WAKE UP CALL — CHAUNA CRAIG
/Near the top of the burnt-orange carpeted stairs leading into the kitchen’s warmth, I turn to look where the wolf stands perfectly still at the bottom, legs poised to pounce, red tongue lolling, cartoon canine smile, patient as death because suddenly I can’t speak or move, limbs drained of life energy, my jackrabbit heart pumping blood that can’t circulate and pools in my feet, weighs me down. I know: my parents can’t help me, my alarm clock will never sound.
*
At twenty-five, a graduate student, I taught my first fiction writing class, two students near my own age. One is now a famous feminist theorist with best-selling books. The other shot her husband dead. Conclusion in both cases: self-defense.
*
In one recurring dream, I know where the body is buried, a woman my own age. I try desperately to throw all the male detectives off. I simper, I smile, I appear to be helpful as I lead them in other directions. Why don’t I want her found? I think I’ve killed her, but I’m not sure. Why am I not sure? What if she’s still alive?
*
San Francisco in January, salt water taffy on the pier, seals barking below. Cindy in a buttery brown leather jacket, blonde hair dancing in the wind. We huddle close, I unwrap a pink taffy, my grandmother’s favorite, and pop it in my mouth. We’ve spent nearly a week here, two friends on a trip: books at City Lights, the Castro’s swelling energy, an Italian restaurant with mouthwatering Bolognese sauce, the rocking trolley where I fell asleep against the warmth of her body. Finally, on our last day, Cindy turns to me, her conjuring hands weaving the salty mist in the air between us, and asks, “Is there something going on here?” My heart beats harder, my tongue wraps the taffy and holds on.
*
Another recurring dream. A plastic retainer in my mouth, molded plastic and wire like the one I wore in junior high, makes it impossible for me to speak. I push it away with my tongue. I spit it out. Another grows in its place. This continues until I’m fully awake.
*
Camping at Palouse Falls with friends and strangers, I was nineteen, just months away from dropping out of college. I sneaked away alone to perch at the edge of the gorge, that rocky open throat roaring and pulsing with water. Imagining how it might feel to lean too far, to fall and fall. Mist laced my brow, curled the fine hairs around my face. I wanted to remain in that feeling, stay there as darkness descended, but someone called my name.
Chauna Craig writes fiction and nonfiction and edits creative nonfiction for Atticus Review. She loves piña coladas and getting caught in the rain, but her favorite escape starts with surprise bouquets of tiny proses. Find her at www.chaunacraig.com.
