THE BENCH IN THE BLUE FOG

The young boy sat on the bench every evening, waiting for something until something waited for him.

Being in foster care was as horrifying as he had heard it could be. Each morning started off with grumbles about how making breakfast was such a chore, and to eat what’s there, like it or not. It seemed to be a broken record as the pseudo-caretaker waddled to the counter, grabbed his plate, and basically slung it onto the table in front of him. Her hair was never combed. Her blouse looked as though it had been used to wipe up the counter from the day before. In fact, her appearance pretty much mirrored the look of the concoction on his plate. There was an attempt at scrambled eggs that were watery and ran to the edge of the plate, untoasted bread that was stale, something that resembled a sausage, and milk in a glass that needed washing.

He had no family of his own now. He had been living with his grandmother, whom he loved dearly, following the death of his parents. They were on a flight to Ireland, when for unknown reasons, it exploded in midair and dropped into the ocean. Grandma had become his rock, his place of comfort in the days and weeks of grieving. Their bond grew stronger, and the feeling of family began to emerge again.

But now, she was gone too. He was truly alone. He desperately wanted to feel her arms wrapped around him, assuring him that it was going to be OK. But there was no more grandma, and no more reason to believe that all would be Ok. All he had left now were the tangled, meaningless dreams that seemed to become more vivid and grotesque every night.

Each night it seemed like more and more details of his parents’ death grew larger and it consumed him. He was engulfed with what seemed like a real experience of flying and floating above their plane as it headed to Ireland, unable to warn them of the fate just minutes away. Last night, the plane exploded, and he found himself whisked away into the arms of his grandmother.

So, each evening after supper, he left that awful house and found his bench to escape any way he could. He was always entangled in this web of what life had become now and it was constantly reminding him how unbearable his life was becoming. So, each evening, as darkness fell, his tears would also fall as he left his bench and started back to that horrible house, and the bed that drew him into yet another level of nightmare.

Tonight’s heavy fog was abnormally chilling for this time of year. The warmth of his worn-out jacket surrounded his frail frame as he walked toward his bench.

The sturdy bench was old, worn, and weathered looking. It was nestled between two small shrubs in the park. Not far from it stood a streetlamp whose bulb was quite dim. and the light from it faded in and out sporadically as the fog embraced its secluded spot.

Walking toward his bench, things seemed strange. Something seemed, well, not right. He stopped and peered into the blue fog that seemed to surround it and seemed to reach out, inviting him to come closer. There was a faint image of a figure that was already sitting there. How dare he! This was his bench. He slowly made his way to his cherished place and sat quietly down. This shrunken figure of a man was garbed in black and wore a beat-up old brown hat that was pulled down so that only a small glimpse of his face was visible. It was wrinkled like a raisin, and the end of his nose supported a crooked pair of smudged wire glasses. No words were spoken, yet the young boy felt as though he knew him.

This mysterious old man slipped his hand into his tattered coat pocket and pulled out a fortune cookie. He broke it open, gently removed the strip of paper, and put the sweet cookie in his mouth. He handed the paper to the boy, and spoke the words in a soft raspy whisper,” Your life is not what it seems.” This rickety old man’s face turned and stared at the boy with his piercing eyes. No more words were spoken, but that message seemed to echo in the mist. He slowly stood up, wrapped his tattered coat around him and slowly walked away into the thickening fog.

"That old man is crazy," he thought." He doesn’t know me at all. Or…does he? Everyone in my life is gone and it’s just me now."

The darkness of the sky was upon him, and he knew he must go back to this home. Somehow, the thoughts about those dreaded dreams were not as strong tonight. Something seemed different yet again.

Dropping his jacket to the floor, he laid down. His eyes grew heavy. Sleep was going to come quicker tonight. He pulled the blanket up around his shoulders. Why was he so cold?

Instantly, he was back into the dream again. The dream that seemed like it would never end. The plane was in danger. Nothing he could do to save it. The fireball filled the sky, and he once again tumbled into his grandmother’s arms. He could feel himself breathing hard. In fact, it seemed hard to breathe. At that moment his grandmother disappeared, and he found himself standing in a cold damp place where it felt as though icy fingers were grabbing his legs and arms.

The dream grew more intense, and he found himself trying to break free. He could not see what was strangling his arms and legs. He knew he must escape. Beads of sweat ran down from his face onto the pillow. He was beginning to tire. He could feel himself starting to submit to the powerful grip of the icy fingers.

This time the nightmare was more terrifying than he ever imagined it could be. Where were these icy fingers dragging him? He kept trying to resist. He was swirling. “Wake up! Wake up!” his brain commanded, but his eyes would not open. Now his whole body was spinning in this cold and horrible place. Dizzy, oh so dizzy. He felt his blanket being ripped from his hands.

Is this the end? He could resist no more.

Defeated, he lay silently in his bed. Exhausted.

Voices from somewhere reached his ears. Familiar voices. “Do I dare open my eyes?”

Slowly his swollen eyelids opened and began to focus. Here was his mom’s beautiful face, his dad’s wonderful grin, and yes, his grandmother who was wiping tears from her eyes. She was holding his hand in hers.

“Welcome back sweetheart. Your fever broke finally, and you are going to be OK.” whispered his grandmother as she squeezed his frail hand. “You gave us quite a scare.”

The nurse was removing the ice packs from around his arms and legs, and the cold icy feeling vanished.

They left his hospital room as the nurse was putting a fresh warm blanket on his small frame.

Who was that old man on the bench? Was this all a hideous dream? He really didn’t want to think about that now. He was truly ready for a peaceful sleep.

As he rolled onto his side and snuggled into the blanket, he glanced at the table by his bed. There was a glass of ice water, a beautiful bouquet of flowers, a stuffed animal, and a small piece of paper. As he held it, a look of terror was on his face and his body trembled. It read “Your life is not what it seems."