The REM Precept

by J. M. Lanham

  “I think it’s out of ink,” he said as he handed it back to the nurse.

  “Here,” a booming voice with a thick Latino accent arose from the other side of the curtain. “You can use mine. Nurse?”

  “Mhmm,” she replied as she retrieved the pen and handed it to Paul. He took it and swirled a couple of circles on the corners of the menu to check for ink. Back in business. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it. It is the least I can do for my new friend here.” An elderly hand parted the curtain, and the face of an octogenarian man who appeared to be of Latin American descent emerged.

  “Do you mind?” the man asked, referring to the curtain.

  “No, not at all.” Paul motioned for the nurse and she pulled the partition back. “Opens the room up anyway, right?”

  “I agree.” The man would have extended a hand to introduce himself, but he could tell right away Paul’s frail hand would never reach his. Instead, a kind wave, followed by, “My name is Alejandro. It is a pleasure to meet you, Paul.”

  “You already know my name.”

  “Yes. I must apologize for eavesdropping, but your case has drawn a keen interest from a man who has been alone and unable to move from his hospital bed for several weeks now.”

  Alejandro. Alejandro … Where have I heard that name before?

  His bedside neighbor said, “If you had told me a week before my knee surgery that I would be sharing a room with the biggest news story in Atlanta, I would have said you were crazy!”

  “So that’s what you’re in for?”

  Alejandro gently patted his knee. “It has been giving me trouble for years. Now, they say, it’s good as new. Cobalt-chromium and titanium. You could drop this thing in a volcano and it wouldn’t melt! Well”—he examined his bruised knee—“the parts, anyway. But you get what I mean.”

  Couldn’t melt in a volcano. What volcano?

  The comment led to more confusion for Paul as his thousand-yard stare returned. Concerned, Alejandro said, “Are you all right, my friend?”

  No answer.

  “I’m sorry, Paul. I meant no ill will. I know you’ve been through a lot; the news has said as much. And, I must admit, long stays in hospitals make a man of my demeanor a little stir-crazy.”

  The nurse said, “That’s putting it nicely.”

  Paul snapped out of it and said, “No worries, Alejandro. I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

  “Come on, old-timer,” the nurse said as she helped Alejandro out of bed. “Let’s give your roomie some rest.”

  She walked him to the door when he turned and said, “Oh yes, I almost forgot,” making a writing gesture in the air.

  “The pen. Of course.” Paul set it on his tray table, and Alejandro made a hobbled lunge toward it.

  “Not so fast, speedy. You’ll have plenty of time to write after your walk.”

  “My apologies, dear. But a good pen is hard to come by.” He turned to Paul. “My daughter could not be here for my surgery, so I promised I would write her a letter each day to let her know of my progress. She’s been on me to get one of those smartphones”—he waved his hand dismissively—“but what can I say. I’m old-fashioned.”

  “I like a good letter,” Paul said, eyes already closed. “Takes me back to a simpler time.”

  “Me too, my friend. Me too.”

  The nurse urged Alejandro out the door, and soon the two were off to make the laps while Paul fell quickly back to sleep.

  Chapter 32:

  Interviews

  Another day, another delusion. At least, that’s how Paul felt as he lay in a hospital bed on the eleventh floor watching his wife bounce their baby boy while his Latin-American roommate sat quietly in front of the window, head down in the midmorning light, penning a letter to his daughter atop a rollaway desk that had the best view in the room.

  On the one hand, Paul was thankful to be back in the presence of his wife and son, even if it was at the cost of a major head injury. No one was chasing him, trying to murder him, or using his family as a bargaining chip to cover up a potentially catastrophic conspiracy. His hand wandered back up to the top of his head as he took in the smiles and giggles coming from his young family when a thought arose.

  Not a bad trade-off. Not a bad one at all.

  For a moment, he wanted to pretend this was all there was to reality; that the other world he’d spent time in didn’t matter; that finding joy in the present situation prevailed over whatever evil, twisted, nightmarish and nefarious world he had escaped from before waking.

  Sure, Paul wanted to pretend that it didn’t matter. But the truth was that it did matter. It mattered to him.

  Live in the present, Michelle had said. He watched her, watched the way she played with their son, watched the light in their eyes and the joy on their faces. Maybe, he thought, she was onto something.

  Their eyes locked and Michelle smiled at her husband for the briefest of moments when they were interrupted by a knock on the door. Alejandro answered for them to come in without looking up from his writing, and in walked a young woman whom Paul hadn’t met before (at least, he didn’t think he had?). She stepped just inside the door and had a hushed conversation with Michelle while Paul scrutinized her from foot to forehead. Blue heels. Blue skirt. White blouse. All complemented by a fierce shade of chin-length, burgundy-red hair that belonged to a woman who beamed confidence and power. Why did she look so familiar? No way she was a hospital employee, thought Paul, but there was no doubt in his mind that this person had the tenacity of a trauma surgeon.

  Following close behind was a skinny redheaded kid, not a day over twenty, stumbling into the room with heavy camera bags on both shoulders and dropping them just inside the door. The woman stepped out of the way as the teenager caught his breath and said, “Easy there, tiger. Don’t forget we’re in a hospital.”

  That voice. I know that voice.

  Michelle noticed that familiar look of confusion on Paul’s face and explained. “This is Claire Connor with Action News Atlanta. Do you remember, Paul? She’s the journalist I was telling you about.”

  Paul didn’t remember Michelle telling him anything about Claire Connor. But he recognized her nonetheless. If he only knew why …

  “That’s okay. They’ve been wanting to do an interview with you for a while now, but I told them it’d be best to hold off until you felt up to it.” She looked back at Claire, then to Paul again. “I was a little nervous about it at first, but I think it would be good for you to get your story out. I’m sure it would do a lot of people a lot of good to hear about your experience. So, what do you say? Feeling up to it?”

  Paul’s head began to spin again, but this time he caught it fast and was able to right the ship before he passed out. He blinked hard and thought carefully on his words. “Sure. I can do an interview,” he said as he waved them on in. “But I’m not sure how good it’s gonna be.”

  Claire smiled and motioned for her cameraman to start setting up. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine, Mr. Freeman.”

  “Please, call me Paul.”

  “Okay. Paul.” She gestured toward her assistant and said, “This is Fenton Reed. He’ll be the cameraman.” The pimple-faced teenager waved as he set up the lights.

  Paul whispered, “A little young, isn’t he?”

  “He’s an intern. But don’t worry, the kid’s smart as a whip, and great with the camera. I promise,” she said with a wink, “he’ll put you in the best light possible.”

  “Sounds good,” Paul said without sounding like he really meant it, his pain medication working a number on his mind.

  Claire said, “Of course, if this is all too much, we can always come back, or even just do a one-on-one interview for print. It’s totally your call.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Paul said. “I’ve just been having a hard time finding a happy medium between the headaches and the pain pills, so please don’t hold it against me if I pass out mid-sentence.�
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  Michelle grabbed a damp cloth and went to dab a remnant of Paul’s bacon-and-eggs breakfast off his face, leaving Aaron alone in the bassinet nearby. Almost immediately the child began to cry, prompting Michelle to pick him back up as she anxiously tried to calm him down. He only got louder.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire,” she said, “but he’s been cranky all morning. I think I’m going to take him for a walk, maybe downstairs to the playroom in pediatrics.” She turned to Paul. “Is that fine with you, hon?”

  “Of course. Maybe you can pick us up some real food on the way back?” he said, winking.

  “Sure. I know a few places close by.” She put her son in his carrier and left just as Fenton was locking the camera into the tripod.

  “We’re ready, Claire,” he said.

  Claire nodded and leaned in to adjust the microphone clipped to Paul’s chest. “How about you?” she asked. “Are you ready?”

  Paul shifted to his side, getting comfortable. “Sure. The sooner we wrap this thing up the sooner I can get out of here.”

  “You’re leaving?” The comment was news to Claire.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said matter-of-factly. “Doctors came in this morning, said my vitals were looking great and there was no reason I couldn’t be monitored from home. I got my walking papers first thing this morning. Still have to wait for a couple more doctors to stop by, but they told me by this time tomorrow I’d be back home with the wife and kid.”

  “That’s great news, Paul!” She impulsively came in for a hug, but stopped herself halfway and extended a hand instead. “Still got a lot of wires coming out of you. I’d hate to mess anything up.”

  He smiled as if he understood her intention. “No worries, Claire. Thanks.” She sat next to Paul by the bed when he asked, “Is this going to be live?”

  “No, we wouldn’t do that to you. We made an arrangement with your wife to have the opportunity to review the footage before it airs. I know you’ve been through a lot and we want to share your story without causing any more duress.”

  The assurance helped Paul relax (even if only a little) as he lay back and tried to put his best face forward. The red light appeared atop the camera, and the interview commenced.

  “We’re here with Paul Freeman, the Atlanta man who recently awoke from a six-month-long coma after surviving a terrible traffic accident in February of this year. You first heard about this incredible story from Mr. Freeman’s wife, Michelle. Now, we’re sitting down with the man himself to discover what it’s like to return to the real world after being unconscious for half a year.” She turned and asked, “What can you tell us about the last six months, Paul?”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, it’s been a strange journey, that’s for sure. If I had to put a word on it, I guess I’d call it surreal.”

  What was it like to emerge from a comatose state?”

  A pause, then, “For a while I didn’t even know who I was. Basically, it was like my ego had left the building; like I was just a shell of a person with no identity or sense of self. Then, slowly, things started to come together, and little by little, things began to make more and more sense. I started staying awake longer, started having memories from my past and about family members, and then finally everything just clicked. I remembered my wife. My son. My job. The wreck. Everything.”

  “Almost like a computer booting back up after months off-line.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “I think it’s safe to say you came very close to death. Tell me, was there ever a point where you had a near-death experience?”

  To Paul, the generic and bubbly questions didn’t match up with the woman sitting at his bedside—at least, in his mind. Inquisitively, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “No,” she said, head cocked, eyes sharpened. “At least, I don’t think so?”

  “There’s just something all-too familiar about this. But they tell me I’ve had a brain surgery or two or seven, so what do I know.”

  “Well I don’t mean to sound pretentious or anything, but I have been on television a lot over the last six months covering the War of the Baltics.”

  “Overseas correspondent,” Paul said.

  “I was freelancing for several outlets, one of which happened to be Atlanta Action News. They offered me a job when I got back and I thought I should take it. Figured it’d be a nice change of pace from the shitstorm going on over there.”

  “So, when’s the segment on baking the perfect batch of chocolate chip cookies?”

  “I know, right?” Claire said. “But hey, don’t downplay your story here. It’s quite remarkable.”

  “It’s a puff piece.”

  “Awaking from a six-month coma?” Claire scoffed. “Hardly. There’s a great story here. I promise you, I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.”

  The comment appeared to win Paul over, at least for the time being. Still, he knew this woman from somewhere, and it wasn’t the five o’clock news.

  Claire said, “Many people come back from near-death experiences reporting signs and visions from the other side, NDEs for short. So I’m wondering, did you have one of these experiences?”

  “Not really,” Paul said, “but I have had a ton of dreams, especially since I first woke up.”

  “Can you tell us more about those?”

  “It’s kind of hard to explain. I mean, most of them are pretty trippy and don’t make a lot of sense. Shapes spinning and morphing into things like faces and snakes and demons before twirling into some other dizzying mess of light and colors that come flooding in with a whirlwind of emotions ranging from pure joy and love to absolute terror and, just—yeah.” Frustrated, “I’m not making a lot of sense here, am I …”

  “More than you think. Sounds like a bad acid trip, but don’t ask me how I know that.”

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “So, were they all like that?”

  “The dreams?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Not really. In fact, there’s one in particular that’s been bugging me over the last couple of days, mainly because it was so realistic. Like, even lying here talking to you, I’m having trouble accepting the fact that the dream is the illusion and that this is the real world.”

  “The dream? Can you elaborate?”

  “The other side. The experience I feel like I had, right down to my core. That place I feel like I was yanked out of the moment I started to open my eyes here; the moment I woke up in this hospital bed.”

  “What was so convincing about the dream you had?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Okay then. Where do I start …”

  “Usually best to start at the beginning.”

  Paul didn’t hold back, and over the next hour, he did his best to fill Claire in on everything he could remember (however fleeting those memories were). He was familiar with the Ocula conspiracy, and Asteria’s efforts to cover it up. He also knew the CIA was involved, and had used the company’s genome-inhibiting sleeping pill in an experimental mind-control program. But when Claire pressed him for names of those involved, Paul could only remember a handful. Asteria Pharmaceutical’s PR guy and ex-CIA operative, Ryan Tanner. Head of research at Asteria’s secret facility in Costa Rica, Dick Doyle. An Atlanta station chief for the CIA (who also happened to be a neurosurgeon at Grady), and a motivational speaker wanted for murder who was staying just a few floors down.

  When it was over, Claire took a long, nothing-short-of-amazed breath, then said, “Wow, Paul. That is quite a story.” She turned to Fenton. “Bet you didn’t think you’d hear a tale like that on your way to work this morning.” He forced a laugh, but it was clear the story had made him uncomfortable.

  Claire turned back to Paul and said, “So I’m wondering why you continued to believe all of this was possible long after you woke up. Why it seemed so convincing, especially with so many holes in
the story.”

  “Well, there aren’t always holes in the story. Like I said, things come and go. You know …” he pointed to his head full of bandages. “But I guess the main thing was the fact that it just felt long. I’m talking months and months and months, leading all the way back to the accident.”

  “The traffic accident was in your dream?” Paul hadn’t mentioned it before.

  “Exactly. Only, there was no accident. I made it to work just fine that day, clocked in, took a seat in my chair at a modest cubicle and opened a letter from my boss telling me to get my ass to a Donny Ford seminar. It was all downhill from there.”

  “I remember you mentioned the motivational speaker.” Curiously, Claire turned to the door, then back to Paul, thumb pointing behind her. “You do know that you’re talking about a fugitive who’s currently a patient here, don’t you?”

  “I heard. One of the nurses let it slip.”

  “Oh okay. Well, that makes sense then.”

  “How so?” Paul asked.

  “Well, it’s obvious you overheard all of the commotion about the famous guy under FBI surveillance while you were in the ICU.”

  Paul was already shaking his head. “No way. According to these folks I was completely comatose. Unconscious. Unresponsive for six months.”

  “That doesn’t mean you were incapable of picking up on conversations going on around you and feeding them into your subconscious. You know”—Claire pulled up some notes on her smartphone—“I did a story on the dreaming mind for an article I wrote a while back. Interviewed tons of doctors and scientists who have different theories about why we dream, but the one that stuck out the most was by a sleep scientist based out of Swansea University. He says dreams are basically simulations, an evolutionary biproduct of a brain that’s trying to help us solve real-world problems around the clock.”