White Rocks and Meningitis

So, there I was. Sitting at one end of the circular driveway at my parent’s house. (The house that I lived in when I was in highschool.) Jimmy was standing on the front porch looking at me. A man in his 60’s walked up and asked me if I was going to let the party that was going on down the street just happen. It was a brick fraternity house and there were hundreds of kids in line to get in. They ranged in age from 13 to 21. My ex-boyfriend was there with his new girlfriend, who had a crooked bowl cut. And I remember that I was the one that gave her that haircut. I decided that I would not just let the party happen. I stood up and walked towards the party house and told everyone that I was having a party too because my parents were out of town. It was not strange that I am 28 and having this party. Hundreds filed into my driveway, awaiting my approval to get in. I let in several, and turned away several. Two of my sorority sisters were there that I didn’t know that well, and I let them in. There was no real criteria, but they only got in if I told them “yes.” So the party went on. And, about an hour later, I knew that my parents would be coming home soon and it was time for everyone to leave. The house was slammed full, with bodies smooshed wall to wall. People were even in closets. Nothing was going on, people were just talking and laughing. There were lots of tiny white rocks all over the carpet, which had been tracked in by people as they walked through the hills of white rocks that had appeared in my front yard. There were four or five crickets on the floor. I was yelling for people to leave, frantically picking up the little white rocks. I combed the house, continuing to find more and more people coming out of the woodwork, and ushered them out. There was a 13 year old girl wearing pink and purple pajamas standing in the bathroom in my bedroom. I told her to leave. She finished brushing her teeth and I carried her out while she giggled, leaving her toothbrushes (she had multiple) and washcloth on my bathroom counter. I continued onto the finished attic, yelling at people to leave. And my cell phone rang. The caller ID read “Washington Post.” I answered it. And it was my Dad on the line. His voice was trembling. He said “How long has it been since I told you I missed you? 6 months? I miss you, honey. I am in the hospital. The Washington Post Hospital. I have meningitis. I am dying.” In slow motion, my fist opened and the little white rocks fell to the ground that I had just cleaned. Jimmy stood across the room, looking at me. I started to hyperventilate. Between deep breathes, I said “I miss you Dad. Are you going to be OK?” His voice was strange. It was normal, Dad-like, then would get very deep, monster-like, in mid-sentence. I knew it was the meningitis taking over his body. He said “I miss you honey.” And I woke up, hyperventilating. I grabbed my chest, trying to breathe, and heard Jimmy ask “Did you have a bad dream?” And I started to cry.