Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Dressler displayed a classic psychologist pose: massaged his chin, studied her eyes as if trying to interpret their secrets.

  Allie scowled at him. “Jeez, Doc. You’re making me feel like I’m in the shrink chair. What is it?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking how this is getting you down. To be candid, I see symptoms of depression, and I know you’re not a depression-type personality. So it worries me. Trouble is . . . I don’t think it’s a therapeutically treatable problem. And I don’t think anti-depressants would help either, other than to reduce your dreaming, and that would frustrate you even more.”

  Allie bristled like a she-bear with threatened cubs. “No way, Doc. I’m not stopping dreaming—no way, no how! Don’t even—”

  “I know, I know”—he held up both hands—“ and I conclude the best thing we can do is what we’re doing: try to understand the dreams and then discover how to control their effects. Meanwhile, I’m afraid you may have some tough times ahead . . . but we’re going to tackle them together.” He reached across the table, patted her hand.

  His touch surprised her; it lifted her spirits, brought a smile to her face. “I . . . I’m glad you’re with me . . . Steve . . . so why did Steven Dressler become Doctor Dressler?”

  He grinned. “Well, I started out to be an engineer—mechanical—but it was too dry. And like you, I was always interested in what made people tick. Why were some people nerds and some cool; why were some nice and some mean, some generous and some selfish? So I started down the psych path; but when I read a couple books on dreams—one by Hobson and one by Sheldrake, who I actually met once—that was it. I was hooked, entranced by the fact that we know relatively zero about this powerful thing called the human mind and nearly less than zero about dreams and their genesis and meaning. I’ve had the fever ever since; and you, my dear young lady, are an open window to their essence, and . . . and I’m very glad you’re here . . . and not just because of your dreams.” He eased into a soft, mellow smile.

  Allie looked into his eyes, nodded, felt a ripple of warmth in her heart. How can you deceive him, Allie—steal, break the law, possibly destroy yourself? Don’t do it. Help him help you. No! Gotta dream more, know what happens. Emily, don’t go with Tayler. “Thanks, Doc.” She looked at him with a broody look, canted her head slightly to the right. “You make me less afraid of where this is taking me . . . this big, scary unknown . . . and I really enjoy being with you.”

  Their eyes dallied a moment before he spoke. “Back at the lab you said you wanted to talk about format.”

  Allie nodded.

  “Well, I’m thinking we need to do this the smartest way we can, and if there’s a better way than what we’re doing, let’s look at it.”

  She nodded. “Good, because I don’t like the lab environment at all. It’s too formal and I’m too self-conscious. I know we got some good data last night, but good Lord, it was painful as hell getting there, and I missed a lot while I was trying to fall asleep. That frustrates me, you know. I mean, if it was up to me, I’d sleep all day and night; but I know your thoughts on that subject, and I also know it’s not very practical. Yet I sure don’t want to miss any more than I absolutely have to, and trying to fall asleep on cue is like showing up for a retail job and punching a time clock, and it isn’t gonna work for me. So is there a way we can do this in a more natural surrounding, like home, with some kind of portable equipment?”

  “Yes, there is, and we have it. It’s called Stanford equipment because Stanford University developed it, but there are considerations to be weighed before we leap into that approach.” He tapped his fingers in tight cadence on the tabletop, stared at her thoughtfully. “We know labs stifle dreams in several ways, but they also stimulate recall. However, neither is a concern with you, so I’m not worried about that.” His look intensified. “I’m going to be totally candid, Allie . . . you’re addicted to these dreams and to Emily Colman and her life; and as I said a moment ago, you’re exhibiting signs of depression. But as we discussed, I think we can handle the depression by learning the nature of the dreams and controlling their effects. Your addiction to the dreams concerns me far more because an addiction to dreaming is no different than an addiction to drugs or alcohol; any addiction makes people do and rationalize things they know are wrong, makes them get themselves into trouble, potentially life-threatening trouble. And I can’t and won’t let that happen to you. So the potential lack of scientific and procedural controls in the home environment concerns me. Also, you’ll have sleeping pills . . . will you be tempted to overuse them to dream more?”

  Allie cupped her hand over her mouth, coughed twice.

  “How can I be sure you won’t sleep all day and night? Yes, Ginger or I can monitor you, but you’d likely find that invasive, and I wouldn’t blame you. There’s also the appearance of impropriety, both to the governing committee and to anyone who should happen to see me going to or from your apartment.”

  Hands hidden below the tabletop, Allie twisted the tablecloth around her fingers, shuffled her feet in a fidgety, uneasy dance. With a crackle of feigned injury in her voice, she said, “You don’t think much of me do you, Doc?”

  “I was afraid you’d think that, but it’s not the case. Truth is, I couldn’t think more of you, Allie . . . but you’re subject to some unique emotional and mental pressures that would challenge Jesus Christ Himself, and I’m concerned about their effects. But having said that, I’ll now say that with the necessary self-discipline on your part—and I know you have it—we can make this work.”

  Allie’s face bloomed like an anxious spring flower. “Thanks, Doc. Thanks for trusting me . . . I won’t let you down.” Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you, thank you. But how the hell am I gonna do this?

  He raised an index finger. “Before I agree, you have to agree to bring each night’s data CD and debrief to the lab—every day, including weekends—and help me and the techs correlate and analyze them. You need to do that anyway for your degree requirements, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Now, I know you want to sleep more, and we can probably extend the sleep periods somewhat as long as there’s no threat to your wellbeing or the next day’s functionality or productivity. We are working with a once-in-several-lifetimes opportunity to learn things that have confounded mankind since creation, and we therefore need to do whatever it takes to capitalize on the opportunity.”

  “I agree.” Her conscience felt flat, dead as a road kill. Got to dream more; couldn’t live if I went to sleep and discovered Emily was dead. But how? Gotta trust the doc, work with him, help him follow the rules . . . my only hope. But how can I do that and still dream more?

  He nodded. “Deal. We’ll check out the functionality of the equipment tomorrow, and Ginger will check you out on how to set it up and operate it. We can do it tomorrow after we debrief, or in the afternoon. Meanwhile, can you handle one more night in the lab?”

  She sighed. “Sure. Guess it’s that or nothing. What time do you want me there?”

  “Let’s do five again.”

  “Okay. See you then . . . and Steve, thanks for having faith in me. I won’t let you down.”

  The pharmacist, whose nametag read Grace, was a tall woman about forty with a permanent sour look, as if something had upset her on her first step from bed and stayed with her all day. She looked at Allie with a suspicious glare, scrutinized her up and down.

  The look intimidated Allie, made her anxious. Her hand trembled when she handed Grace the forged Mestinon prescription. She immediately glanced at the rack of pharmaceutical accessories to the left of the counter, pretended to be interested in something.

  “How long have you had MG, Hon?”

  “MG?”

  “Myasthenia gravis.” Grace’s suspicious glare intensified.

  Allie faked a smile. “Jeez, I knew that. Uh, not very long, actually . . . still calling it by the long name.”

  “Hmm . . . unusual to see timespan tablets for early treatment. How are your sympto
ms?”

  Damn. Forgot to look them up. “Uh . . . worse than the doc expected for an early case. That’s why he prescribed the timespan pills.” Hate lying; but Jeez, lady, just fill the fricking prescription and skip the quiz.

  “Hmm. Doctor Steven Dressler. Haven’t seen his name before.”

  A ripple of apprehension raced from the top of Allie’s head to the tips of her toes. Not going well. Must look scared as hell. “He’s a psychologist . . . they just recently got approved to write scripts.”

  “I’m aware of that . . . just haven’t seen his name. Kind of unusual having a psychologist for MG, isn’t it?”

  Allie felt beads of sweat rising on her forehead, a sudden clamminess dampening the rest of her body. “I suppose, but it has hit me pretty hard, psychologically, I mean . . . it’s pretty depressing for someone my age, you know.”

  Grace glanced at Allie then back at the prescription.

  Allie visualized herself in jail, dressed in prison orange, her parents speaking to her through a thick glass window with a small built-in microphone and speaker in the middle of it. She and her mother were crying, and her father looked ready to start. Her brothers stood behind their parents, with pained, doleful expressions on their faces. Suddenly, a male prison guard approached, took her by the arm, started dragging her away, said, “That’s it, kid. Aren’t you glad you became a criminal?” Allie wailed hysterically, tried to pull free, extended her other hand toward her parents, who clutched each other while tears poured down their cheeks. The guard grabbed her with both hands, called for help; he pulled her hands behind her back, handcuffed them, drug her away to her cell. As he shoved her into the cell, he glanced up and down the cellblock then entered the cell, pulled the door gently closed behind him with a slight clang. “Quit whining, bitch! You got what you deserved.” He pushed her onto her back on the bed, reached down, grabbed her pants, started pulling them off—

  “Did you hear me, Ms. . . . Ms. O’Shay?”

  “Oh, sorry. Been having trouble concentrating. What did you say?” She trembled, clasped her hands behind the small of her back.

  “I said, please wait here a moment; I need to check something . . . are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  Allie felt faint, a breath from passing out. “I’m okay. Just upset about my condition, I guess. Kinda messed up my life.”

  Grace gave a sympathetic nod then walked to the back of the pharmacy. She picked up the phone, dialed a number, waited, spoke; glanced at Allie with an abruptly stern look, spoke again; stared at Allie while she spoke yet again; put the phone down, walked toward the counter.

  Oh my God. I can’t handle this. Get me outa here!

  Grace smiled. “Sorry for the delay. You’re good to go. I’ll have it ready in a few minutes. You can wait here or go look around the store a bit.”

  “I’ll look around. Be back in a bit.” Lord in heaven, spare me!

  No, Allie! It’s your own damn fault. You’re breaking the law, betraying the doc . . . and yourself. You just crossed the line, and you’re on your way to hell.

  The first email from Nancy was a brief query on how the lab session went. The second vented her frustration at not having heard the answer and, though not stated, betrayed her continuing apprehension over the dreams’ effects on her daughter.

  Allie looked at her watch. Damn. Three thirty already. Need to call her, but first . . . she typed Lakota into her browser, checked her watch again, clicked on the top selection. Hurry up! There it is.

  The Lakota are a dialectical subgroup of the Dakota, who lived in the Ohio valley around AD 1000, and in the late 15th century, because of pressure from enemy tribes, migrated to what is now Minnesota, near the headwaters of the Mississippi River. Then, around . . .

  I’ll be damned. Just like Isna said . . . the far, far north, the Mother-of-All-Rivers. Wow! The phone rang. Damn it. Why does this always happen? She checked the caller ID, lifted the phone. “Hi, Mom. Just got back. Was gonna call you in a minute.”

  “Hi, Hon. No problem. I’ve just been a tad antsy wondering how last night went.”

  “Well, except for having sticky cups all over my body and not being able to fall asleep and having to take a sleeping pill way late at night, it went great. Got good data and great correlation with my debrief.”

  “Super. And how about Emily?”

  Allie took a deep breath. “Depressing as usual. First she . . .” Allie gave her a summary of her dreams and their usual cliff-hanger endings then returned to the beginning, told her about Tryggvi and his English love and her dreams. “Yeah, Mom. I feel it . . . as strong as any conviction I’ve ever had. The dreaming tie is there—me, Ian, Emily, and Tryggvi’s English girl. I know it! Why else would Emily and I be dreaming about it? And . . . oh yeah! Tryggvi and Bjarni are on some coast somewhere trying to figure out where to explore . . . several dreams back I heard them talk about freshwater seas and then some other place I’ve forgotten the name of. I’ve got this feeling there’s some kind of connection with what I’m dreaming, but I don’t know what it is yet.”

  “Interesting. So Emily’s in love . . . with an Indian. Do you know what tribe? Wait a sec! Before I forget, tell me how you plan to fall asleep tonight. I hope you’re not having sleeping pills for supper.”

  Prolonged silence. “Well, Mom, if I don’t sleep, I don’t dream; and if I don’t dream, what’s the point of doing this? Besides, the doc’s onboard with it . . . we’re only doing conservative doses. It’s not like I’m gonna OD or anything.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But after tonight, Steve’s going to let me—”

  “Steve?”

  “The doc.”

  “First names now, eh?”

  “Jeez, Mom. Welcome to the twenty-first century. It’s a little hard to work closely with someone on a formal basis. But I do like him. He’s obviously intelligent, but also understanding, and . . . and I’m real comfortable with him . . . gives me hope we’ll eventually understand what’s going on and learn how to control it. But meanwhile, I’m not gonna kid you, I’ve got this overwhelming craving to sleep twenty-four seven.” Allie sensed her mother’s sudden tension, immediately chastised herself for saying too much.

  “Allie, you’re scaring me again.”

  “Don’t worry. I couldn’t OD even if I wanted to.” Allie thought how easy her lies were becoming. They simply rolled off her lips without premeditation; and her pangs of guilt, while still present, were rapidly diminishing. Yup, she thought, almost habitual now . . . well on your way to self-destruction.

  “How’s that?”

  “As I was starting to say, Steve’s letting me use the lab’s portable equipment and do everything at home so I feel natural and can actually fall asleep on my own. But I’ll go into the lab every day to deliver the data CD and my debriefs and then help him with the analysis. Don’t forget, I am working on a PhD. So don’t fret about sleeping pills. I may need one once in a while but not often . . . except for tonight since I’ll be in the lab again.” Allie heard her mother’s anxiety fade with a long sigh.

  “Well, that’s good news. All I’ve done since yesterday is worry about my little girl and what’s happening to her.”

  A twinge of compassion mellowed Allie’s voice. “Don’t worry, Mom. Steve’s going to get to the bottom of this and handle it; and most important, Emily’s going to make it.”

  No reply, then, “Hon, I don’t want to ruin your day, but neither do I want to nurture false hope. Didn’t you tell me Emily has a much younger brother back in England?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, what if he’s the one we’re descended from, not Emily? What if he came to America with a later colony, looking for Emily and his father? I mean, couldn’t that happen?”

  Allie hesitated. “Yes . . . it could. But from what we think right now, he would have carried the dreaming gene dormantly . . . because he’s male.” Allie’s confidence evaporated like a raindrop in a forest fire. She’d never conside
red such a possibility, at once recognized the sharply higher likelihood of its occurrence than Emily’s surviving the colony’s known demise. She felt as if a scorpion had stung her heart; her mind tumbled in confusion.

  “Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  A tiny tear rose in each of Allie’s eyes. “Mom, it’s . . . it’s okay.” She sniffled. “You may be right . . . but I have to dream about Emily until the end . . . no matter what it is, and”—she looked at her watch—“I need to head for the lab, Mom, so—”

  “Wait a sec. Dad wants to talk to you.”

  Allie’s heart calmed then warmed with anticipation. She closed her eyes.

  “Hi, Baby. Mom tells me you’re having some tough times right now. Are you okay?”

  Allie spoke in a glum tone. “Hi, Dad. Yeah, I’ll make it . . . I think. Damn. I haven’t talked to you for so long. I really miss you, Dad.” The eternal adoration Allie felt for her father flowed like warm blood to her heart and mind, filled her eyes with tears.

  “And I miss you, Allie . . . more than you’ll ever know . . . wish my right-hand gal was here beside me.” He hesitated. “Hang tough, kiddo, and—hey, do you remember the time when you were about seven, and you did something you were real worried about, then you kept it secret for a week, held it inside, got upset, and were desperately afraid we’d find out? Remember that?”

  Allie smiled through her tears. “Yes, I do, Dad.”

  “And Mom and I sensed something was going on, and then you and I took a long walk up on the mountain and sat together on that big boulder up there. And I asked you what was wrong; and you suddenly burst out crying, fell into my arms; and I held you on my lap, hugged you, and rocked you back and forth for half an hour. Remember?”

  Tears cascaded down Allie’s cheeks; her voice squeaked, “Yes.”