her grandfather wished for his ashes to be placed. My mother and I came to an agreement that my dad's garden would be the most suitable setting for me to share my thrilling dreams with them.

On the first day of spring, there was still a slight chill in the air. In order to enjoy her new china, my mom made tea. I informed my mom that I would begin bringing things out to the garden and preparing it for us.

Suddenly, I overheard my daughter engaged in a conversation with someone, prompting me to listen more attentively.

“I love you, grandpa. I miss you, I miss Colorado. I wish you were here."

She was situated in the center of my dad's garden, the very spot where he used to sit on non-rainy days. The garden, a remarkable display of botanical artistry, held her captive.

Two towering 12ft. hedges enclosed the garden's focal point, with concrete benches placed across from each other to create a perfect harmony. The shade provided by the hedges and the comforting coolness of the benches offered a touch of luxury during scorching summer days. The landscaping remained impeccable throughout the seasons. In summer, the apple and pear trees enticed visitors with their bountiful fruit. The fragrance of blooming roses and lilies refreshed the air. In winter, the garden took a rest, gathering strength for the upcoming festivities of warmer weather. Its splendor persisted year-round, as the vines continued to grow, safeguarding everything within.

When my mom came outside, she told us that the garden was his reason for wanting the house, while the marble was her reason. He constantly nagged her to put one dish away at a time because dishes would break if dropped on the marble, along with chipping the marble.

The perfect day came to a close with the presence of two individuals whom I love dearly and share an unbreakable bond with. They attentively listened as I shared stories about my father's visits. It was a beautiful scene, with my mother, daughter, and myself gathered in a garden on the first day of spring. We shared laughter, scattered my father's ashes amongst the rose bush, and drank tea from dishes my mother didn't break.