I was so upset the night before. I had been crying so much and missing her so much that my head was throbbing and my arms ached for her. I took an anaprox for the throbbing in my head. I pulled down the covers to get into bed and I said, “Maria, please come to me tonight…I miss you so much…please come to me…in my dreams.” I awoke at six a.m. and was cold and got under the covers and went back to sleep. I had this dream:

I went back to rehab. She was already dead nearly six months but I went back to her rehab and I didn’t know why. It all took place inside, and families were everywhere waiting for their visits. The “clients,” as they were called, were everywhere, too. The interior was the same: shabby, dingy, old, depressing. I recognized some family members and thought, “here we go, their loved ones are back here, they screwed up already, and they’re back.”

This place was like The Night of the Living Dead. There were so many new female faces, and I knew they had no idea who I was, but slowly I made my way around, and some of them had heard about Maria. Suddenly someone brought some of Maria’s things down. I recognized a shirt she often wore and other personal belongings. They were shown to me and then taken away. I got very street-talking and said, “Yo…like that is like so messed-up that you would show me my daughter’s things like that…like a tease…and take them away…you get her shit right now and bring it back to me.”

I saw a familiar looking man who was a teacher for years where I taught as well, and I asked him, “Did you ever know anyone who lost a child?” He answered emphatically, “I never knew anyone who lost a child.” I didn’t think so,” I replied. One of the females was trying to be nice to me; she knew I lost Maria and I was suffering. All of a sudden Maria walked in looking like she did right before using heroin: shoulder-length blonde hair, chubbier (like I loved her) and wearing a fuchsia lace two-piece outfit: long-sleeved scoop neck top with flared pants…and she left.

I kept making my way through the crowd and suddenly the elevator came down (there was no elevator in rehab) and out walked Maria. Her hair was still blonde and shoulder-length. She was smiling, and wearing a spaghetti-strapped ball gown. The gown was all tightly knit silver and gray threads…like she was wearing marcasite. I heard music playing from Gatsby’s time: it was specifically Al Bowlly singing, It’s All Forgotten Now. I knew she was not part of rehab…that she was already dead.

Next, she came over to me, but she was now in a black and white ball gown with long black satin gloves (the ones she wore to Frankie’s junior prom) and I grabbed both of her arms hard. She didn’t try to break my hold. She just jerked a little from the motion of me grabbing both arms hard like that, and I said, “Listen to me! What if I told you I already know what’s gonna happen…you hear me? What if I told you I talked to someone who knows…no, I didn’t get my cards read, but I talked to someone reputable who knows, and I know what’s gonna happen…you’re gonna die…you hear me? You’re gonna come home and die on January 1st, 2006…from heroin…you’re gonna overdose…what do you think of that?”

She moved back a bit from where I held her. “Now tell me,” I said, “You tell me how it happened. What did you do…a little at a time like some people told me…was that it? When you do a little at a time, how long do you wait before you do some more?” She looked at me as if she were slightly ashamed of her own gluttony, and answered, “Two minutes?” “Or did you do it all at once?” I asked, “All three bags at once? Was it in the morning like Frankie thought?” “Oh, he thought I did it in the morning because he knows I did that before,” she said.

When I awoke and opened my eyes I saw a blurred golden-white haze. I closed my eyes and opened them again. Slowly…I recognized my bedroom.