by Mike Rhynard
His face saddened; he spoke compassionately. “So am I, Mrs. O’Shay . . . and I’d react exactly the same if I were in your shoes.”
She sniffled, wiped her eyes. “Call me Nancy.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the reprieve, Nancy. Call me Steve. Doctors are people, you know.”
She broached a smile. “Okay . . . Steve.”
“So . . . Nancy . . . I want you to know that I think the utmost of Allie as a person; but that aside, she’s, without doubt, the greatest opportunity in our lifetime—perhaps several lifetimes—to unlock the secrets of why, how, and what we humans dream—not just for us but for the whole world. The vividness, recall, continuity, and much more, of her dreams defy known science and offer us a chance to begin to understand things we know next to nothing about. And if I seem excited, it’s because I am, and—”
The bedroom door opened. Allie stood in the doorway, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, hands clasped behind her back, head slightly bowed, tangled hair framing a humble, contrite look that complemented her natural beauty, gave her a helpless, innocent appearance that invited anyone with a heart to hold her close, comfort her. She stared at her mother and Dressler as her eyes slowly filled with tears and her lower lip curled into a little-girl pout; she spoke slowly, chokingly. “Mom . . . Steven had nothing to do with any of this. The computer stuff was all about Emily . . . except for the depression file . . . which was about Emily and me. And the sleeping pills and Mestinon were all about me . . . satisfying my addiction for the dreams and Emily . . . because nothing else matters to me now . . . and . . . and I’ve sure made a mess of things.” She moaned, stepped hastily to her mother’s comforting arms, blubbered on her shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Mom . . . so sorry.”
When she’d settled, she sniffled, rubbed her eyes, looked at Dressler. “Steve, I stole the script sheets from your desk and forged your signature, lied to the pharmacist. I’ve lost all respect for myself. I’m not the girl I was when this started. I’m a mess . . . and I let you both down . . . and I’m sorry . . . I hate myself this way.”
Nancy pulled her into a tight hug. “Hang in there, kiddo. We’ll get you through this. Not going to be easy, but we’ll get ’er done.”
Nancy emerged from the bedroom. “Find any food? Cupboard’s probably a little bare right now.”
Dressler stood. “Enough . . . a little fruit and veggies.” They sat down at the kitchen table. “I looked at her data CD from the first couple days . . . really long. She must have taken a lot of pills, and the Mestinon appears to have given her exactly what she wanted . . . more-frequent and longer REM dreaming periods. But she didn’t do her verbal reports; hopefully she can work those up later today or tomorrow for correlation with the data. She also didn’t wire up after that first sleep . . . probably too out of it to deal with it, but she should be able to provide a good verbal report.” He shook his head. “The functions we were monitoring aren’t that important now anyway because we’ve already corroborated her dream events with electronic data and will be moving on to . . . oh. How’s she doing?”
“Better. She’ll be out in a minute . . . making herself presentable.”
“This has to be very difficult for you, Nancy . . . definitely difficult for me.”
“Yeah, it is. But I think it’s hardest on Allie. She’s totally out of character right now.”
He nodded. “No doubt, and the three of us need to have a real heart-to-heart about that and where we go from here. I suppose—”
Allie walked out of the bedroom dressed in jeans, sandals, and a loose-fitting blouse. She looked refreshed, alert, and composed as she walked up to Dressler. “Where to, Doc?”
Dressler stood, smiled as she approached. “Hi, Allie. You look like yourself. Feel better?”
“Still a little groggy and blurry and upset in the stomach, but I’ll make it.” She looked into his eyes for a moment, suddenly wrapped her arms around him, laid her forehead on his chest. “I’m sorry, Steve. I’ve really let you down. Please forgive me.”
He peeked at Nancy, flashed an empathetic look and a tepid smile, noticed the surprised look on her face. “Don’t worry about it. It’s done, and you’ve hopefully learned from it. Now let’s the three of us figure out where we go from here.”
As they seated themselves at the kitchen table, Nancy said, “Well, I’m clueless about this stuff, so your penny, Doc.”
“Okay. So let’s start with the good news . . . Allie’s not in denial about either of her problems, and she knows she needs to do something about them.” He looked at Allie. “Right?”
“Right.”
He nodded. “The other good news is that you’re not a drug addict because what you basically did was experiment with the drugs. The bad news is that you are a dream addict, and I don’t think anyone knows what that is or what to do about it. But we’re going to find out. For starters, all addictions make you do dumb things, like OD on sleeping pills and Mestinon, but I think we can control that. And hopefully, you scared yourself enough that deep down inside, you honestly want to be straight. Right?”
Allie nodded somewhat remorsefully.
“And because you scared yourself, you should realize that you can die from what you did.”
She nodded again.
“So, for any rehab program to work, the patient—you—must be committed to success. And in this case, success is having the patience, will power, and fortitude to control your overwhelming desire to dream constantly—your driving compulsion to know the status of someone you love who lives in constant danger—and instead dream naturally. Said another way, does Allie O’Shay want to continue going in the direction she just started and wreck—possibly end—her life? Or does she want to commit herself to discovering the causes and mechanics of her dreams, so she can hopefully discover the means to cope with them, while at the same time advancing the cause of science in a revolutionary way . . . and picking up a PhD?”
Allie nodded, forced a feeble, uncertain smile. “Obviously, I want to do what’s right and continue working to get to the bottom of the dreams; and you’re very right: the compulsion to know what’s happening to Emily is more overpowering than anything I’ve experienced in my life . . . so overpowering that, though I know very clearly what I need to do, I’m honestly not sure I can do it.” Her eyes clouded with tears. “I mean, what if I go to sleep some night and don’t dream, or I dream and there’s nothing there? What happens then? I won’t know if Emily’s dead, or the dream simply ended, or whatever. Do you have any idea how that would torment me . . . forever? It would drive me crazy . . . maybe like Great-Great-Grandma Ian. I couldn’t live like that, Doc . . . I’m that close to her.” She looked at her mother. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Mom?”
Nancy looked pale, afraid. “Unfortunately, I do, Hon.” She looked at Dressler. “And family history suggests that not dreaming could be just as dangerous psychologically as OD’ing on drugs in the pursuit of constant knowledge of Emily’s circumstances.”
Dressler nodded. “Indeed, it could.”
Nancy said, “So which way is the best to go? There could be bad outcomes either way.” She shook her head. “Damn dreams! Wish they’d never happened.”
“Well,” Dressler replied, “here are some thoughts.” He looked at Allie. “Your mom’s right. No matter what we do, there’s potential for a bad outcome, particularly since we know what history says about the Lost Colony—it was lost. But there’s something I don’t think any of us have considered; and that is, unless I’m mistaken, before you OD’d, you witnessed every major event that happened to Emily. Is that correct?”
Allie stared thoughtfully for a moment then nodded slowly. “That could be true. I’ve never thought about it, but . . . yeah . . . I think it is true. I’ve never heard them allude to anything important that I didn’t witness . . . and it was no different with the pills. All I saw with the pills, beyond the important events, was additional background detail. So maybe I don’t miss anything impo
rtant by dreaming naturally.” She smiled. “I see where you’re going with this, Doc.” She looked at Nancy. “See what he’s saying, Mom?”
“No. I don’t.”
Allie glanced at Dressler then back at her mother. “He’s saying that since I’ve never missed anything major by dreaming naturally, there’s a good chance I won’t do so in the future . . . if Emily isn’t already dead . . . which removes the need to OD on drugs.”
“I get it.”
“Kinda makes me look like a dumbshit for doing the drugs in the first place, doesn’t it?”
Dressler smiled. “No comment, but it’s like there’s something in your gift that always ensures you dream the important events during your normal sleep cycles.” He pondered for a few seconds. “You know, maybe that’s why the dreams fast forward when you’re not dreaming . . . call it smart morphic resonance . . . where it knows when you’re going to dream and speeds up the movie, so you don’t miss the important scenes.” He smiled again. “Something else to wrap our brains around, eh? And meanwhile, all we have to do is make your mind and body believe it’s true.”
Allie gave him a wary, expectant look. “So how do we do that?” I see rehab coming.
“Well, I’ve been beating that question around all afternoon, and here’s what I think. I think a formal rehab program will kill your chances of getting your PhD, as well as undermine our results with the committee and the world.”
Allie sighed. “It won’t help you either, will it?”
“No.”
Allie and Dressler studied each other for a moment as if trying to find the answer in the other’s eyes.
Nancy said, “Let’s do it here.”
Allie and Dressler startled, looked at her then at each other. Dressler said, “Why not?”
“I’m game,” Allie replied.
Concern suddenly shadowed Dressler’s face. “Allie, I think doing the rehab on our own is definitely worth a try, but I don’t want you to think it’s going to be easy. It’s not. It’s going to be damn tough. In spite of everything we’ve just talked about, you’re going to crave dreaming and demand sleeping pills and Mestinon, and you’re going to be very upset with your mom and me when we don’t let you have them . . . maybe even violent. And when that happens, you’ve got to remind yourself that the only alternative to rehab here is formal rehab. And that will mean game over for the project . . . period.”
Allie bowed her head, stared at Dressler with mournful, uncertain eyes, then glanced at her mother. “Let’s give it a try . . . I know it’ll be tough . . . because I’m already antsy to dream.” She held up a trembling hand, shook her head. “Look at that. Neither of you can imagine how I feel right now.” She paused, swallowed. “I know it’s gonna be ugly, so I apologize now for whatever I do or say. We’re doing the right thing, and I want it to work. And I’m glad I have both of you here to help me.” She rubbed her eyes.
“Well, theoretically, the fact that you haven’t been doing the pills very long should work in your favor, but I don’t want to be too optimistic about how long this might take. However it goes, each day should be a little better than the day before, and”—he glanced at Nancy, spoke in a questioning tone—“ one or both of us should be here twenty-four hours a day until she’s out of the woods.”
Nancy nodded, looked at Allie. “I’ll tell Dad what’s going on, and—”
“Oh, Mom, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Well, we are where we are. And you know he’ll be a hundred percent behind you.”
“I know, but still . . .”
Dressler said, “I’ll be here every day, and”—he looked at Nancy—“ if it’s okay, I’ll sleep on the couch, then go home for a bit in the mornings before I go to the lab or come back here to work on data analysis. Actually, most of the folks at the lab are on vacation right now anyway, so I’ll probably be here most of the time.”
Nancy nodded. “Sounds good.”
He alternated his hopeful look between mother and daughter. “I think we give this a max effort for a week; and if we don’t make good progress, then . . . well . . . you know what we’ll have to do.”
Allie nodded. “Yup.”
“Okay. So, Allie, let’s start with you giving us any other sleeping pills and Mestinon you have.”
Allie stared numbly at him for a long moment, pressed her lips together, took a deep breath, then stood slowly, walked measuredly into the bedroom.
“Damn it, Mom. Don’t you get it? I can’t fall asleep. I need a pill . . . even half a pill. I’m going nuts with frustration, probably trying too hard, just lying here bug-eyed.”
“Can’t help you, Hon. I don’t have any pills. You’ve got to get your brain clicking and work through this.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to dream, got to know. Don’t you understand?”
“Yes, I do understand. It’s real hard for you . . . but there’s no other way than gutting it out, working through it; and I know you can do it, Allie Girl. Try to relax and quit thinking about it . . . maybe take a hot shower.”
“Already did, and it didn’t help. Damn, this sucks—whole body aches, chills, upset stomach, sweating like a stuck pig. Damn it, Mom, help me!”
“I am, Allie . . . you just can’t see it right now.”
“Thanks a lot! This sucks!” She climbed out of bed, put on her bathrobe, started for the door.
“Where you going?”
“Living room. Is Steve there?”
“I think so.”
With Nancy close behind, Allie stormed into the living room, walked to the couch where Dressler sat reviewing her dream log from the first weekend dream. “Doc, will you please give me a sleeping pill? I’m getting nowhere. It’s after midnight, and I haven’t slept a bit. For Christ’s sake, we can’t do the fricking project if I don’t sleep and get data. Really, I thought we had a deal where I could have a small dose if I couldn’t sleep.”
He shook his head. “That was before you OD’d, Allie. Deal’s off. You have to tough it out . . . but nice try. Why don’t you watch TV or read a book or do some computer research . . . anything to help you relax . . . just need to get past your own mind. You’ve got to be exhausted—”
“No way, Doc! I’m going out to get some over-the-counter pills.” She turned, started back to the bedroom.
Nancy said, “Don’t bother, Allie. We’ve got your keys. Nothing’s open anyway.”
Allie screamed, “This is crazy! I’m missing stuff. Emily may be dead, and you two are gonna feel like the pits if she is and you made me miss it. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! This sucks! You can’t do this to me!” She slammed the door, plopped onto the floor, sat cross-legged with her face in her hands, moaned and wailed.
After Allie sat on the floor for half an hour, crying herself out, Nancy opened the door, knelt beside her. “Come on, Baby, it’s after two. Let’s go to bed. I’ll give you a rub.”
Allie looked up with forlorn eyes. “Won’t do any good . . . but okay.”
In the morning, Nancy emerged from the bedroom, wearing sweats and moccasins. “Hmm. No Steve.” Must have gone home for a bit. She made a pot of coffee then searched the refrigerator for breakfast possibilities. “Not much here. Ah! Eggs and bacon—perfect. Better buy some grub today.”
Twenty minutes later, she heard a soft tap on the door. “Who is it?”
“Steve.”
She opened the door. “Come in, Steve. Just in time for breakfast.”
He smiled, walked inside. “I must be really out of it . . . totally forgot about breakfast. You’re a lifesaver.”
While they ate and sipped coffee, Nancy told him how the remainder of Allie’s night had gone: constant tossing and turning, anger, cold sweat, anxiety, frustration. “Then I think about five, she fell asleep. I slept on and off all night; but every time I woke up, she was either staring at the ceiling or squirming around in the bed.” She took a sip of coffee, a deep breath. “Do you think we should let her sleep or wake her up and get her comple
tely exhausted, so she can sleep tonight?”
“The latter, for sure. Need to get her back on a normal schedule.”
Nancy grimaced, gritted her teeth. “ Oooh! This could be ugly.”
He nodded, smiled. “Better you than me. Mothers get the tough jobs.”
She snickered. “Thanks a lot.”
Waking Allie was not as bad as Nancy had expected. Though she’d slept for four hours, she hadn’t dreamed, had seen only blackness, and she appeared unexpectedly relieved at her escape from further frustration and bad news. After she showered and primped to meet Dressler, she walked into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, then sat at the table with her two tormenters.
“Want some breakfast, Hon?”
Allie contemplated for a moment. “Sure. Stomach’s better this morning. Maybe some food will help.” She frowned. “Can’t remember when I last ate.”
Dressler said, “Sorry we had to wake you, Allie, but we need to—”
“It’s alright. I wasn’t dreaming anyway . . . only black, which means I was in some combination of my NREMs and Emily’s . . . or, Emily’s dead or near dead.” Her lips pouted, eyes filled with doleful tears. “So much for the theory, eh?”
“Well, I wouldn’t give it up yet, Allie. Didn’t you see black for a long time once before?”
“Yeah . . . back at the massacre . . . when the Panther clubbed her, and she had a near-death experience.”
“So hang in there for a while. Emily won’t give up easily.” When Allie didn’t reply, Dressler held his silence for a time then picked up Allie’s recorder, placed it in front of her. “As I was saying, we woke you so we can get you back on a normal sleep schedule, and recording your second dream session—the one your mom woke you from yesterday—will help you pass the time and get you good and sleepy for tonight.”