The Widow's Cabin (Completed)

Chapter 5

I dreamt of my mother.

I was eight years old again, and we were walking along a street of toy stores, a row of them, maybe four or five. The windows were see through and I can see toys of all kinds, from action figures to doll houses, car action sets and Buzz Lightyears. As we reached the third store, I stopped abruptly. There was this Superman life-size action figure looming over me outside the toy store.  The store’s name was Heroes’ League and they sold hundreds of superhero stuff, from backpacks to lunch bags, power combs and slippers. I was in awe with the large Superman figure that my jaws practically dropped at the sight of it. My mom looked at me with a smile on her face, as if she were examining a different life-form from who knows where. She knelt down in front of me and cupped my face between her hands.

“You really like Superman, don’t you?” She asked, still with that smile plastered on her face. I just nodded absently, my eyes still stuck with Superman.

“My sweet Caleb. Sometimes, it’s really hard being the hero.”

“What do you mean, mama?” I asked, evidently confused.

“Well, it’s hard trying to save everybody all at once. Sometimes, being a hero means saving one thing and sacrificing another.”

“I don’t understand. Heroes have superpowers. They can use them to save millions of people, even every one of them all at the same time.”

“Yes, Caleb, and that’s the ironic part of it. You can save millions of people but sometimes you fail to save yourself. Sometimes the strongest adversaries are the ones you cannot touch, cannot see.”

            I just looked at her with evident confusion. She stood up and smiled at me sadly.

“Someday, Caleb, you’ll understand. And maybe when that time comes, you’ll be able to save yourself from these things, even save mama as well.”

She turned her back at me and walked away. I just stood there crying, and even as I tried to run after her, I couldn’t move. My limbs were frozen in place, and I cried even harder because of frustration. I shouted after her, saying “Mama please. Mama, come back,” but it’s as if she was deaf and in a trance-like state, her legs moving beyond her control. Hot tears trickled down my face as I watched my mother, the only woman I have ever loved, walk away from me. She continued to walk away, until she vanished. I closed my eyes and whispered three words I wish I was brave enough to tell her every day, “I love you.”

I woke up drenched in sweat, with my body shaking. I struggled to open my eyes but it felt like ten people were poking my eyelids with needles. I calmed myself down, taking slow, steady breaths and started to reach my face. My skin was cold, and my face felt numb. I reached higher, and felt rough fabric along my eyes, and concluded that it was bandage. I traced the bandage and figured that it was wrapped around the upper portion of my head. I dropped my hands and noticed a steady, beeping sound, and I realized that my senses are slowly coming back. I felt like something was clipped to my index finger, reached for it and learned that it was indeed a clip with a wire snaking from it. I figured that the beeping sound was probably a pulse oximeter, the one that you see in movies when the actor ends up in a hospital, and therefore, I concluded that I was in a hospital. I was trying to conjure the image of the hospital room in my head when I heard the door open. The familiar scent of sports cologne and car perfume wafted the air, and I knew it was my father. I heard his footsteps approaching towards me, hesitant at first, but became steady as he was nearing.

“How are you, Tiger?” my old man always called me tiger when he was in a good mood.

“Fine, I guess,” I answered weakly.

Awkward silence enveloped the room, so I decided to break it.

“What happened, dad? What’s wrong with me? Why are my eyes covered?”

            I heard him walk to the right side of the room, and a shuffling noise followed.

            “You hungry?” he asked nervously. I brought us cheeseburgers, fries, and some pies.”

            “Dad! You didn’t answer my question. What happened?”

I heard him let out a sigh, and I could imagine him bracing himself. Since I couldn’t see anything, everything was a matter of approximation and imagination.

“You don’t remember anything, do you?” he whispered.

“Well, I remember me and Hendrix driving—wait, where’s Hendrix?”

Another silence.

“Dad. Where is he?”

He swallowed audibly.

“He’s in the other room. Doctor said he’s doing fine, just scratches, lesions and bruises, but he’ll be fine.”

“What ha—”

“You got into an accident, Caleb. A truck hit your car in an intersection down Brittle Road. You hit your head and shards of glass damaged your eyes and they took you in for surgery—”

“What?”

I heard my father sob, and his voice broke as he told me three words that made my world spin and turned everything I ever believed in from mere probabilities to impossibilities.

“You are blind.”

My world fell off from its axis. I always laughed at that overused cliché, but I thought that it was the most appropriate line to use. I heard my father say something to me rapidly, but my ears just refused to let them in. I felt my stomach go cold, and I almost puked whatever that was left in my stomach at that moment. I wanted to believe that everything was just a dream, an extension of what I dreamt prior to waking up, that it was just a dream within a dream, and that someone would just slap me back into reality. I wanted to prove that what my father said was nothing but a sick joke, so I reached for the bandage and tried to tear it off while screaming like a wounded animal. I felt my father run towards me, grabbed my hand and shouted for someone to help him. With all his might he tried to restrain me, but my frustration just made everything worse and I was able to free my arms from his futile attempts to keep me from pulling the damned bandage off. I heard the door whoosh open, and suddenly there was a commotion made by maybe three or four people, whom I guess were nurses. Someone grabbed my left arm with both hands, and another grabbed my right. The pressure on both of my arms was stronger, which made me even more frustrated. I lifted my head and banged it against the hospital bed. I heard my father shout something to the nurse as he/she poked my skin with something sharp. I flailed and kicked and did everything just to resist, but then I felt weaker and heavier. I let my head fall back to the pillow as I felt cold lips kiss my forehead.