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Elvis Takes a Back Seat

By Leanna Ellis

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Elvis Takes a Backseat
Leanna Ellis

Chapter One
I Forgot to Remember to Forget
I used to dream.
But now it’s as if the TV in my mind has been turned off and a blank screen waits for me when I fall asleep at night. At least I’m not having nightmares. But I’m afraid the bulb has simply burned out.
Maybe I’ve simply forgotten how to dream. I’ve tried warm milk, sleeping pills, and stayed in bed for what seemed like days (maybe it was). I’ve tried power naps, suffered restless legs, counted sheep, frogs, backwards. I’ve slept on the floor, in a chair, crossways in bed. Nothing works.
My dreams used to be miniature Broadway productions. Once I dreamed about a Laundromat with industrial-sized washers and dryers. Clothes spun around, th-thunking against the dryer walls, reminding me of a kettle drum pounding in a royal cadence. My father, his head as bald as Yul Brynner’s, his cheekbones bold against taut skin, strolled toward me whistling “Shall We Dance?” Then he asked about Mother. She went to be with him five years ago.
Mother visited me occasionally, still wearing the auburn wig she bought during chemo. She bustled into my subconscious, her voice chirping “Pick-a-Little, Talk-a-Little” right out of The Music Man. She would remind me to fix dinner, sweep the floor, go to church. Duty was Mother’s watchword
Old boyfriends made brief guest appearances, congregating on the beach, kicking up sand, and tanning their torsos, belting out “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.”
But Stu has never rock-and-rolled his way into my dreams. If he did, I’m sure he’d be dressed like Elvis, hips swiveling, blond-hair-dyed-black bobbing in rhythm, lip trying to curl. Maybe it’s better not to think of him that way.
Stu had been my dream. His absence is the source of my emptiness, the reason my dreams have evaporated like dew on a hot, dry June day (which in Texas is hotter and drier than normal). Even when I had dreamed, I always turned toward Stu, reaching for him in the night. Now his side of the bed is empty. His glasses lay on the side table, beside the alarm clock, the lenses dusty from neglect.
As is the case most nights, I roll out of bed, not bothering to check the clock. I blink against the darkness. It’s so early it’s late. Before the paper boy has delivered the paper that I probably won’t read. Before the neighbor’s teenage son drives home after a late night with college friends and rolls a tire onto the curb. Before I’ve managed to get enough sleep.
I pad my way to the den and bang my toe into a box. A curse word pops out of my mouth and makes the house sound more empty. The silence aches in my bones.
Leaning my elbow against a wall, I rub my bruised toe. I’d forgotten about the boxes scattered throughout the house. With the help of my Aunt Rae and Ben, Stu’s best friend and my boss, I hauled down from the attic garbage bags of clothes and boxes of mementoes and forgotten items wrapped in newsprint and memories. Most everything is stuffed in the garage now, waiting to be sold tomorrow . . . this morning.
It’s too quiet. There are no car sounds, no dogs barking. I power up the stereo—Stu preferred a turntable—flip the record player on, and an album drops down and begins to spin. Elvis’ voice floats out of the speakers, crackly and supple, wrapping around me, tightening into a fist, squeezing and tightening around my heart.
I curl up on the sofa and bury myself under a knitted blanket that used to hold Stu’s scent, but over the last year and a half even that has faded. I miss the smell of Paul Sebastian cologne. I suppose I could buy a bottle or find Stu’s under his sink, but it wouldn’t be the same.
I poke my fingers and toes through the thick, soft yarn like latticework. I vaguely remember, as a kid going to Sunday school, a story about somebody dreaming of angels climbing a ladder to and from heaven. I imagined the ladder being gold and glittering in the moonlight. I wonder if I could climb that ladder now, or if Stu could descend.
Finally, night gives way to the new day. But my mood remains dark and restless. My future is the same. There are no angels pointing me in the right direction. God is a black hole, engulfing my hopes and dreams.
“Here goes everything,” I mumble and push the button. A whirring noise starts. In its cantankerous manner that reflects my own attitude, the garage door shifts against its will, lurches, and swings upward.


By Leanna Ellis
Elvis Takes a Back is available at a bookstore near you or online. Please Do Not Reproduce without permission.
www.leannaellis.com

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