(Un) Sound Mind

by Richard Amico

  After Hyrum removed both hands from Franklin’s mouth, Franklin restored some of his dignity by wiping the drool from his chin. He asked, “Did you chase your pretty dental hygienist around the office until she quit?”

  “No, she seems to be having some personal problems at home. I gave her some time off.” Franklin was disappointed to hear that Michelle was unavailable, but maybe he could use this information to solve a different problem. He could find out more about the psychologist, Dr. Klein. Franklin seized the opportunity.

  “Maybe she can use some help. I noticed there’s a psychologist in the building. Do you know anything about her?” he asked, feeling proud of himself for being so crafty.

  Hyrum smiled. “Smart lady and not bad looking.” He paused, and they both looked up at the ceiling speaker as it burst forth with “California Dreamin” by the Mamas and the Papas.

  Hyrum continued, “I’ve wanted to get to know her, but she always seems busy. She works mostly in the evenings, so she arrives just as I’m closing the office. I had to stay late one night last week, and I noticed she had some pretty good-looking patients.”

  Franklin decided that it was time to take action, but he still wasn’t comfortable walking into her office. With a renewed sense of conviction, he wrapped up his conversation with Hyrum, made his next appointment, and headed for the door. As he was leaving, he heard the first refrains of “The Letter” by the Box Tops. That’s it—it’s the coward’s way out, but that’s it. Franklin removed a pen from his pocket and copied the name and address of the psychologist onto the back of his appointment card. As he again passed in front of his dentist’s office on his way out of the building, he slightly opened the door to hear the song that was now playing. It was “Subterranean Homesick Blues” by Bob Dylan. He stopped and thought about it for a moment, then said out loud, “I got nothing,” and strolled out of the building.

  That evening Franklin sat at his desk in his home office and drummed on his mouse pad with a pencil as he tried to decide how to best approach writing a letter to Dr. Klein. Should he describe the details of his problem? Should he keep it on the lighter side, maybe start with a joke? No, he wanted to be taken seriously. He settled down at the keyboard of his computer and started to type, still not comfortable exposing his problems and the extent of his emotional concern, but committed to getting this done now.

  5

  Ten days later, the wheels of Franklin’s car bounced over the same speed bump in the parking lot three times before he finally found a parking spot wide enough so that his car doors wouldn’t be dinged.

  He stepped out onto the asphalt and sniffed the air. The fragrance of french fries filled his nostrils. He could almost taste them. The familiar arches of a McDonald’s restaurant stood just across the lot. He checked his wristwatch; he had just six minutes before his appointment with Dr. Klein. Franklin looked at the line of customers visible through the window of the brightly lit restaurant. It looked like at least a fifteen-minute wait. He considered being late for his appointment. After all, hunger always put him in a cantankerous mood, and he would need to be open and calm if any progress was to be made in therapy. He would actually be doing Dr. Klein a favor by arriving well fed. Or, he could blow off the appointment, reschedule it for another day—but then what about tonight? He would have to try to sleep sooner or later, and the thought of another night of ghostly visitors coming and going through his bedroom firmed his resolve. He was committed.

  His eye wandered to a man standing at about the midway point in the restaurant line. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt under a yellow plaid jacket. He was lean, yet his shoulders were broad. He was tall—about six feet. There was something very familiar about the look of him. Maybe it was the confidence with which he moved, or how he held his head high even though his hands were stuffed in his pockets. Franklin waited for the man to turn so he could get a better look at his face. He craned his neck, but the shadow of the man’s hood cloaked his features.

  Franklin could almost swear it looked like his old friend, Dennis Cleaver. Franklin and Dennis had been fast friends since they were toddlers growing up in Binghamton, New York. He hadn’t seen Dennis since he left Binghamton more than twenty-five years ago. It couldn’t be. He had just looked at a picture of Dennis yesterday. The coincidence of running into him in this small town in Pennsylvania today would be too great. Twenty-five years was a long time. Dennis probably looked very different by now. Franklin shook his head and turned away. Mind playing tricks again. He placed his hand on his rumbling stomach and cursed the evening rush-hour traffic that had delayed him. Then he walked toward the office building.

  As he approached, a slender woman with long black hair came bounding down the front stairs, her hair and bosom gently bouncing with her youthful gait. As his eyes met hers, he smiled a broad smile, almost a grin. She returned his smile but in an affected, smug way, then immediately averted her eyes. It was more of a smirk than a smile, and Franklin did his best not to be offended. It was the same rebuff he received from other attractive women he encountered on the street. He tried not to take it personally. He was going to have to try his smile in a mirror and see what it was that was turning them off. He turned and watched her walk to her car.

  “Have a nice day,” he shouted. Her hips moved with a rhythmic motion that was mesmerizing. He didn’t know her, but he certainly would have liked to. Knock it off, he told himself. He had more important things to do.

  Franklin carefully climbed the stone stairs, holding his cane in his left hand and the black wrought-iron railing for support with his right. When he reached the door, he turned for one last look at the long-legged beauty. Too late. She was already in her car, a tan Mercedes-Benz. She drove out of the lot and passed the restaurant. The man from the fast-food line, the one in the hood and jacket, had left the restaurant and was now standing on the sidewalk, also watching the woman’s car. He turned back to face Franklin and then stepped into the shadow of the restaurant and was gone. Franklin stood looking at the spot where the man had stood, and then again he shook his head. He turned, opened the front door, and started down the long corridor to Dr. Klein’s office.

  Dr. Klein had responded to Franklin’s letter of introduction almost immediately. She had called and then sent forms to be completed and returned. The entire process, including the scheduling of this appointment, had taken less than ten days. Franklin had requested the first available session, but now that he was here, his hands were beginning to shake.

  Franklin was a very private person. Dr. Klein had sounded accommodating and supportive on the telephone, but he was still apprehensive. He fought back the urge to turn and run away. He hadn’t told anyone about his dreams. Now he was about to discuss his innermost fears and secrets with a complete stranger. What if he was going insane? He paused, then steeled himself to the task at hand and turned the doorknob.

  Ruth Klein’s waiting room was small but elegant. The walls, painted in a soothing shade of pale green, were adorned with framed and matted photographs of covered bridges, waterfalls, and forest scenes. The contemporary sofa and two armchairs were upholstered with soft earth-tone fabrics. The furniture was chic yet comfortable-looking. It was a pleasant environment. The kind of room that could help dispel some of the anxiety a new patient might experience prior to a therapy session—particularly this new patient.

  Franklin sat on the firm, well-contoured sofa. He leaned forward and squinted to see the titles on some of the books lined up in the case on the far wall. They were arranged by size and color rather than subject matter. He hoped Dr. Klein was as good a psychologist as she was a decorator.

  Franklin randomly picked up a magazine from the end table near the sofa. The door to the inner office opened almost immediately. There stood Ruth Klein, all six feet one inch of her. Franklin had had no idea that she was so tall. Don’t comment, and whatever you do, don’t grin.

  “Mr. Jameson, I’m Dr. Ruth Klein. Please come in,” she said as she offered her h
and. Franklin leaned his cane against the bookcase and shook her hand; he hoped she didn’t notice that his palm was sweating. He grabbed his cane and entered the office without realizing that he was still holding the magazine rolled into a tight tube in his left hand and was tapping it on the wall and furniture as he walked to the couch. He took a seat. He had shaved very carefully this morning, put on clean jeans, and even washed his gym shoes. He wanted to make a good impression. His hair, however, looked as though he had been caught in a windstorm, and dark circles under his eyes attested to his recent sleepless nights.

  On his left, Franklin saw a small wastepaper basket half-filled with tissues and an empty tissue box on the end table. The last patient must have had quite an emotional session, he thought. He wondered if it had been the woman with the long black hair in the parking lot who had given him the cold shoulder. If so, he had no pity for her.

  Franklin had rehearsed his opening remarks several times in the car. He wanted to ensure that he would remain in control of his emotions as he spoke, but now that he was here, his mind was a blank. Maybe he should ask her to refill the tissue box.

  ***

  “Mr. Jameson?”

  Franklin was jolted out of his reverie and looked up.

  “I understand from your letter that you would like to discuss a dream that—”

  “Several dreams,” he interrupted.

  “Several dreams,” she continued, unfazed, “that have been troubling you?”

  “Yes, I think one session should do it.” He tried to laugh. “They were short dreams.”

  We have a comedian, Ruth thought. “Do you dream often, Mr. Jameson?” she asked.

  “I probably don’t dream more than the average person. I had some unusual childhood dreams, more fantasies than dreams, but doesn’t every child? For most of my life, I think my dreams have been normal. That is, until recently, when I started having really strange experiences.” He fidgeted with the rolled-up magazine, tapping it rhythmically on the coffee table.

  “Go on,” said Dr. Klein as she reached over and placed her hand on the magazine, silencing it.

  Franklin unrolled it and placed it on the table. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath and began again. “It’s not so much the content of the dreams but—I’m not sure how to explain it.”

  Ruth Klein remained silent and leaned back in her chair.

  Franklin continued, “My dreams are very realistic, and some of them are nightmarish, but that’s not the problem, at least not all of the problem.”

  He picked up the empty tissue box, turned it over several times in his hands, and then placed it back on the table.

  “The real problem is I’m having a hard time knowing when a dream ends and when it doesn’t. Is that normal?”

  Ruth watched him absent-mindedly wind his watch for a long moment. She wrote a short note on her pad: Mr. Jameson seems extremely distressed about his dreams—fragile—tread carefully.

  “Mr. Jameson, maybe—”

  “Franklin,” he interrupted, looking up with a jerk of his head. “Call me Franklin.”

  “Franklin,” Ruth repeated. “Maybe you should start by telling me more about yourself. Something about your youth—I see you grew up in New York.” This guy is wound tighter than his watch.

  “Most of my life story is in the forms I returned to you in the mail last week. My birthplace, my age, my education…”

  “Maybe you could tell me about your childhood. Did you enjoy growing up in…” she looked down at the notepad on her lap, “Binghamton?”

  Franklin adjusted his sleeves. “It was a good place to grow up, lots of trees, good schools.”

  “What about your family? Do they still live in Binghamton?”

  Franklin leaned forward. “My father was really strict, and I don’t think he liked me much when I was a kid. It seemed like I was always being punished for something. Maybe I deserved it. My mother always took my side. Anyway, we became closer as I got older. He’s dead now. My mother still lives in Binghamton.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” Ruth said. “Was his passing recent?”

  “No, he’s been gone for more than ten years. I’ve been over it for a long time.”

  “What about your childhood friends? I would imagine one develops close friendships growing up in a small town.”

  Franklin suddenly folded his arms across his chest and crossed his legs as well. He spoke in short, staccato bursts.

  “I had one close friend when I was a kid, but we grew apart, different interests. We haven’t seen each other since I left Binghamton.” Franklin looked around the room, avoiding Ruth’s eyes.

  Ruth observed his defensive posture and made a note to come back to his childhood later, when he might be more relaxed. She changed the subject. “Maybe you could describe one of your dreams for me.”

  Franklin nodded several times and began, “I dreamed that a burglar was in my house. Sleep hasn’t come easy lately. Maybe I’m just afraid to sleep. Anyway, I saw this burglar in a stocking mask, and he was coming right for the bed. At first I tried to pretend I was sleeping. Maybe he would just take what he wanted and leave, but he was coming right toward me.” Franklin decided to leave out the part about fearing that the burglar would accidentally find his handgun. He didn’t want Dr. Klein to know he owned a gun. She might think he was violent.

  He went on. “When he approached the bed, I jumped up to defend myself, and when I tried to hit him, I guess my hand passed right through him. At first I thought I just missed, but that wasn’t it. I couldn’t hit him because he wasn’t there. I finally realized that I must be dreaming when he threw the chair through…” Franklin stood up and made a motion as though he were throwing a chair. Ruth flinched, then smiled awkwardly and motioned for him to continue.

  “He threw the chair through the window and jumped out. I was standing there, shaking, but I tried to defend myself,” Franklin said. He waited for a comment.

  “That was very brave of you,” Ruth said. Franklin’s chest swelled slightly as he waved off the compliment. Ruth made a notation on her notepad, then continued, “You said you attempted to strike him. Did you dream that you stood to strike him, or were you actually out of bed?”

  “That’s the problem,” Franklin said, intertwining his fingers and holding them in front of him as though he were praying. “I thought I woke up when he came into the room, but that couldn’t be, because he wasn’t there. I didn’t really wake up until after he left through the window. I was sure I woke up when I first saw him, and then again a few minutes later. How could I feel sure that I woke up twice from the same dream?”

  She wrote several notes on her notepad, focused her eyes on his, and asked again, “When you realized that you had finally awakened, the second time, were you actually out of bed?”

  Franklin nodded. “Is that important?”

  “Not necessarily, but it helps me understand what’s happening. There is a mechanism in the body that paralyzes the skeletal muscles while you sleep so that you don’t act out your dreams. Does anyone in your family suffer from somnambulism?”

  “What?”

  “Sleepwalking.”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, that’s good, because most people who walk in their sleep have inherited the trait from one or both parents. Now, in this dream did you ever experience a feeling that something was out of place?”

  “Yes, the burglar. He was in my house.”

  Ruth Klein smiled briefly. “Anything else besides the burglar?”

  “No…wait, now that you mention it, he took a box from my dresser drawer. It was very small—plastic, I think. I didn’t remember what he had taken until just now.”

  “What was in the box?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t have a box in my dresser drawer.”

  “Mr. Jameson—”

  “Franklin!” he said, more emphatically this time.

  “Franklin,” she repeated with as much emphasis. “
There is a sleep condition, very appropriately called ‘false awakening.’ Are you familiar with it?”

  He shook his head.

  “A false awakening is one in which the subject thinks he has awakened from a dream, but is in fact still asleep. Sometimes the experience is so realistic that until the dreamer really wakes up, he doesn’t realize that what has occurred was hallucinatory.”

  Franklin’s face contorted as he tried to assimilate her explanation.

  “Are you saying I’m having hallucinations?” he asked in a trembling voice.

  “Not necessarily. Occasional false awakening dreams are not that uncommon.” She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “How many false awakening dreams have you had?”

  “Three or four in the last month—is that too many?” He now found it difficult to swallow and ran his finger inside his shirt collar.

  Ruth poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the coffee table, handed it to Franklin, and said, “In some respects, yes; they’re usually pretty rare. The fact that you have had several in a short period of time could be an indication of a sleep disorder.” Ruth glanced at her watch and said, “I’d like to hear about another dream before our time is up.”

  First a flash of headlights and then the roar of an engine and the piercing squeal of brakes hijacked Franklin’s attention to the open window. He stared, almost bewitched by the garbage truck moving down the street. Franklin’s ears pricked up at the whine of its hopper each time the truck paused in front of a building. The trash handlers in soiled, dark-green overalls hastened to keep up. They raced behind, dumping and banging cans of trash onto the hopper. Then the engine blew choking clouds of black smoke as it once again hauled the heavy vehicle to its next stop.

  Ruth watched Franklin’s head suddenly shift to the left, his gaze now drawn to the bus stop at the far corner. He seemed to be staring at the bench inside the three-sided glass enclosure, a windbreak for the bus passengers.