Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  “Uneventful and beautiful as always. Three and a half hours of head-bending scenery. And how’s my favorite girl?”

  “Hanging in. Having some great ideas for the dissertation.” An image of Emily drifted through her mind, followed by a chilly gust of foreboding.

  “Great. Let’s talk about it at dinner. How about Finley’s? My treat.”

  “You’re on, Mom. You know I’m a sucker for that place. Can’t afford it unless you or Dad are here . . . so, uh, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back from my knee appointment in about an hour. I put clean sheets on the bed in Andrea’s old room. So put your stuff in there. Help yourself to a beer or a snack. See you in a bit.”

  “How’s the knee? Looks like you’re walking well.” She had a slightly husky voice that surprised people, most expecting a higher-pitched voice from a woman with her slight build.

  “The wonders of arthroscopic surgery. Hurts a little, but barely. Can’t hardly see the scar.” Allie pointed at her bare knee. She was wearing cutoff jeans, a loose t-shirt with no bra, and a pair of thongs.

  “You’re right. Looks really good.” She sized up Allie’s outfit, gave her a didn’t-I-teach-you-better look. “Aren’t you dressed a little casual for the doc’s office? I mean, it’s not exactly a picnic at the lake.”

  “Come on, Mom! Give me a break.” Allie flashed her most acute bored look. “This is Montana, twenty-first century.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll hang out and read my book ’til you get back. See you later.”

  Allie’s doctor visit reminded her that the surgeon had given her a week’s supply of sleeping pills, which were still stashed in her bathroom drawer. She hadn’t needed them, hadn’t wanted the grogginess and dizziness that came with them, but decided they were available if she needed them. Really don’t want to dream anymore . . . but I’ve got to know what happens to Emily. And when the time comes . . .

  While Allie drove home, Nancy sat at Allie’s computer reading the paragraph on Chesapeake. Her concern for her daughter’s well-being had overcome the repugnance of searching her desk. She had read all of the dream notes and individual dream summaries, skimmed the titles of the books stacked on the desk, then read Allie’s dissertation statement, her dream-stress connection, and now the Chesapeake blurb on the computer screen. It all fit together, hit her like a high-voltage shock; awakened childhood memories in the flash of a second; resurrected long-forgotten images: a young girl, eyes full of anticipation, an old woman’s gripping tale; the girl and old woman, perhaps ten years later, the girl’s eyes shadowed by fear and anxiety, then disappointment; the now-very-feeble old woman’s eyes full of pain, the pain yielding to a strange, knowing contentment and a smile as she laid her hand on the girl’s head for a picture.

  Nancy and Allie sat in Allie’s living room sipping the single malt scotch Nancy had brought with her to the apartment. Several cocktails at Finley’s had relaxed both to a gentle but lively buzz, helped Allie hide from her dreams and her mother, from her fears. They laughed spontaneously as they told stories about Michael O’Shay.

  A little thick-tongued and philosophical, Allie said, “That’s true, Mom. Dad was always the disciplinarian, the problem solver; you were always the listener and the consoler. I always felt safe and secure in your arms.” She smiled at her mother with misty eyes.

  “Well, that’s not unusual, Allie. Men tend to be disciplinarians and problem solvers, but your dad’s really got a great sense of humor . . . just has a tough time finding it sometimes . . . and you were a shock to his system. He didn’t have a clue what to think or do when you hit middle school and started changing, heading for the wild side. I mean, really, Allie, you were a bit of a struggle . . . for me, too.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom. Not me.” Allie thought of Emily’s relationship with her father; the similarities startled her, made her swallow.

  “Oh yeah! It’s true. You were a wild one, always spoke your mind, still do; but Allie, Dad’s a loving, caring father, and he loves you dearly.”

  Allie felt the remorse that always seemed to swell inside her when she thought of her father: her deep hurt that she could never show or tell him how much she truly loved and respected him, much more so than any man in her life. “I know he does; I feel it . . . and I also know I didn’t appreciate him enough before I left, and it bothers me, Mom.”

  “Well, he feels the same and also has trouble expressing his feelings about it, but you’ll get closer with time.”

  Allie longed for that day, wished it were now, remembered Emily’s similar thoughts of her father.

  “But honest to God, Al, Dad and I used to really rip it up together. Seemed like we were always laughing about something. Remember the griz’ story I told you?”

  “Kind of, but it was a long time ago. Tell me again.” She smiled expectantly.

  “Well, it was a year or so after your brother Mike was born. I’ve never seen your dad laugh so hard. Granddad had gotten dumped by a renegade he was trying to break, cracked his pelvis, was fading in and out of consciousness. It was almost dark, and we had a hell of a lightning storm going on. He shouldn’t’ve been working a rough horse in those conditions, but you know how he was. So Dad and his sister and mother got him onto a board and loaded him in the back of the pickup—lucky the topper was on—and hauled him off to the hospital, him bitching and moaning all the way. Well, the night before, we’d all been sitting around talking about what we’d do if a griz’ tried to tear its way into the house, and I was scared to death when they all drove off to town and the hospital and left me all alone with the kids. Well, they got back from the hospital about two a.m., except Granddad, of course; and there I was sitting in the living room with a .44 mag’ in my lap, a 30.06 leaning on the chair, and a bottle of scotch beside me, reading aloud to the dog. I mean, they just stood there and gawked at me for a minute while I smiled at them with this big, dumb, shit-eatin’ grin on my face. Then all of a sudden, they all started howling like wolves and laughing their butts off. It was a scene and a half, and your dad laughed the hardest and longest. Grandma and Aunt Jenny kind of pitied me after a while, but Dad just howled on.”

  Allie laughed. “Oh my God, I can see it happening. You always told me you guys had lots of fun together, especially before we kids arrived on the scene.”

  Nancy flashed a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Yes, we did. And it’s, indeed, a fact that things change when kids arrive.”

  In the subsequent silence, Allie’s look grew suddenly sad; she thought of Erik, remembered their uproarious times together, and wished she could see him now, realized she missed him more than the day before.

  Nancy’s smile quickly faded to concern. “What’s the matter, Hon?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just thinking about Erik. You know how sentimental I get after a couple drinks.” She shook her head. “Actually, I haven’t partied, other than a beer or two with Andrea, for a couple weeks. Too much on my mind. Too many strange—” She caught herself, held back. Her insides churned with instant anxiety, a longing to tell her mother about the dreams: how they’d insidiously crept into her mind, taken her thoughts, dominated her existence. But no, not now, not yet, not until she learned more . . . but oh, how she burned to tell it all.

  Too many strange what? Nancy wondered. What was she about to say? “Aw, I’m sorry, Allie. Hang in there. It’ll come together . . . or it’ll pass. Just hang tough.” The alcohol had softened Nancy’s wits enough that she decided to ask Allie about her dreams. She immediately visualized the little girl and the old woman again, felt a twinge in her heart, a sudden warmth from her shoulders to her breasts, but instinctively cautioned herself.

  “I will, Mom.” Allie wondered what she’d dream about that night, saw Emily, again felt the foreboding, shuddered inside, then wondered what her mother had been going to ask her on the phone that day. She knows something, something about dreams, not telling.

  “Allie, are you still having those dreams? Are
they upsetting you?”

  Lips agape, Allie stared at her mother with a frightened, desperate look. Her eyes filled with tears as she stood, walked to the couch, then sat down beside her mother, wrapped her arms around her, and sobbed.

  Nancy felt herself unraveling, held Allie close, rubbed her neck, comforted her for nearly ten minutes while her mind raced aimlessly. When she regained her composure, she whispered, “Allie, girl. What’s wrong? Tell me, Hon.” Long pause. “It’s the dreams, isn’t it?”

  Allie nodded, her head against her mother’s chest.

  “Want to tell me about them, tell me what’s happening?”

  Allie sniffled. “I can’t, Mom. Not now.” She wished she could talk to Dressler that very moment, knew he was her only hope for understanding the dreams. Dear God, let him help me. Going crazy . . . or already there. How’d I get this way?

  “All right. Tell me when you’re ready.” But her urge to help Allie dwarfed her caution; she couldn’t sit idly by while something so deeply tormented her daughter. “Allie, do you remember me telling you about my great-grandmother?”

  Still heaving every few seconds, Allie said, “No, Mom, I don’t.”

  “Well, when I was a very little girl, she used to tell me really cool stories; and she told me they all came to her in dreams—very unusual and real dreams. So when you mentioned that you were having dreams, I thought of her.”

  “What did she dream about, Mom? What kind of dreams?”

  Suddenly cautious, Nancy hesitated, scoured her mind for the right response. She desperately wanted to tell Allie all she knew but dared not; so as her liquid courage fled her conflicted mind, she decided to lie. “That’s all I can remember, Hon; but hey, it’s getting late, and we’ve both had a long day and a good bit to drink. What say we get some sleep.”

  “Come on, Mom, you’ve got me goin’ again. Tell me what you know. I can handle it.”

  “No, that’s really it . . . all I had to say. Just wanted to mention it. I’m really beat.”

  “This sucks, Mom. You know a helluva lot more, and you’re holding it back. That’s a rotten thing to do—again—and I don’t appreciate it. I’m pissed.” Allie got up from the couch.

  “Allie, come on now, don’t be pissy. We’ll talk more in the morning. You can tell me about the dreams.” She knew Allie didn’t want to talk, hoped her counter suggestion would get her off the hook for the moment.

  Feminine sparring, thought Allie. But I just can’t tell her yet . . . so ignore it. “Okay, Mom. I’m pissed, but thanks for dinner and the good scotch—rare treats for me.” She bent over and kissed her mother goodnight. “See you in the morning. Love you.”

  “You’re welcome, Allie Girl. Love you, too. Good night.”

  On her way to the bedroom Allie stopped by her chair, swallowed her last sip of scotch.

  It says colonists settled there in the early 1600s. Hmm. Heard someone mention 1585 . . . close, but too soon for Chesapeake. Maybe another group. Or maybe they were somewhere else first and then went to Chesapeake in the 1600s. Yeah, they talked about doing that. Jeez . . . am . . . , am I dreaming something real? I can’t believe it. The wave of foreboding hit her again. Oh my God. This is awful. I’m scared. She saw Emily holding her locket. But I’ve got to face it . . . but I don’t want to face it . . . but I have to. She undressed, donned her t-shirt and flannel pants, and with trepidation and excitement pounding in her heart, turned out the light and rolled into bed.

  Nancy stared into the darkness, wondered if Allie was the one, wondered if she should tell her what she knew about the dreams, try to help her deal with them before it was too late. But would it make any difference in the end?

  Chapter 8

  The grating whine of mosquitoes permeated Elyoner’s cottage like a bugle stuck on a dissonant high-note, induced Elyoner and Emily to flail the space around them every few seconds to deter the demonic little vampires from approaching them and the baby. The fire smoke drifting in through the door blended with the dense humidity and the burning-animal-fat smell of the candles to give the room a dank, unpleasant aroma that was only slightly tempered by the fresh smell of the baby.

  George sat ten feet from the women—emaciated, gaunt, trapped in his silent, torpid world as he stared vacantly at the wall, amidst his own private swarm of mosquitoes. The women had placed two candles beside him, hoping the smoke and foul smell would repel the pests enough to spare George the plethora of bites he would otherwise suffer. Elyoner and Emily sat on the stump stools, Elyoner nursing her baby and Emily dividing her attention between Elyoner and the floor, which she scanned for invading cockroaches.

  “There’s another one,” Emily said. She stood, rushed to the unsuspecting insect, stomped it flat into the dirt floor. “Why are they all gathering right here, right now? Enough! That’s five in the last few minutes; they’re invading us.”

  “There do seem to be more than normal . . . filthy little creatures . . . though I’ve heard people quite fancy eating them in some parts of the world. Perhaps we should use them to supplement our diet.”

  “Faugh! Not me. Disgusting they are.” She swiped at the mosquitoes.

  The baby suckled loudly, contentedly, almost gulped. Elyoner smiled at her amusedly then drifted her gaze to George, nodded toward him. “What do you think, Em?”

  Emily looked at George. “I’m quite beyond thinking. ’Tis simple. He eats or he dies. I led him over here by the hand like one would a goat. He just plods along wherever you take him, doesn’t seem to see or hear, mayhap doesn’t think either. I don’t know what’s going on inside his head, but he eats and drinks less than one of those roaches.” Her eyes began to mist. “The last time I felt so helpless was when my brother was dying. Watched him slip away, we did. Quite depressing . . . Ellie, I truly miss George. We were together a lot, and it’s like a piece of my life is suddenly absent . . . even though we’re but good friends.” She felt a prick of guilt, anguish that she hadn’t requited his love, wondered if her reluctance had worsened his condition. Her invisible gloom deepened as she again wondered if she could love him as he loved her. But, she reasoned, pretending love is a lie; and lies always catch up with you, not worth the effort; better to be brutally honest and take what comes . . . on both sides of a relationship. She thought of Hugh Tayler, contrasted her growing affection for him with the friendship she felt for George. Different, very different. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of Tayler.

  “I can see it upsets you, Em.”

  The baby stopped nursing, began to sputter. Elyoner leaned her over her shoulder and patted her back, gently at first, then when she didn’t burp, with more force. The child responded with a belch worthy of a grown man.

  Emily laughed. “God’s mercy! Most unladylike . . . Ellie, may I hold her awhile?” Emily had already developed a close bond with the baby; but there was something beyond that, something that made Emily want to hold her constantly—perhaps because she was a girl and already showed awareness of that fact in her behavior and movements, or perhaps because she reminded Emily of her baby brother back in England. Whatever it was, holding her instilled a deep warmth in Emily’s heart, aroused a fierce protective instinct that made her want to never let go.

  “Of course, Em. Here.” She handed the baby to Emily, who cradled her as if nursing. Emily gave a hearty laugh. “ Elyoner, look at that!” She glanced down at the baby as she rooted for her breast. “She’s no pride at all. She’ll take a handout from anyone . . . knows what she’s about, doesn’t she?”

  Elyoner looked suddenly somber, thoughtful. “I’m actually quite glad of that, Em.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Margery Harvie and I were talking yesterday, and—oh, by the bye, Agnes thinks Margery will deliver in the next few days—and we . . . we talked about what would happen to our babies if . . . if the ultimate misfortune befell one of us.”

  Emily glared at her incredulously. “ Elyoner, that’s not—”

  “
No, Em. It could happen. Think about where we are, the dangers. Truly, it could happen, and ’tis something we must think about . . . and if it did happen, how would the baby survive?” She looked at Emily, searched her eyes while her own suddenly assumed a pall of sadness.

  Emily sensed something grave at hand, held her silence.

  “Well, we agreed that if anything happens to either one of us, the other will nurse her baby . . . and help the father care for it.”

  Emily’s face brightened. “Now that’s a rather fine idea, Elyoner.”

  Elyoner nodded. “Well, there’s more. Perhaps Margery and I worry too much, but ’tis not impossible that something could happen to both of us. Or if one of us survived, what if the other’s milk was insufficient for two infants? Where would we be then with no other nursing mothers in the colony?”

  Emily’s bright look faded; she listened intently, uneasily, fearfully.

  “Emily Colman, will you help me nurse my baby?”

  Emily tried to speak, but her lips wouldn’t move.

  “There’s no other person in the colony, or the world, that I would ask to do this.” She reached out, touched Emily’s cheek. “You are the sister I never had.” She beamed a radiant smile, her eyes filled with tears.

  Emily’s eyes sparkled with tears of her own, her lips parted; her suddenly joyful face brightened like a freshly lit lantern on a dark night. She laid her hands unconsciously on her breasts. “Oh, Elyoner, I . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m . . . I’m so honored that you’d ask this of me. Of course, I will. Yes, yes.” She promptly frowned. “But, Elyoner, how can I nurse? How can a—”

  “Quite easily, in truth. I’ve seen it done. My cousin, who was about my age at the time, helped her sister nurse when she fell ill and later died. That’s where I got the idea.”

  “But how?”

  “Well, first you start squeezing and pressing your breasts with your fingers many times a day; I’ll show you how. And the more you do it, the quicker your milk will come in. But when you first start, you won’t have a lot of milk, and she won’t suckle long. So you’ll coat your nipples with smashed berries or something else sweet before you nurse—berries worked well for my cousin—and the sweetness will encourage her to suckle, but it could still take some time for you to produce enough milk to fill her. So you’ll have to suckle more often at first, but the frequent demand will rapidly increase your milk supply. I can promise you the little rascal likes a full tummy, and she’ll suckle until she gets it . . . or let you know forthwith you’ve failed her.”