I can't decide!

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The double glass doors that had been added to the entranceway were locked.I struggled to believe the meaning those words announced.At first I thought we should check the next street, but the truth was right in front of us.The Winthrop Hotel had been converted into senior citizens’ apartments.On some level I had thought, as we ran up the hill in the dark, I would see the bright shining faces of my friends once again.I would join their youthful shouts of joy and their awkward humor at finding themselves in formal dress wear.In that instant, standing there in the rain with Denise, the previous night’s dream came back.I gave Denise the essence.I’m holding a carton of eggs, which is glued shut.I know the eggs are going bad.A mob of men attack me from the shadows, and I slash them with a long chef’s knife.Then you and I are running down Orchard Street toward my childhood home.Our tunics are soaked with blood but the Sun is shining and soon we are running in luminous white clothes.Denise was clutching her arms against the damp cold.Your precious egg, she said.What precious egg?The one you’re always guarding.That’s what the dream is about.Your creative energy is turning rancid.She put her arms around my neck.We were both shivering.We should go, she said.Patrick’sAt Mass, March 15, 1981, eight o’clock Sunday morning.Patrick’s church, a block down from Aquinas Academy, the sister school to Bellarmine Prep in North Tacoma.Out of the blue, it began.There was no reason for it.And not the slightest hint of forewarning.Would Jesus have to come down to each of these planets?To sacrifice himself again and again in order to save these humanoids from sin?No vodka at hand, I sat in the pew and breathed slowly, hoping this might dissipate the torment.I prayed that the suffering would stop, that it would lighten, that it would lift, that it would dissolve altogether and leave me alone.After ten minutes of praying with no change, I switched to calculating how long I would have to wait until I could use vodka to extinguish the fiery electric throbbing.Ten minutes until the end of Mass.Another four to walk to our car.Five to seven for the drive up 12th Street, over to Yakima, left on Cedar.One minute for the stairs, another minute to put the blender on the counter, fifteen seconds for the frozen orange juice to be pureed.No, not frozen orange juice, gulping that down would give me a headache.Equal parts vodka and water to anesthetize the pain.Patrick’s and emerged into the sunny morning on the sidewalk of North J Street with the church bells pealing brightly.Donuts in pink cardboard boxes.The pavement was scattered with the white blossoms from the cherry trees, and a light breeze dropped a new wave upon the children running about with cries of glee.The evergreen trees that lined the street were bursting with sap.It was a scintillating spring morning.Her beaming face was framed by a surrounding halo of beautiful red hair.She held a donut in one hand.I knew that I knew her, but her name would not come.Only when she spoke did I realize it was Oona Fitzgerald, one of my favorite students.Her excitement was so great she stuttered to get her words out.It was awkward, seeing a student at Mass.I disliked any mixing of my professional and private lives, and the awkwardness was made worse by my ignorance concerning what she was talking about.Perhaps I had written her a letter of recommendation, but the throbbing in my chest shredded my memory.She bubbled over with her news.When word of the award came, she and her roommates purchased a bottle of champagne, her first taste.When she called her parents about the details of the offer, they were sure she was joking.She was the first member of her family to attend college.