Second Sight

by David Williams

  She lifted it out and draped it against her. If she put it on now would she return to the same place, the same time? Or could it spin her off into some other realm or time totally alien to her? Or was its power a delusion, something her own romantic dreams and longings had fastened on to create in incipient madness what she could not find in reality? Each time before, her fear had seemed to snap her out of the vision, back to reality; if she put it on now, conscious of its power, would she be able to return from wherever it took her? Even if it took her where she wanted to go—back to that man? Trembling but determined, she laid the dress across the bed, stepped out of her shoes, and began to remove her clothes.

  When she had changed into the dress and laced up the slim boots she always wore with it, she pinned her hair up under the wide-brimmed hat and stepped away from the bed, waiting. Nothing happened. Slowly, aware of her quick and shallow breathing, she started toward the door, the long skirt rustling about her legs. A sudden movement at the window caused her to start, but it was only the curtains belling out in a breeze. Carefully, she examined the room. Frightened as she was, every innocent object seemed potentially sinister. She felt poised on a precipice, expecting any moment to be seized out into a mysterious void, toward some strange and awesome destination.

  She paused outside in the hall. The runner rug still lay on the floor; the curtains licked out the open hallway window. She waited for something to change. And then in a split second the hallway seemed enclosed in gloom, as if a giant hand had closed about the window. Panic rushed to her throat—and then in the instant she realized it was only a cloud passing over the sun, she saw the bedroom door begin to close behind her, as if someone in the bedroom were slowly pulling it to. It swung closed with a slam that seemed to echo through the house, setting her heart aflutter. But still nothing had changed. Slowly, she approached the door, listening. There was no sound. Cautiously, she turned the knob. There was no one inside. Except for the curtains swelling out from the window, there was no movement anywhere. It was the breeze, the breeze between the two windows, which had sucked the door closed behind her. She closed it again and leaned against the wall, one hand to her throat, feeling the rapid fluttering of her pulse. She could not allow her mind to play tricks on her; that way led to what she feared most: to delusions, and madness. She regained control of herself and went along the hall to the head of the stairs.

  Every step creaked beneath her feet on the way down. In her hushed, expectant state she seemed acutely aware of every sound: the sibilant sweep of her skirts from step to step, the whispering brush of her hand along the railing, every beat of blood pulsing through her veins. Nothing in the dining room had changed, except that every piece of furniture—the table, the chairs, the shelves along the walls—seemed in unnaturally sharper focus, as if etched in the very air. Through the windows she saw the circular flower bed in the drive, its colors deep and somber in the sudden overcast. She went into the living room. It seemed forbiddingly dark, though nothing else had changed. Outside, the telephone poles were lonely silhouettes against the sky; the lake lay flat and dark below the hill. She opened the door and stepped outside.

  And then it came, suddenly: the muted ache at the back of her neck, the quick growth of pain up into her temple, the sudden rush of dizziness to her head, forcing her to close her eyes. She stood that way for a moment, while the dizziness drained away, leaving only the fear and the wild beating of her heart. Then she opened her eyes.

  She was looking out across the sunlit grass to a high brushrow bordering the far edge of the yard. The telephone poles were no longer there; the view of the lake had disappeared behind the brushrow. It had happened so quickly she felt suspended in an otherworldly daze, awe-struck, trying to accept that this was real.

  The fear slowly diminished, lay submerged and dormant beneath that other-worldly daze. She tried to quiet her breathing, to focus her mind. There was a break in the foliage at the far end of the yard, where—if, like the house, they existed in this time, too—the flagstone steps should lead down to the road. Hesitantly, remembering, she went across the grass toward it.

  The flagstone steps were there. Holding her skirts up with one hand, she descended the steps and turned right along the hard-packed dirt road. She felt a little thrill inside: it was the same road—the same high brush and trees on each side, the same roadside ditches, the same curve up ahead where it plunged down the hill. Where Summer House Road should have been, there was only a thicket of trees bordering the downward curve. She came to the apex of the curve and stopped.

  Below lay the expanse of the lake, calm and blue beneath a crisp, clear sky. Across the lake, changed but still recognizable, was the town, half-hidden among the trees. And then, close to the near shore, a little to the right, she saw a boat. And in the boat a man. A very familiar figure of a man. She shaded her eyes, small tremors of excitement beginning to bubble up through her daze. She could barely make him out, a man with his back to her and, moving in the boat, a smaller figure, the dog. Still she couldn’t be sure. Impelled by a strange curiosity, she started down the road.

  The woods on each side thinned at the bottom of the hill, the trees becoming farther spaced, the ground beneath them dappled with sunlight. About twenty yards from the water the woods ceased entirely, leaving a flat grassy bank that merged with the marshy reeds along the shore. She crossed the ditch and slipped into the woods, pausing behind a tree. The boat was not a hundred yards away, farther up and out from the bank. The man still sat with his back to her, a fishing pole angling out over the stern. The water was a glassy calm, with only an occasional ripple flickering sunlight at her. The silence seemed almost unearthly.

  Then, behind her, from some distance away, came an unfamiliar rattling and the sound of horses. She turned. Far down at the other end of the lake, where it narrowed to empty into the creek below, some sort of carriage was crossing a bridge, turning up the road toward her. She felt a little tremor of fright disturb her daze and, glancing at the boat to make sure the man’s back was still turned, picked up her skirts and ran to the shelter of a tree farther away from the road, closer to the boat. In this way, darting from tree to tree, she had retreated into the woods by the time the carriage made the turn up the hill. From behind her tree she watched the horses, a matched pair of grays, lean into their collars as they started up the slope. On the box sat a bearded man, in vest and hat, gripping the reins. In the carriage itself sat four women. in short, tight-waisted jackets and flared skirts. Jennie stared at them, awed. Parasols bloomed above their heads; dainty boots peeked from beneath the hems of their skirts. A wicker basket covered with a cloth sat on the floor between them. They were talking, laughing, their voices drifting clearly across to her as the carriage receded up the hill.

  When she looked at the boat again, the dog was up, front paws on the gunwale, watching the point where the carriage had disappeared. It looked like the same floppy-eared spaniel she remembered from the grape arbor. She felt immobilized by the intense quiet, the sight of the man with his back to her, the boat etched against the quicksilvery lake, the unreal reality of everything around her. Her mind seemed barely able to function, but she was aware of that odd mixture of love and yearning inside, remembered from the other times, and she knew she had to get closer.

  She chose a tree farther up the shore, which would put her even with him, directly parallel to the boat. Picking up her skirts again, she began running on tiptoe across the grass toward that tree.

  The frantic barking of the dog tumbled her into panic. She halted in mid-flight across the grass. The man was on his feet in the boat, staring at her. It was the same man—the same coal-black hair, the dark moustache, the blue eyes which even at this distance seemed to burn relentlessly into her own. She felt hypnotized, unable to take her eyes from his.

  “Pamela?” he called.

  His face was ashen. Beside him, the dog leaped and barked, tail churning. Jennie couldn’t move. She felt her heart beating in her breast,
that strange painful yearning for him twisting in her insides.

  “Pamela, stay,” he called. “Please. Talk to me. I love you, I don’t care what you are.” For one frozen instant he continued to stare; then, abruptly, he turned and reached for the oars.

  Something seemed to release inside her then, and she ran for the shelter of a tree. When she looked again, gripping the tree for support, she saw that he had turned the boat and was rowing powerfully toward shore. The dog stood in the bow, barking at her as the boat came on. Panicked, she turned and plunged back through the trees, hearing the splash of the oars behind her, the barking of the dog growing louder. The sudden slope of the hill rose upward beneath her feet and she fell, struggled up again, grasping at tree trunks to pull her on. Lungs gasping, blood hammering in her ears, she staggered up through the thickening brush, her boots sinking into the damp layer of leaves, branches whipping at her face, till she tripped against a rock embedded in the earth and fell full out, exhausted, feeling the fainting rush of blood to her head, the oblivion sweeping over her . . .

  • • •

  The first thing she was aware of was the smell of grass. The cool earth beneath her hands. The faint rustle of a breeze in the trees overhead. The racing of her heart had begun to slow, but she was still afraid to open her eyes. Then, behind her, she heard the footsteps coming up the slope. The heavy, measured tread of a man. She was afraid to move. The footsteps moved up beside her. Came around in front of her. Stopped.

  And then the gravelly voice: “Here now, little lady, are you all right?”

  Cautiously, she raised her head. His feet, in heavy work shoes, were only inches away from her eyes. Above them, a pair of stout legs in surplus khaki. A fat hand gripping a bait and tackle box. A burly chest and sloping shoulders. And then—raising her head all the way up—the puffy, concerned moon-face of an elderly man peering down at her from beneath a floppy hat festooned with fishing flies.

  “Are you all right?” he said again.

  And behind him then she saw the screened-in porch of a summer house and, parked below it, an old faded red pickup truck. She laid her head back down on her hands and let the relief tremble through her.

  7

  * * *

  IN THE GRAY AND RAINY dawn the station parking lot was full of cars, commuters sheltering from the rain until the train came. Raindrops bounced and danced along the empty platform. Michael put the shift lever in park, leaving the windshield wipers going, and looked at his watch. Seven forty-two. Usually it was full day by this time, but this morning the lights were still on along the platform, dull blurs of yellow in the rain.

  “You’ll have to get Wilkins to drive you home,” he said.

  “I know,” Jennie said.

  “Usually they lend me a car while this one’s in the shop, but you have the Volkswagen, so just get him to drive you home.”

  “All right.”

  “You know who he is, don’t you? The bald-headed one. He owns the place.”

  “I know.”

  She was sitting with her hands in her lap, her head turned away, looking out the side window. She wore an old raincoat she had thrown on at the last minute, her hair tied up in a hasty ponytail. They had been up half the night discussing what had happened to her at the lake, but the drawn look on her face was more than lack of sleep.

  “You remember what to ask for,” he said. “A tune-up, front end aligned, brakes adjusted.”

  “I remember.”

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m all right. I don’t think we should talk about it anymore.”

  “You fainted, and while you were out you had a dream, just like that other time. You’ve got to stop trying to believe it was real.”

  “I’m not trying to believe it. It was real.”

  “Will you just once listen to what you’re saying?”

  “Michael, let’s not start again. Please.”

  “Jennie, it’s got to be dealt with.”

  “You want me to think I’m going crazy, is that it?”

  “Listen, it is possible you’re having hallucinations. It happens. People black out and strange things happen. It doesn’t mean you’re going crazy. I just can’t believe you think this is real.”

  “But it feels so real.”

  “So it feels real. I imagine hallucinations do to whoever has them.”

  “Then tell me why I always hear the name Pamela. I don’t know anyone named Pamela. I’ve never known anyone named Pamela.”

  He tried to imagine how it must have seemed: the bedroom changing around her, the man calling to her from the boat on the lake, the horse and buggy pursuing her along the road. That last she had told him only last night, after the old man in the pickup had brought her home—a secret she had kept to herself since the day Don and Beverly were there, when they’d found her unconscious beside the road. How many other times had it happened that she hadn’t told him about? It was unlike her to be so stubborn, so unwilling to listen to reason. The wipers click-clacked rhythmically on the windshield, sending a faint shadow back and forth across her face.

  “Jennie,” he said, “I think this thing is getting too big for us to handle.”

  She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think we need some help. I think you should see another doctor.”

  She turned away again, rolling the window down a notch to let in air. A VW van pulled into the parking space on that side of the car, the driver looking across at them for a moment before shutting off the engine. Through the open window came the sound of the rain drumming tinnily on the roof of the van.

  “You mean you think I should have my head examined,” she said.

  “You don’t have to put it like that. That doctor you think so much of, Shapiro, he even suggested you see a psychiatrist, after you fainted that time. And he didn’t even know about all this.”

  His only response was the steady click-clacking of the windshield wipers.

  “People go into analysis all the time, Jennie. Hell, half the people in the city are in analysis.”

  Through the window on her side he saw the driver get out of the van, huddled under an umbrella. Car doors were opening all across the parking lot; from beyond the bend on the other side of the station he could hear the train coming. The rain had slackened; the station lights had been turned off.

  “What do you say, Jennie?”

  “I don’t know, Michael. I can’t believe I’m imagining all of it. I’m just afraid, that’s all.”

  “That’s why I think you need help to find out what’s happening. It doesn’t help for us to talk about it—we’ve proved that.”

  She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  The train came into view beyond the end of the station, leaning slowly around a curve, black engine looming through the rain. Small clusters of umbrellas dotted the platform, and from all over the parking lot came the sound of car doors closing. Jennie looked at him, her face still drawn and pale.

  “I know it’s a big step,” he said, “but I think it’s necessary.”

  She rolled up the window and slid across the seat. “Of course you’re right. I’m sorry I’ve been so strange. It’s just all so frightening.”

  “Shall I make an appointment with that analyst Shapiro recommended?”

  “I suppose you’d better.”

  “I’ll call him this morning. Soon as I get to the office.” The train had come to a halt; the air brakes hissed; commuters crowded up around the steps. “I’ve got to go now. Don’t forget you have to pick me up tonight.”

  “Okay. Better hurry.”

  He retrieved his umbrella and briefcase from the back seat and opened the door. “Try not to think about it today. I’ll set up an appointment as soon as I can get one. See you tonight.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then slammed the door and ran for the train.

  • • •

  He made the appointment for a Monday and took the morning off so h
e could go with her. The analyst, a Dr. Salzman, had his office on Central Park West. While Jennie was inside, Michael sat in the waiting room adjacent to the office, in one of a dozen chairs around a table bare except for ashtrays. There was no receptionist. After half an hour he heard the office door opening onto the small foyer, the doctor’s reassuring murmur, and the sound of Jennie’s footsteps coming toward the waiting room.

  She looked tense and pale, gripping her purse with both hands.

  “How’d it go?” he said.

  “All right.”

  “You tell him I wanted to talk to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m all right. He said for you to come straight in.”

  The office was very dim, lighted only by one small lamp on the desk. The blinds were closed, though outside it was a sunny morning. An air conditioner hummed quietly in the wall below the window. Beside a low couch, a box of Kleenex sat on the floor.

  Michael took the chair in front of the desk. “I hope you don’t mind my wanting to see you.”

  “I’m used to it,” Dr. Salzman said. “Whenever a married patient enters therapy, the spouse invariably wants to see me. I suppose to make sure I have no horns.” He was about fifty, with a receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses. “I should tell you at the outset that it’s not my practice to divulge anything told me by a patient—not even to that patient’s spouse. And I discourage very seriously the impulse by the patient to discuss his or her analysis with anyone outside this room. If analysis is to be successful, it must be confined to the actual working of analyst and patient in the therapeutic situation. I do make a partial exception during this first interview—I can understand your concern, after all. But in the future I have to insist you not ask Jennie questions about her therapy or discuss it with her in any way. Do you follow me?”