Beware the nightly warnings of a prescient mum
It is Monday morning. Exactly what time it is and what I’m doing, I can’t recall. In the living room, the Christmas tree twinkles from beside the mantelpiece. My family is lounging in their pyjamas and morning faces. My mum begins to tell us the dream she had last night.
It is Tuesday morning. Exactly what time it is and what I’m doing, I can’t recall. In the living room, the phone is ringing. Mum beats me to it. She is talking to Aunty Noel, my dad’s sister, and suddenly her forehead is creasing, her eyes widening. I listen intently, translating her ultra-fast, Arabic side of the conversation in my head, and fail to keep up. I wait impatiently until she hangs up the phone.
It is still Tuesday morning. The time is not important, even if I did remember it. I am standing between Mum and my older sister Bregitte in a row of relatives, backed up against the large, cream-coloured, perfume-topped dressing table that I longed to own as a child. We watch in silence as two male paramedics in dark blue uniforms fiddle with their gadgets and scribble on their notepads. Finally, the taller, older one turns to Noel and says, “It’s nothing serious. She has a pinched nerve in her back and that’s why she’s in so much pain. Give it a few days and she’ll be able to walk again. It’s very common.”
But this isn’t something ‘common’ to me. My eyes well up each time my Tayta (grandma) utters a low groan, or covers her eyes with her hand, or scrunches her face in pain. She is lying, blanketed and still, in her king-sized bed. Every now and then, she murmurs in Arabic to the room at large, “Do you see what’s happened to me? Yesterday there was nothing wrong with me, and look at me now.”
It is Tuesday evening. For once, the exact time is saved in the details of a video file on my phone. It tells me it is eleven minutes past six when I begin to record. Bregitte is singing, ‘ya oumallah, ya hanouna, ya kanza rahma, wal ma3ouna*’, Tayta is smiling to herself. This is her favourite Arabic hymn, she tells us, and now I can hear her soft voice join in. She is lying on her side at the edge of the bed, facing me and Bregitte who are sitting cross-legged, on the furry, beige carpet beside her. Everyone left a few hours ago, and my sister and I have volunteered to sleep over. Tayta mixes up the words of the hymn. We all laugh and I stop the recording. She begins to tell us the extraordinary tale of how she met my deceased grandfather and how they were married. I know I have never heard the full story until now. Two hours later and my parents are here. I’m trying to be of use while they help Tayta to the bathroom. Now they are settled in her bedroom with cups of tea, and I can hear them laughing from the kitchen where Bregitte and I finish cleaning up and switch off the lights.
It is Wednesday afternoon. The events of the morning, I can’t totally recall. Only that Bregitte and I made Tayta a cup of tea with toast and a fruit salad for breakfast, that she insisted we have some ice-cream and that my uncle’s wife brought a pot of spaghetti over at about eleven o’clock. Now the sun is streaming through the large windows, warming Tayta’s bedroom. She is propped up against her pillows, and feeling a little better than yesterday. Mum and my younger brother John are over, sitting on dining table chairs chatting with Tayta. It is nearly 3 pm. and my older brother Anthony has arrived, having finished work earlier than usual. He is concerned about Tayta and asks her a tonne of questions. His mobile is ringing and he leaves the room. He re-enters and tells us our cousin Eddy, who is wiring up the electricity at his brother Francis’ new home, would like his help. Anthony says goodbye and leaves.
It is Wednesday evening. The time is approximately 6.30 pm. In the living room, Mum’s phone is ringing. She is panicking. “Are you okay? Is Edward okay? What happened? Where are you? Have you called Noel?”
It is Wednesday night. I am standing with my family (except John who stayed with Tayta) and relatives outside the emergency ward at Westmead Hospital. I can’t help but stare at my brother, still in his work uniform. Everyone is gathered around him. His face and voice are telling me he is still registering what’s happened, and I’m trying to keep my emotions to myself as he recounts it to us. On his way to see Eddy, he had considered stopping home to change out of his uniform, but decided against it. When he arrived, he joined Eddy who was on his knees, doing his electricity job. He hadn’t been there three minutes when Eddy began pulling a face. The wires were clinging to his hands, and he was shaking. Anthony made the Sign of the Cross and cried ‘Ya Rab! (O Lord). He grabbed Edward’s shoulders and instantly felt all his energy leave his body, but managed to pull him free from the wires. Edward was lying on the floor. His eyes were rolling and blood was seeping out of his mouth. Anthony cried, “Eddy, are you alright?!” and dialled emergency. The ambulance quickly arrived and the paramedic told Anthony, “It’s a miracle. You both should be dead.”
It is still Wednesday night. A nurse rolls Eddy out of a room towards us in a wheelchair. His eyes are red. He has white bandages across his upper chest and shoulder, which had been dislocated from the force of the electrocution that led to internal rotation. His girlfriend is crying and giggling with relief, and Eddy manages a smile. We all smile in return. Anthony and Eddy are still having tests done. The doctors tell us they will both be alright. Outside, my aunty Houda (Noel’s twin) tells us her own son, Bernard, was in a major car accident just a few days ago. He had been in hospital with a fractured ribcage and a swollen face. We remain at the hospital for a few hours. I sit beside a window and shut my eyes.
My mum begins to tell us the dream she had last night. It’s dark, but she can see a large, round pool of mud. Tayta, Noel and Houda are walking towards it and as they reach its edge, they suddenly begin to sink. “Like quicksand,” Mum says. They are trying to swim, but they’re drowning. My little sister Gaby appears in the dream and tries to enter the pool, but Mum grabs her shirt and pulls her back. Within ten minutes of her telling it, I have forgotten the fact that Mum had a dream, which she recounted to us in the living room by the Christmas tree on Monday morning.
It isn’t until Thursday morning, at a time I can’t recall, that my Mum remembers her dream and realises it had ‘come true’. It’s certainly appears that her dream foretold what came to pass. The three people drowning in the mud had bad things happen to them, either directly like Tayta, or close enough, like my aunts and their sons. Gaby represented my brother, in two ways: he had a close shave himself and he pulled someone (literally) away from danger.
I had never given much thought to dreams and their connections to ‘real’ life before. Now, I share my most vivid dreams with my family and make an effort to check for any link with my waking life. Mum’s dream wasn’t a one-off. Her dreams seem to constantly manifest in our daily lives and have led me to regard them seriously. Recently she dreamt that our neighbour, who was pregnant at the time, had a baby boy. She already has two gorgeous little girls and lo and behold, she had a boy. It may be a coincidence but these happen too often when it comes to my Mum’s dreams.
My family now remembers those few days when Tayta couldn’t walk and Anthony and Eddy were electrocuted as the miracle before Christmas. Even so, I’m with my Dad when he tells Mum, “Don’t dream about me!”
