Beloved Lives

by Evans, Marilyn

  Dr. Horner, however, looked as if he were trying to hide his deep disappointment. If April knew anything about researchers, he probably had hoped to write up her case, totally unique as it appeared to be. She was a little sorry she had failed to repeat her death-defying nocturnal performance.

  “You seemed to be exhibiting perfectly normal dreaming activity, although the first dreams had a pattern that looked a bit like memory. Interesting, but not what I was expecting,” he said.

  She had a feeling what he really meant was “not what I had hoped for.”

  “Never mind, Dr. Horner. If you’ve cured me in just two sessions, I’d call that a victory,” April assured him.

  The doctor didn’t look convinced. “I think you should have at least one more session.” he said. “I also think you need to continue taking your medication.”

  “Sure,” April replied. “That's fine with me.”

  She was feeling so good that after she was unhooked from the sleep lab apparatuses and got dressed, she stopped by the hospital cafeteria to pick up breakfast for Trish and herself.

  * * *

  “I’m home,” she called from the front door, expecting Winston to bowl her over again, but apparently, two Friday nights in a row had removed the novelty.

  He sauntered out, rubbed her leg, then flopped over for a belly rub.

  “Not interested in running, my boy?” she asked, obliging with a tummy scratch.

  Trish sauntered out of the bedroom, too, but she flopped onto the sofa, not the floor. There was no invitation for belly rubbing. “How did it go?” she asked. “You look like you had a pretty good night.”

  “I’ll make some coffee and tell you all about it. I got some bear claws from the cafeteria. We can counteract the intrinsic pastry evil with a side of fresh fruit.”

  While they ate, April told Trish all the details of her dream, as much as she could remember, anyway.

  “Do you think this is your mind making stuff up, or is this the real deal? If it’s real, I gotta say it’s kind of creepy,” Trish said, licking bear-claw icing off her fingers.

  “I'm not sure, but if it's real, it would explain so much. Like why Weston was lurking around and tracking me down, at least like he was in the beginning. If he has his eye on you now, that makes it at least understandable that he’s still coming around when it’s so obvious that I’m not interested in him. Maybe we have, what, prehistory and all that, but we’re both different people now.”

  April thought a minute. “You know what really bothers me?”

  Trish shook her head.

  “That the first time I met him, I fainted. Then when we were talking last night, I zoned out into a regression without any kind of trance induction or whatever. This guy has got some kind of hold over me, and I really don’t like it.”

  Trish looked April in the eye. “Do you want to cancel tonight?”

  April thought for a millisecond then said, “That would be pretty rude. It’s too short notice for him to find anyone else to use the tickets. Besides, you and Mitch are both pretty excited, and I’ve got to admit, a chance to see the Russian Ballet…As my mom says, I think I’d better man up.”

  “I think it may have escaped your notice, but you are not a man.”

  “Huh. That would explain so much. When did you first suspect?”

  Chapter 20. Double Date

  Fortunately for April, her one and only evening gown was a classic design that would serve as well tonight as it had for attending ballets when she bought it during a closeout sale at Dillard’s five years ago.

  “Accessories, that’s what we need,” Trish said, as she dumped the contents of a voluminous bag onto April’s bed.

  The pile contained jewelry, full-length gloves, glittering scarves, and other trappings April couldn’t identify. Winston snagged something small and shiny from the pile and disappeared. At the moment, their hair was in process, and makeup was well past the planning stage but not yet into execution mode. They had an estimated thirty minutes until full deployment. Mitch had just called and was twenty minutes out. The launch window was tightening.

  “Dress first, cover up with a sheet while we do the makeup, then accessorize. Move it, move it. Time’s wasting.” Trish hustled April along.

  This operation was becoming much more complicated than April thought was really necessary, but she knew Trish took this sort of thing seriously and was definitely in her element.

  The doorbell rang, then there was a knock, and finally the sound of the front door opening.

  “Is everybody decent?” Mitch called from the living room.

  “Mitch, come here. We need a third opinion,” Trish called.

  He stuck his head around the corner and into the bedroom. He caught his breath as his body followed his head through the doorway.

  Trish, April, and Mitch all said, “Wow,” at the same time.

  Mitch was in a black tuxedo with a black satin cummerbund and a tie that was not only tied correctly, but was perfectly straight. His shirt had black studs; his cuffs had links. Winston began carefully depositing matching black hairs on the legs of Mitch’s trousers by rubbing himself back and forth.

  “You clean up nice,” April said, smiling.

  “You both look amazing,” Mitch responded.

  Trish was in a red dress that dazzled, but April was soft as snowflakes in a white silk sheath with drapes of chiffon over it.

  “What do you think,” Trish asked, indicating April’s ensemble. “Gloves or not?”

  “Let me see,” Mitch said.

  “Without.” April did a slow turn, then pulled on the white, opera-length gloves. “With.”

  “Well, it’s going to be a little cool in the hall, I’m betting, so you might want the added warmth. And they look really amazing. And I’ll bet not many other women will be wearing them. So, I’m saying with.”

  “We’ve got a shawl for her, too. You're right. It is always cool there,” Trish said, handing Mitch the silver-and-white pashmina, so he could drape it over April’s shoulders.

  The women collected their clutch bags with the standard equipment—comb, lipstick, key, ID, phone, and credit card—and headed for the living room.

  At exactly the appointed time, there was a knock at the door. Hearing it, April realized that she had never told Weston that Mitch had fixed the doorbell. Maybe she should put a sign on the door saying, “The doorbell formerly known as 'broken' is now working.”

  April was still a little uneasy, but she was determined to enjoy this evening for everyone else’s sake if not her own. Trish had a shot at a really cool guy, and April wasn’t going to mess it up. She was going to enjoy Mitch and a great ballet company and her friend’s good fortune.

  Trish answered the door and admitted her date.

  “Ladies, you look lovely,” Weston said. He was looking good, as well, wearing a tux with a vest rather than a cummerbund.

  Winston did not appear, did not greet him, nor did he deposit his precious black hairs on Weston’s trouser legs.

  While Weston had glanced and nodded to April and Mitch, he seemed to have eyes only for Trish. That made the knot in April's stomach relax. Maybe this is going to work out after all, she thought.

  “Shall we go?” Weston said, gesturing toward the door, taking Trish's arm.

  Waiting at the curb was a sleek black limo instead of the silver Mercedes.

  “I thought we might be more comfortable in a bigger car,” he explained.

  The car nearly filled the street. It came equipped with a liveried driver who got everyone safely inside then slid behind the wheel. He expertly navigated the huge vehicle through the narrow, neighborhood streets and onto Southwest Trafficway, heading toward the restaurant.

  April introduced Mitch in the car, saying, “Dr. Winston Weston, this is Mitch van der Waals. Mitch, Winston Weston.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Dr. Weston.”

  “Please, call me Winston.”

  “I’ve read you
r collaborative work on near-death experiences.”

  “Oh?” Weston sounded pleased. “Which in particular?”

  “Well, most of them, but I was especially interested in the cross-cultural studies and the effects of social and cultural history on the subjects' descriptions of their experiences.”

  Then they were off. By the time the limo arrived at the restaurant, Trish and April were looking at each other and rolling their eyes. Double date, indeed.

  When the limo pulled up in front of the Webster House, Weston explained, “I picked it because of its convenience to the Kauffman Center without knowing anything about it. I’m not yet familiar with many restaurants in Kansas City. I hope it will be all right.”

  “I’ve been here before. It’s great,” Trish assured them.

  With that recommendation, April presumed there would be no need for them to have to take the limo to a McDonald’s drive-through.

  After disembarking, before the party checked in at the restaurant’s hostess desk on the second floor, they spent a few minutes touring the ground level of the old schoolhouse. Trish told them the place was built about 1895 and was listed on the National Historic Register.

  The antiques and other decorative items for sale on the lower floor wouldn't have looked right in April's house and were probably out of her price range, anyway. However, she pointed to one of the crystal chandeliers and whispered to Mitch, “What do you think? Over Winston's cat bowl in the kitchen?”

  Mitch stroked his chin and nodded thoughtfully.

  After walking up one of the grand stairways, they were quickly seated in the Rose Room, one of several dining rooms. April promised herself she and Mitch would come back another time and do a bit more exploring.

  Whatever Weston’s unfamiliarity with Kansas City’s eateries, he demonstrated he could navigate his way around a wine list. Along with the food and wine came conversation. Mitch was the odd man out when the talk turned to drugs Trish sold, Weston prescribed, and April tested for. Weston lost out on the cat conversations. Everybody was on board for the “favorite opera, ballet, and symphony” discussions.

  Trish and April talked about their experience at the play on Wednesday. Although Shakespeare in the Park was ending that evening, Trish assured Weston he would have lots of other opportunities to experience live music and theater in the city.

  “A nonprofit group called the Gorilla Theater used to put on a Greek play every year. Not a lot of cities can say they have that. Sadly, they don't do it anymore,” Trish told him.

  “It wasn't the caliber of the Shakespeare, and Greek plays can be kind of odd if you’re not used to them,” April said.

  “Then how come you went every year? At seven in the morning, I might add,” Trish demanded.

  “Because it was free?” April replied.

  “So is Shakespeare in the Park. That’s no excuse.”

  “Honestly, I like Greek plays. And it was a totally unique experience. It’s not like anything you’re likely to see in most places. Except maybe Greece, I suppose,” April said and took a sip of wine, feeling slightly silly. She had never been able to explain to Trish her attraction to the antiquity of the plays, how they spoke across the ages.

  “I have to admit,” Mitch chimed in, smiling at her, “I actually teared up during the production of The Trojan Women a few years ago.”

  See there, April thought. He gets it.

  “I think we should begin to move toward the theater,” Weston said after they all declined dessert.

  He paid the bill as they were lingering over the last of the wine.

  The summer sky was still light as they left the restaurant and made their way on foot toward the soaring concrete, steel, and glass structure that housed the Center for the Performing Arts. The performance was to be in the Muriel Kauffman Theater. Even though there were no bad seats there—or in the Helzberg Hall where the symphony usually performed—Weston's tickets were for seats that were better than most. Even though it was summer and not the usual ballet season, because the Russian company was touring, as Mitch had discovered, the performance was completely sold out. The atmosphere in the auditorium seemed to crackle with excitement, like summer heat lightning.

  After they took their seats, April looked at her program for the first time. She saw that the performance included selections from a ballet based on the opera Aida. A photo showed the dancers in Egyptian costumes. Staring at the picture, she felt warm…too warm. She shrugged off the pashmina and started to remove the gloves she had put back on after dinner. Wedged between Mitch and Weston, she felt closed in and unable to breathe. She would have preferred to be sitting next to Trish or in an aisle seat. No one else seemed to notice how hot the hall had become.

  The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began to play in the pit. As the costumed dancers swirled onto the stage and moved to the music, April heard a buzzing in her ears, and a shadow passed over her eyes. Trying not to pant for breath, she rose carefully.

  “I’m not well,” she said to Mitch, who was seated at the end of the row.

  “Do you need help?” he asked.

  “No, I just need to get outside,” she said.

  Slipping past him, she hurried up the aisle and out as quietly as she could.

  As soon as she was through the door, she sat heavily on the carpet, her head to her knees, trying to breathe slowly. Two ushers came to kneel beside her, asking if she was all right.

  “I’m a doctor.”

  The ushers moved aside and let Weston gently lift her up and move her to a bench.

  She looked at the doors to the theater. “You shouldn’t miss the ballet,” she said.

  He put his hand under her chin and looked into her eyes.

  “I know why you have the dreams.”

  April blinked, taking in the words. She felt a slowly rising anger, fogged by dizziness and confusion.

  “Have you been reading my medical records? Did you talk with Dr. Horner? How could you know?” Her speech was slowing, and her tongue felt thick.

  “Because I was there when they began,” he said.

  April’s eyes rolled up into her head, and she passed into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 21. Ibuprofen and Incense

  When April woke, she was lying in a darkened bedroom. Her dress had been removed but not her underwear. She wore a large T-shirt, and her head was throbbing. If she was going to hurt this badly, it would have been nice if there had been some wild drinking to blame it on. A little wine and part of a ballet didn’t seem to be a good enough excuse for this throbber.

  “Winston?” she called.

  “I’m here,” Weston said coming around the corner into the bedroom.

  What was he doing here?

  “Where’s my cat?”

  Weston looked confused then appeared to realize she had been calling for the other Winston. His confused expression turned to one of annoyance.

  “What happened? Where are Trish and Mitch? What’s going on?” April said, staring at him.

  “You fainted. I left the limousine for them and offered to take care of you,” he said smoothly, in a calm and soothing voice.

  April suspected that wasn’t the whole story. She even suspected it wasn’t any of the story. She couldn’t imagine her best friend and her boyfriend would have stayed without her. Something wasn’t right here. She looked around the room and realized she wasn’t home in her own bed. She fought a rising panic and tried to make her voice sound calm.

  “So, is this your place?”

  “Yes,” he said, as he snapped on a light.

  He was still wearing his tux vest but had shed the jacket. Now he was looking amused. That and the light stinging her eyes made her mad. She let it show in her voice.

  “And did you undress me?”

  “I didn’t want to spoil your pretty dress. Besides, I’m a doctor.”

  “You’re a kidnapper and a jerk. Get out. I’m getting dressed and going home.”

  Weston stopped look
ing amused. In fact, he looked funereal.

  “April, please. We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot somehow. I want to help you. To explain why you are the way you are. Please, just listen to me. Will you do that?”

  April thought for a moment. She had been nasty to him from the beginning, and, kidnapping notwithstanding, he’d been pretty decent about most things, sending her flowers when she passed out and getting ballet tickets for her and her friends. The guy had been trying to be nice to her. Standing there looking like someone had shot his dog, he sort of made her feel like she owed him a chance to explain. Besides, if he knew anything about her dreams, it would be worth hearing him out. He didn’t seem threatening, standing there empty-handed and wounded. For some reason, she knew he wouldn’t harm her, at least, not at the moment. And she really, really wanted to be done with those dreams. If he had information, he had her attention.

  “Okay. I suppose. Have you got something to drink? Wine or something? And I could really use some ibuprofen.”

  “Yes, of course.” A bit more cheerful, he turned and left the room.

  She looked around the bedroom with its king-sized bed, elegant bedroom suite, and what looked like a French Impressionist oil painting on the wall. She got out of the bed and, barefoot, followed Weston into his living room. His T-shirt came to just above her knees, so she figured she was decent enough. Besides, he’d probably already seen all there was to see.

  The rest of the apartment was just as Architectural Digest worthy. The furnishings were elegant and expensive and obviously arranged for comfort and conversation. He had art, ancient and modern. More oil paintings were on the walls, beautifully decorated pottery sat in a display case, and a stone statue of the Egyptian, hawk-headed god stood on a stone plinth next to the balcony doors. The air smelled faintly of incense, something spicy, woody, and exotic. The orchids on the coffee table had no scent that she could tell.

  They were several stories up, looking out over the city lights through the wide, tall windows that made up an entire wall of the apartment.

  Weston handed her two capsules and a glass of water. She took the pills she recognized as ibuprofen and swallowed them with a sip of the water.