When I dream about Grandma Ashline, I dream about her house in Froelich, Iowa. But she is never there. In every dream, she has already died from her eight brain tumors. We have already listened to her scream through the night, demanding we leave the windows open. Sealed windows trap dead souls. How we must keep the cellar door unlocked, so she can hide from death when it comes.
Lately, I keep having the same dream:
I wake up on the sofa bed in Grandma's living room, my hips sore from the metal slats, my neck twisted. My cousins and sister sleep next to me, sheets kicked down to their ankles. We kids always get stuck in the same bed.
Why are we here? Grandma died months ago. Every last trinket and antique was auctioned off to pay her medical bills.
I crawl out of bed to find a better place to sleep, and suddenly, my sister rolls over and wakes up.
"What are you doing?" She says.
"Finding a better place to sleep. Come on."
We tip-toe through the kitchen and stop to check the weather owl figurine. It changes color depending on the weather. Pink for sun, blue for rain.
Blue.
When we arrive at the door to Grandma's bedroom, we stop and look at each other. "Shhhh," we both say.
The door creaks as we open it, and as we step over the threshold, we realize the floor has rotted away. It is all dirt. And then we notice the cats - hundreds of them, squirming and crawling in furry piles. The cats hiss and scratch as they fight over scraps of meat. They knead their paws into the dirt and meow.
We run across the floor and hide in Grandma's private bathroom, which we know is a secret bathroom, and we should not be in there.
"Did they forget to bury her?" I ask. And I feel my cheeks flush with rage.
And then I wake up.
Grandma never had a private bathroom. So I have to wonder: What is this secret room? What does it mean?