The Boy Who Couldn't Breathe

“Tell me about this dream,” Dr. Rose said, her hands poised over her laptop keyboard.

Netta sighed. “It’s the same dream every night. There’s this little boy—”

“Is he someone you know?” Dr. Rose asked.

“No,” said Netta. “I’ve never seen him before.”

Dr. Rose nodded and clicked a few keys. “Go on,” she said without turning away from the screen.

“He’s crying out to me,” said Netta. “He’s saying, ‘Help! I can’t breathe!’ over and over. And I’m trying to get to him to help him, but he keeps running away from me. I’m telling him it’s OK, I’ll save him, but he keeps running faster and faster. And I’m crying and yelling, ‘Hold still! I’ll protect you!’ but he won’t stop running...” Netta sniffed and pulled a tissue from the faux marble box on the coffee table. “Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her bloodshot eyes.

Dr. Rose paused her typing. “Don’t apologize,” she admonished. “One should never apologize for crying. Crying is good. It’s expressing emotion.”

“I’m sorry,” Netta said before she could stop herself.

“One should never apologize for apologizing either,” Dr. Rose said with a slight smile.

“I guess I’m just used to holding back my tears,” Netta said.

“Oh?” Dr. Rose looked up from her laptop, her pale eyes wide. “Why is that?”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher,” Netta explained. “I can’t just burst out crying in front of a room full of five-year-olds just because I had a bad dream.”

Dr. Rose rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps you should,” she said. “Teach them that grownups cry, too. It could be a good lesson for them.”

“Um...maybe,” said Netta, shifting on the rough tweed sofa. “Anyway, the boy keeps running and yelling for help, and his voice keeps getting weaker, and then his face turns blue, and he collapses on the floor. And when I finally catch up to him, he’s cold and stiff.”

“Dead?”

Netta nodded. “I can never save him,” she said through her soiled tissue.

Dr. Rose typed rapidly on her keyboard. “I see. How long have you been having this dream?”

“It’s been about two weeks. I’m exhausted. I feel like I haven’t slept at all. I’m afraid I’ll fall asleep in class.”

Dr. Rose stopped typing and folded her hands on her desk. “Dreams are our brain’s way of processing the emotions we experience during the day. Perhaps you fear for the safety of your students. That wouldn’t be unusual in this day and age. This boy could represent your intense urge to protect them.”

Netta shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s a little older than my students, maybe seven or eight.”

“Perhaps he’s a previous student, and you’re imaging him how he might look now.”

“This is my first year teaching.”

“Oh...do you have children yourself?”

Netta rubbed her throbbing temples. “Look, I just want it to stop. Can you give me a pill that’ll make me not dream or something?”

Dr. Rose laughed and shook her head. “Unfortunately, there is no such pill, but I can give you something for anxiety.”

“I don’t have anxiety,” Netta said as she bit the nail off her index finger.

“Apparently you do when you’re asleep. You can take it before bed. It may relax your brain so you can have more pleasant dreams.”

Netta sighed again. “OK. I’ll try anything at this point.”

“I’ll send the prescription to your pharmacy.” Dr. Rose typed some more. “I would also suggest some relaxing visualization.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it’s easy. Just close your eyes, take deep breaths, and picture yourself lying on a calm beach.”

“A calm beach,” Netta repeated, feeling more relaxed already. “I can do that.”

***

Netta lay on a plush towel on the sand, listening to the gentle waves and breathing the salty air as a warm breeze tousled her hair. Seagulls called overhead, and somewhere in the distance, children laughed and played.

This is more like it, Netta thought, grinning under her sunglasses. This is my kind of dream. She rolled over and felt the heat of the sun on her back as her eyes slowly closed.

The voice was soft and distant at first, almost eclipsed by the waves. “Help me!”

Netta suddenly felt cold, as if the sun had disappeared. It can’t be. Not here.

“Help me!” the voice said again, louder this time. “I can’t breathe!”

Netta pushed herself up and turned toward the ocean.

The boy stood at the shoreline, the remnants of the waves licking his tiny sneakered feet. His large eyes gazed at her pleadingly. “Help me!” he cried. “I can’t breathe!”

Netta darted through the thick sand as fast as she could, kicking up clods that flew in her face, burning her eyes. “It’s OK!” she called. “I’m here! I’ll save you!”

“I can’t breathe!” The boy turned and ran into the ocean at alarming speed.

“Hold still!” Netta cried. “I’ll protect you!”

The boy kept running faster and faster. “Help me! I can’t breathe!”

Netta reached the shoreline and splashed through the water. “Hold still!” she called. “I’m here! I’ll save you!”

The boy continued running until he was enveloped by the sea.

***

“So, what do you think, Sheldon?” Netta asked, wondering who ever heard of a psychic named Sheldon. She thought they were supposed to have names like “The Great Sheldini” or something. Or was that magicians? “What does it mean?”

Light danced across Sheldon’s face as dangling crystals glittered in the soft light from the paper lanterns strewn around the crowded room. “You even saw him during your relaxing visualization?” He said.

“I must have fallen asleep,” said Netta.

Sheldon stroked his mustache. “Dreams of a loved one dying represent our fear of losing them.”

“The little boy isn’t a loved one,” said Netta. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Ah,” said Sheldon. “Death of a stranger. That’s different.”

“What does it mean?” Netta asked.

Sheldon tucked an errant strand of hair back into his turban. “It could be a message from the spirit world. I’ll have to give you a reading to be sure.”

“A reading?”

“Crystal ball or tarot cards?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Eight bucks.”

Netta sighed. “Crystal ball, I guess.”

Sheldon lifted a swathe of black velvet from the table with a flourish, revealing an opalescent sphere. He waved his hands theatrically for a moment, then stared into the crystal ball. “Hm,” he said, his eyes magnified by the curved glass. “Yes, I see.”

“What do you see?” asked Netta.

“The boy is indeed a spirit. He’s trying to communicate with you. He wants to tell you something.”

Netta felt her heart beating rapidly in her chest. “What does he want to tell me?”

Sheldon frowned at the crystal ball. “It’s unclear...something about...a hat?”

“A hat?”

“Yes...a red hat. He lost it...long ago...when he was alive.”

Netta blinked. “He lost his hat? That’s what he’s reaching out from the spirit world to tell me?”

“It was very special to him. It belonged to...his grandfather. Yeah. His grandfather war it...during the war.”

“He wore a red hat in the war?”

A look of annoyance flashed across Sheldon’s face. “I said during the war, not in it.”

“Oh.”

“The boy wants you to find his hat. If you find it, your nightmares will stop.”

“How am I supposed to find some strange boy’s hat?”

“He will reveal it to you when the time is right.” Sheldon glanced at his watch and sat up. “That’s thirty-four dollars.”

***

Netta walked slowly down the dark suburban sidewalk, her ears tuned to the unsettling symphony of her muted footsteps mixed with the hum of a nearby television and the buzzing of a flickering streetlamp. She spotted the bus stop shelter up ahead, its cracked green paint spattered with colorful graffiti. She willed her tired legs to move faster.

She stepped inside the shelter, ready to collapse on the hard metal bench, then froze in her tracks. A small boy of about seven or eight sat on the bench, swinging his sneakered feet. He looked up at her and flashed a gap-toothed smile.

Netta’s knees weakened; she gripped the shelter with one shaky hand. It was him. It was the boy from her nightmare.

“You,” Netta whispered.

The boy’s smile faded.

“It’s you,” said Netta. “I found you.”

The boy glanced uneasily around the shelter. “What are you talking about, lady?”

Netta reached out her arms to him. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’m here. I’ll save you.”

The boy stood up. “I don’t know you,” he said, taking a step back. “Leave me alone.”

Netta embraced him tightly, pressing his face to her chest. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’ll save you.”

The boy struggled and writhed in her unyielding grip. “I can’t breathe!” he cried, his voice muffled by her heavy wool coat.

Tears streamed down Netta’s cheeks. “Hold still,” she said, squeezing him tighter. “I’ll protect you.”

“Help me!” the boy screamed, kicking at her legs. “I can’t breathe!”

Netta’s sobs drowned out the boy’s desperate cries. “Hold still,” she squeaked.

The boy gave one more weak kick before he fell still in her arms.

“Everything’s going to be OK,” Netta said, a relieved smile stretching across her face. “You’re safe now.”