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The Rest of Amos
Last night I had another foreboding dream about water, Colette wrote. I was standing inside an unfamiliar shabby little house. Water was everywhere; it rose fast around my feet. It was climbing the walls and rising to the attic.
Colette remained focused while continuing to write feverishly. I ran up some stairs and found a spot where I could lie between the rafters. A warm breeze was blowing through an open window. The air smelled sweet and swollen, the way it does after a storm. I sat up and looked out the open window. In an instant, I was standing on a grassy bank, staring at a bed floating on restless waters. Old Amos lay on the bed, his peppered wooly hair matted on the pillow. His eyes were fixed on something—I couldn’t tell what. Amos floated there tired and alone, and I stood silent and powerless, afraid to step into the river of water to pull him to safety. Instead, I turned and looked away.
When I turned to look again, the water began to shimmer like crystal and sapphire—beautiful and haunting. Then, a hole formed beside old Amos’ bed, and the shimmering water rushed into it. Where the water went, I couldn’t tell. Once more, I turned away. When I turned to look again, old Amos was gone.
Colette stopped writing. She felt tight, bound up and afraid. Was this a premonition? Colette folded the paper in half and in half again and buried the dream between the pages of a book inside the nightstand.
That night in her hospital room, Colette lay quietly in the dark, pretending to sleep as the nursing staff made their rounds. Perhaps tonight therewould be no dreams.Colette was comforted by the thought.
The next morning, Colette felt driven to approach Amos about her dream. She washed her face and looked intently into the bathroom mirror. Her fragile hair was just beginning to fill in. She pulled a knit cap over her scalp, covering a scar that wrapped around her head like a jagged crown. To Colette, it was a badge of dishonor. She chose not to display it as she walked through Mercy Hospital on her way to room 425.
Visibly frail, and wrapped in a pink chenille robe, Colette appeared in Amos’ doorway, unannounced. “Hello, Amos, do you mind if I visit?” she inquired.
“Colette! No mind at all—come on in! How you doing, girl?” he asked.
“I’m doing much better. How are you?”
“Oh fine, jus’ fine. Pull up a chair! How long you staying here?”
Colette explained, “I’m going through another round of tests this week. I’ll probably have more treatments … and my hair was just starting to come back!” She tugged on her cap and slouched into a chair.
“No mind, you’re beautiful! You still havin’ those crazy water dreams?” Amos asked.
Funny he should ask, Colette thought. “Oh, now and then,” she said, looking away as she spoke. She knew Amos was referring to their last group therapy session. She had talked about her water dreams. “Dr. Belding told me to write them down. He thinks it will help.”
Amos thought a few moments, “Hmmm … maybe so. Maybe your dreams—they be tellin’ you somethin’. Maybe they tellin’ you somethin’ big is bindin’ you up.”
Colette grew thoughtful, then shifted in her chair, “I don’t know, Amos.”
Suddenly, Colette blurted out, “Are you afraid of dying?” All at once the room appeared detached—surreal. She couldn’t believe she asked someone she barely knew such a personal question.
“Dying?” Amos asked. “Who you askin’ girl? No, I ain’t afraid.” He paused, leaned toward her and said, “I dreamed about water once.”
Colette appeared cool, but thought she heard her heart pounding in her head. “Really? What did you dream?”
“Well,” Amos continued, “It was nothin’ like anything I ever dreamed. I dreamed about heaven, and King Jesus sittin’ on a throne. And a river flowed out from underneath that throne—a shiny river of life. Ain’t no telling where that shiny river comes from or where it goes. I jus’ know that river rose up and swallowed up all my troubles. Everything I ever done wrong, and everything I never done right. It jus’ opened up its big old mouth and swallowed ‘em up whole.”
“Swallowed ‘em up whole,” Colette said softly.
“What’s that you say?” Amos asked.
“Oh, nothing—I was just thinking … it was nothing.” Amos was unaware that her thoughts were turning inside out.
“And so I ain’t afraid of dying,” Amos continued. “I jus’ fix my eyes on Jesus, and I know I’ll be fine. I rest my soul, and let King Jesus do what he do.” Then, Amos leaned his head back on his pillow. He closed his eyes as if transported to another place.
Colette lifted her eyes to a crucifix hanging on the wall. Jesus wore a jagged crown around his head. King Jesus—dying for me, she thought. For everything I ever did wrong, and everything I never did right. Forgive me Lord—help me not to be afraid, she prayed.
“I see,” she told Amos. “Death doesn’t have to be scary.” The two sat in silence for a few moments before a nurse stepped into the room.
“Amos, I’m here to wheel you down to physical therapy. Dr. Johnson wants you up and dancing by Valentine’s Day.”
The nurse turned to Colette, “Hello, Colette! You must be feeling better now.”
“I am—thanks,” Colette replied, standing up from her chair. Colette turned to Amos. “Would you mind if I come again?”
“No mind, no mind at all. Stop in any time!” Amos offered.
“I will,” Colette promised, “I’ll stop by again soon.”
On a muggy afternoon in August, a man with a cane stepped off the elevator outside Unit D at Mercy Hospital. He made his way past the nurse’s station, and on to room 425. A nurse’s aide hovered over Colette’s bed, adjusting her pillows as the man tucked his cane into a corner. The man approached Colette’s bedside, taking her hand, watching her eyes.
If only I could speak, I would thank them. I’d thank every one of them, she thought.
At four o’clock, Dr. Belding stopped in to pay a visit. “Hello, Amos,” he said in a hushed tone, “It’s good to see you again.” The doctor looked down on Colette. “How is she?”
“She’s floatin’ somewhere between here and there Doc. She’s resting jus’ fine.”
Later, as family gathered around Colette’s bedside, Amos slipped away and walked outside to catch a bus. The air smelled sweet and swollen, the way it does after a storm. She’s safe, he thought. Yessir, she’s safe with King Jesus.
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Toni M. Babcock is a freelance Christian writer from South St. Paul, Minnesota. She enjoys writing short stories, poems and essays that inspire faith in Jesus. As a former student of the Institute of Children’s Literature, she takes a special interest in writing short stories for kids, sometimes using her own grandkids as characters!
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