The REM Precept

by J. M. Lanham

  Paul pondered the theory. “So, you’re saying I believe it simply because it’s a simulation? Doesn’t make sense. I’ve had plenty of dreams before that I knew were bullshit the moment I woke up—”

  “But, and correct me if I’m wrong here, you’ve never had drug-induced dreams before, have you?” Paul shook his head no, and Claire continued. “You were unconscious and on a plethora of medications for months leading up to your awakening. It’s not unreasonable to think the medications combined with your traumatic brain injury led to some pretty convincing hallucinogenic episodes.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the length of these so-called episodes.”

  “Sure it does, Paul. You were in a coma for six months, and you’re telling me the experience you had seemed to last for months. Perhaps it was just your brain’s way of staying busy while you were out for the count. A recurring set of mental exercises, if you will.”

  “But this is different, Claire. The dreams I had … I feel like they really meant something. Like they still mean something.”

  “The meaning of dreams,” Claire said. “Now there’s a rabbit hole of a subject if I ever heard one.”

  “That story you did. Was the theory that dreams were simulations the only one?”

  “Oh no. Far from it. As a matter of fact, the answers were all over the place.”

  “Care to share?”

  Claire took a breath and said, “Some thought they were a way to consolidate and process information from the previous day. Others said they’re simply sensations brought on by neurons firing at random. One scientist said it’s a place where we can work out complex psychological issues that are far too difficult for our waking egos to address. I thought that one was interesting. Then there’s Freud’s old chestnut, that dreams are symbolic of unconscious wishes and desires.”

  “Michelle used to talk about Freud when she was going through nursing school. She thought the guy was full of shit.”

  “Between you and me,” Claire said, “so do I. I’ve also found that professional takes can seem rather dull, can’t they? I mean on a personal level, I find it incredible that you’re so convinced you saw another world, another dimension, perhaps. I also think the viewers at this point are going to be really intrigued by this, too, and are going to have a lot of questions. So, I’d like to get into those if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Paul said.

  “First, there’s the mention of the eruption of Poás Volcano in Costa Rica; an event that actually occurred around the time stated in your story, February of this year.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Given that this event was covered extensively in the news, is it not unreasonable to think that maybe you subconsciously picked up on the story from either visiting family members or hospital staff while you were asleep?”

  Once again, Claire had Paul shaking his bandaged head fervently. She quickly held up a hand. “I’m not trying to upset you, Paul. I’m just trying to understand what’s happened here.”

  “That’s impossible,” Paul said, “and goes against what the very definition of a coma is. If I were in a coma for six months, all of my senses would be null and void. No pain. No smells. And definitely no hearing. At least, that’s what the doctors say, and if that’s the case then there’s no way I could’ve heard about the volcano on TV.”

  “That’s what most doctors say,” Claire answered, “but I did speak to one neurosurgeon who seems to think that coma patients can hear from time to time, especially when loved ones are in the room. She also said it’s best to treat coma patients like they can hear you, because you never really know, especially in the early stages of a patient coming out of a coma. It would certainly explain a lot of things that happened in your dream.”

  “That’s a reach.”

  “And a government conspiracy to cover up the telepathic effects of a genome-inhibiting sleeping pill isn’t?”

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Paul said. “But it’s true. Something happened,” he said as he rubbed his aching temples. “I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Let’s get back to the volcano and the effects of this sleeping pill, which I have to admit are quite intriguing. You said it was a genome-inhibiting medication. Can you explain how that works?”

  “Sure. Basically, researchers at Asteria Pharmaceuticals had identified the specific genes most commonly responsible for insomnia; at least, the kind of insomnia that people have a genetic predisposition to. The sleeping pill—”

  “Ocula, right?” Claire asked.

  “That’s right. Ocula worked by inhibiting the genes responsible for sleeplessness, resulting in a perfect eight-hour sleep cycle; the cycle that a healthy circadian rhythm in humans defaults to.”

  “So, how does a perfect night’s sleep lead to telepathic persuasion?”

  “It doesn’t. See, most people who took the medication were out like a light five minutes in. But for a set of clinical trial outliers—people who reacted negatively to the drug—the effects took a sinister turn.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That the pill caused the outliers’ dreams to come to fruition in the real world. If someone dreamt about getting a loan, they’d get a loan. If someone dreamt about murdering his boss, well …”

  “I see. So, that’s where the Donny Ford scenario comes in.”

  Paul sighed. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “It’s not that, Paul. It’s just—you know, one of the doctors I spoke with told me the odds of fully recovering from a coma are around ten percent. And even then, waking up is only the start of the long road toward getting back to normal. You’ve suffered through a major brain injury, spent six months lying in bed unconscious, had countless drugs pumped through your veins … Doesn’t it make more sense that what you’re perceiving as being so real is just the effects of a brain recovering from a traumatic event?”

  Paul couldn’t answer.

  “Take the volcano, for example. If what you say is true—that the outliers transmit electromagnetic radiation in their sleep that inadvertently affects the brain waves of living organisms nearby—then how could an Ocula dream result in a volcano erupting three thousand miles away? I don’t have to tell you that volcanos don’t have brain waves; that they’re not living organisms. So, how can Ocula explain that?”

  “It can’t,” Paul said.

  The admission shocked Claire and threw her off her game. She recomposed herself, then said, “Then you are saying the motivational speaker in the ICU had nothing to do with a volcanic eruption?”

  “Ever been to Hawaii? Volcanos erupt all the time. Could’ve been a coincidence.”

  Claire said, “I think it’s important to mention here that I spoke with a handful of your coworkers from Asteria Pharmaceuticals yesterday. They’ve never heard of the Public Relations Director you mentioned, Ryan Tanner. Haven’t heard of Dick Doyle, either—”

  “Of course they’d say that.”

  “Don’t you want to know who I talked to?”

  “Don’t have to. No one working for that company is going to speak with a journalist candidly about anything. Whatever they told you was exactly what they were instructed to say from the top. I’m telling you, Claire, there’s something deeper going on here, and I think you feel it, too.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “What do you mean by that? That I feel it too?”

  “These questions you’re asking, Claire. They’re not typical of a coma-guy-awakens morning-show story. Something about my dream has piqued your curiosity. I can see it written all over your face.”

  The comment caught Claire by surprise. Flustered and blushing (a rare sight to see on Ms. Connor), she answered as best she could. “I’m not going to lie, Paul. Something seems eerily familiar about all of this. But I’ve had déjà vu before. Sure, it’s a weird feeling, but at the end of the day we can’t go with our feelings. They’re too fickle. When it’s time to make decisions or draw conclusions we have to l
ook at all the facts and ultimately side with logic, right?”

  Paul twisted in the bed, half uncomfortable with his position, half annoyed with Claire’s refusal to believe something was amiss. “You can’t just write everything off like that, Claire. I get being doubtful of certain thoughts and the feelings that come with them, but sometimes it’s all we have to go on.”

  Not sure where to go from there, Claire leaned back to regroup. She looked across the room when she spotted Paul’s roommate hunched over a desk in front of the window. She said to Paul, “Poor guy hasn’t said a peep this entire time.”

  Paul whispered, “He’s writing a letter to his daughter. Probably just wants to be left alone.”

  Claire nodded skeptically, but there was something about the elderly man’s posture that caught her attention. She called out, “Sir? Everything okay over there?”

  Alejandro didn’t answer.

  “Hey, Han,” Paul said. “Han! You okay, buddy?”

  Nothing. But the name Han seemed to strike a chord with Claire. Curious, she walked slowly over to Alejandro and cautiously extended her hand to feel his arm. Cool to the touch.

  “Jesus,” Claire cried out, “CAN WE GET A DOCTOR IN HERE?”

  Alarmed, Paul sat straight up in bed. “Oh my God, is he—is he—”

  One look at Claire’s face, and he knew. Still, she called out, “WE NEED A DOCTOR IN HERE, NOW!” Soon the door swung open and an army of medical personnel rushed into the room equipped with a crash cart stocked with defibrillators and bag masks and all the resuscitative drugs a trauma team could ever ask for. Claire moved out of the way and in an instant doctors were calling for nitroglycerin while nurses took turns doing chest compressions on the octogenarian in the corner.

  But it was all for nothing. Claire knew it, too. She’d seen enough death to know when a person had a chance to pull through, and when they were a goner. And unfortunately, Alejandro’s time had run out. At this point, the trauma team was just going through the motions.

  “Strange,” Paul said as he and Claire watched the spectacle from across the room. “I hardly knew the guy, but I felt like I’ve known him for years.”

  She looked anxiously at Paul, then back toward Alejandro. “Me too, Paul,” she said. “Me too.”

  Chapter 33:

  Sunset

  That evening, Michelle helped Paul sit up in bed, moving his IV and monitor cords out of the way so he could bounce Aaron on his lap for the first time in six months. She transferred the boy over, and Paul was immediately shocked by how much his son weighed.

  “Holy cannoli, someone’s gotten big!”

  “He’s at least twenty-five pounds,” Michelle said.

  “Looks like I’ve got some catching up to do,” Paul said, arms quaking as he struggled to keep Aaron steady on his thigh before passing the boy back to his mother. He looked down, sighing, and said, “Can’t believe I can barely hold my own kid on my lap.”

  “Oh come on now, Paul. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You’ve been on a feeding tube for six months. Haven’t moved, either.” She reached over to playfully pat his stomach. “Don’t worry. We’ll have you fattened back up in no time.”

  “Fattened back up? So you think I was fat to begin with?”

  She smiled without answering before shooting a glance toward the now-empty bed that belonged to Paul’s former roommate. Her smile quickly faded.

  “They tell you what happened?”

  “Nurses called it a postoperative stroke. Said it was common in elderly patients. Crazy. I thought things like knee surgeries and hip replacements were pretty routine.”

  “Routine doesn’t mean safe, especially when you’re talking about older patients. Unfortunately, post-op blood clots are all too common. But age doesn’t make it any less tragic. I’m sure his daughter is distraught, especially since she couldn’t be here.”

  “I can’t imagine,” Paul replied, immediately realizing that that was a lie; that he could, in fact, imagine losing someone he loved, because before the last few days, that’s exactly what he’d thought had happened.

  Michelle interrupted the thought and asked, “Did Ms. Connor finish the interview?”

  “I think she got enough for the story, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “So? How’d it go?”

  Paul never knew how to answer prodding questions like that. He hated talking about himself. “Eh, I think it went about as well as it could, considering what happened.”

  And it was true. The interview had gone well—right up to the point when tragedy struck in room 1102; the point when an unexpected stroke had cut Claire’s interview short; the point when Paul (and Claire, for that matter) had lost an eerily familiar roommate.

  The story he’d spun for the journalist the day before had gone far beyond visits to the other side, reuniting with relatives long-passed, revelations of life’s purpose and why we’re here in the first place. No, clichéd anecdotes from the newly arisen would’ve put everyone in the room right to sleep—Paul included. Instead, the patient had presented a patchwork of colorful scenarios involving nefarious government institutions and characters (some of whom just so happened to reside in the real world) that were all stitched together to create a conspiratorial tapestry that would’ve impressed the most skeptical tinfoil-hat wearers alive. It was a loose presentation, of course, full of pauses, confusion, fuzzy memories, and fleeting names that vanished into thin air the moment Paul started speaking. Still, the bits and pieces he did recall formed the beginning of an intriguing narrative that had kept the young journalist and her pimply faced intern on the edge of their seats—right up until the point the nurses and doctors rushed in, effectively bringing the interview to a close. Claire and Fenton had hastily rushed out, confused and left with a nagging uncertainty that while they thought they had the whole story, something deep in their chests told them otherwise.

  But that didn’t matter now. In fact, the story Paul had been so convinced of just a few hours earlier seemed even less important. At least, not as important as the ice water sitting on the tray table across from his wife. He reached for it when Michelle asked, “Did you tell them about the last six months?”

  “Mhmm,” he said with a straw in his mouth.

  “Which version, Paul?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Michelle said, “Listen, I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to have gone through what you have. But I also think it’s important to remember that as time goes on, these wacky memories are sure to fade. And I think that’s for the best. Strange thoughts and dreams and nightmares happen to everyone. And while it may be tempting to believe and trust in everything that we see while we’re sleeping, there’s likely a rational explanation for what’s going on. Plus I need you here, with me. Aaron needs you here, too. He needs his father back.”

  Paul conceded. Maybe Michelle was right. Maybe it was best to really try and make a conscious effort to let some of the obfuscated memories of the last six months go. He was about to speak when there were two loud knocks on the door. Before they could answer, in walked a portly man with dark, slicked-back hair who wore a brown overcoat and carried a badge in his hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Freeman. Is this a good time?”

  It was another familiar face, but Paul couldn’t put a name to it. Before he could ask, “My name is Dawa Graham. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  “No, we haven’t.” The name struck a chord, but Paul didn’t know why.

  Michelle said, “Hey, Graham! What brings you around this neck of the woods?”

  “I would give you two guesses, Mrs. Freeman, but I am sure you will only need one.”

  “Let me see … Is it about a certain federal-fugitive-slash-motivational speaker currently residing in the ICU?”

  Dawa chuckled. “There is no getting anything by you, Michelle.”

  The two continued the small talk while Paul looked to his wife for an explanation. Finally, “Graham’s a de
tective with Atlanta Police,” she said. “He stopped by several times to visit.”

  It was clear Paul wondered why.

  Dawa said, “I was also one of the investigators who worked the scene of the crash in Atlanta six months ago. I have tried to make it a point to visit every week to check in on your progress. I believe the whole city has been rooting for your recovery, Paul. And believe me when I tell you: you are very lucky to be alive today.”

  Dawa would get no argument from Paul. Even with the brain surgery, the coma, the fleeting memories, and a giant head wrap that would’ve made a genie jealous, he knew he was getting off lightly.

  “You’re not the only one who’s told me that,” Paul said. “I heard the flames from the wreck could be seen for miles.”

  “It was enough to shut down the busiest interstate in the South,” Dawa said. “I think that is saying a lot.”

  Michelle said, “Dawa was sitting in traffic near you when it happened. Jumped out of his car to pull you out of yours just before it caught fire. I think it’s safe to say he saved your life, Paul.”

  Paul couldn’t remember any of it.

  “Oh, Mrs. Freeman,” Dawa said. “You are too kind. But rest assured that I was only doing my job that day. Anyone else would have done the same thing.”

  Michelle said, “Oh come on, Graham! No one else risked their lives dodging cars in Atlanta traffic to help a stranger. But you did.” Jokingly, “Learn to take a compliment every now and then!”

  The comment made the detective blush. “Well thank you, Michelle. That is very humbling.”

  “Well since we’re handing out thank-yous,” Paul said, looking up at Graham, “I guess I owe you a huge thank you, too.”

  Dawa lowered his head and held up a hand. “No need, Mr. Freeman. Like I said, I was only doing my job.” He took a seat in a foldout chair near the foot of the bed, let off some steam as he leaned back, then asked Michelle, “I take it the reporters have already been by to cover the story of the miraculous awakening of your husband here?”

  “Came by this morning,” Michelle said, “before Paul’s roommate passed.”