by Dima Zales
I keep talking. “It all came out of nowhere. The only thing I can think of,” and it’s just at this moment that it occurs to me, “is that it’s something subconscious. Maybe deep down I get off on that kind of stuff?” That can’t really be true, can it?
Beth doesn’t think so. She shakes her head and answers me immediately. “No way. I know you better than anybody. If you had that kind of a dark side – well, you don’t. Trust me.”
She’s right, I think. I hope. “Thanks. I guess I just needed to hear that.” She’s still sitting on my bed right next to me. I lean close, hug her, and give her a little kiss on the cheek. “I feel much better,” which isn’t true, but talking about this more isn’t going to make me feel better, and both of us should get back to sleep. “Why don’t you go back to bed? I promise I won’t wake you up again.”
“You’re sure you’re OK?” I nod. We both know I’m not, but she doesn’t call me on it. She just pats my head before she gets up and goes back to her own bed. “No more nightmares, right?”
“I promise.”
Thankfully, there aren’t any more nightmares. I actually get a couple of hours of decent sleep. I wish it could have been more, God knows I need it, but it’s Thursday and I have an early class.
So does Beth, but she’s still lying in bed when I get out of the shower. She’s awake, though, talking on the phone. It’s her younger sister Chrissy. It’s easy to tell, because Beth is complaining about how she doesn’t want to be called Liz or Lizzie. It annoys her, so of course her sister does it whenever possible. I’ve got a younger brother so I understand completely.
Beth is still on the phone when I leave for 9:30 AM physics. I don’t like 9:30 AM physics. I wouldn’t like it at eleven o’clock, or at any other time. Just like green eggs and ham, I guess. But I need it for the pre-med program so I’m trying to slog through it. I don’t have a problem with any of my other classes, just this one. It doesn’t click for me, and I wish I knew why.
I’ve got a nice long, cold walk to think about it. Physics is on the other side of campus, in one of the old, dingy engineering buildings on the main quad. At least it’s something to think about instead of the nightmares. On the other hand, it’s kind of disheartening that there’s something going on in my life that I like even less than physics.
I make it to class, and I manage to stay awake and even take some notes, not that I understand anything that Dr. Wallabeck said. I haven’t understood much in that class since the last exam. At least, I had to concentrate so much on trying to comprehend it that I couldn’t think about the nightmares.
No such luck now. I’m sitting in my Science in Western Thought class. It was the only class this semester that fit my schedule and that filled the requirements for a Liberal Arts elective, so I signed up for it. I can see where the material could be interesting, except that the professor, Dr. Sorenson, somehow manages to suck all the life out of it. She‘s a very dry speaker, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything she’s saying. Usually, it’s not that much of a problem since she’s taking everything straight from the textbook. But sometimes my mind wanders….
…the blonde girl’s on the bed, and the big man climbs on top of her, and all Sara can do is watch helplessly…
“Is there a problem, Miss Barnes?”
Yes there is. Very much so. “I’m – I’m not feeling well, I need to go to the bathroom.” I must have shouted something, or maybe I just completely spaced out when Dr. Sorenson called on me. I’m not really sure what I did, to be honest.
I don’t wait for her to even acknowledge me; I run out of the room, down the hall to the ladies room. I splash some water on my face and then I lock myself in a stall. It seems like the only sensible thing to do.
I thought I was getting over it. I talked about it with Beth, and isn’t talking about bad things supposed to make them better? Besides, for God’s sake, I’m twenty one years old. I’m an adult. Some stupid nightmare isn’t supposed to affect me like this. Right?
Wrong, apparently, or I wouldn’t be sitting here in the bathroom hiding. And I’m not even sure exactly what I’m hiding from. This absolutely sucks, and that’s by far the most polite way I can think of to say it.
I sit there another few minutes and then I hear the door open, footsteps echoing and finally a voice. “Sara? Are you there?” It’s Marcia Goldstein. She lives just down the hall from me, and she’s also in the class.
“I’m still here.”
“Dr. Sorenson wanted to know if you were OK. She was worried about you.”
I’m worried about me too but of course I can’t say that. “It’s really nothing. I’ll be fine. I’ll be back in a minute, OK?”
That’s good enough for Marcia, and, although it takes more than just a minute, I’m able to keep my word. I go back to the classroom, back to my seat and I sit quietly for the remainder of class. When it’s over, I tell Dr. Sorenson I’m sorry for disrupting class. She smiles patronizingly at me and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. It happens to all of us at one time or another.”
I don’t think so. I don’t think this kind of thing happens to most people ever. For their sake, I certainly hope not.
It’s almost twelve-thirty in the morning and I’m not asleep. I was staring at the poster of Daffy Duck over Beth’s bed, but I gave that up a few minutes ago. I thought he was staring back at me. I’ve got a print of Monet’s Water Lilies over my bed and now I half think they’re staring at me, too.
I realize that’s not good. It’s pretty far from good, actually.
So I crawl out of my bed, put on my slippers and my bathrobe and go downstairs. Two of my fellow residents are sitting on the big discolored couch watching David Letterman. I give them a little wave and I sink into a corner of the couch to watch the show.
People trickle in a few at a time. It’s Thursday night and The Cellar – our own little on-campus “nightclub” in the basement beneath the dining hall – always has a live band. Sometimes, the shows go until two or even three in the morning, but tonight’s band, a group called – God only knows why – Wounded Dog Theory, must not have been very popular. I talk with the returnees, although I’m not nearly conscious enough to have any idea what they’re saying or what I say in return. I’m on autopilot.
And then, just like that, Letterman’s done, and the little crowd in the lounge disperses. I head back to my room, hang my bathrobe back up in my closet, crawl back under the covers and…
… Sara is awake, sitting in a chair, her eyes wandering around a large, expensively furnished bedroom. There are details that seem familiar, but Sara can’t quite remember why: a Rolex watch on a dresser, an expensive painting on a wall. And then, suddenly, a large man and a much younger, much smaller girl come through the door.
What happens next is also familiar, and terrible: frantic shouting from the girl as the man throws her onto the bed, and screaming from Sara, which no one else hears…
…Something’s wrong. I’m awake. Someone is screaming.
It’s me. Goddamn it, I hate this!
I turn on the light, and what I see doesn’t make me feel any better. The first thing I notice is the blood on my pillow. I can taste it in my mouth. I guess I must have been biting my lip to keep from screaming, and I bit so hard that I drew blood. And then I screamed anyway.
No more sleeping.
It’s almost three o’clock in the morning now. It seems like it’s three o’clock a lot lately.
The door opens, and Beth comes tip-toeing in. She takes one look at me and she knows she doesn’t need to worry about making noise. She doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong, either; she can see it’s last night all over again.
I haven’t looked at myself in the mirror, but I can picture what she sees all the same: dead eyes staring out at her, clutching my bloody pillow as though I’m drowning and it’s a life preserver. Beth doesn’t say a word, she just throws her coat on her bed and strips down to her underwear. I never really gave it much thou
ght before, but she really does that awfully quickly. She puts on the double extra-large Van Halen t-shirt she always wears to bed – she keeps telling me there’s a really juicy story behind that shirt, but after two and a half years of not hearing it, I’m not sure I believe her. “Move over.” It’s the first thing she says to me. “You obviously need someone to hold you. Scoot over.”
I do, and she gets into the bed with me. “You really ought to be doing this with a boyfriend. When are you going to start dating again?”
She’s just trying to distract me. I realize that. But she hit on a good subject. It works. “You’re the one who kept telling me to dump Thomas!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you to join a convent or anything. You need to find somebody. Soon. Right?
Maybe. I’m not sure I really want to have this conversation right now. On the other hand, it beats the alternative. “Sure. You’re right, Beth.”
“Of course I am. But since you don’t listen to me, I guess this is my job tonight.” She laughs. I know what she’s going to say next. “Besides, it’s not like we haven’t slept together before, right?”
Last Spring Break, to be exact. We went to Florida with two other girls from the floor, Kathy and Theresa. Someone – Beth, not that there’s any point in bringing it up just now – messed up booking the rooms. We ended up with just one room and a single king size bed instead of two rooms with two double beds in each. The second night down there, Kathy saw a spider, and nobody was willing to sleep on the floor after that. So all four of us ended up in the big bed every night that trip.
She’s got her arms around me. I don’t object, because she’s exactly right, I do need holding. It’s half an hour later before she asks about the nightmare. I tell her, it was exactly the same. Exactly as awful as the last few nights. But I do feel a little better right now, thanks to her. She says she’s glad she can help. She says that she’ll stay right here the rest of the night, if I want her to. I’m fine with that. She asks me if she can turn out the light. I’m fine with that too.
There’s someone in bed with me. Someone’s next to me, someone warm and soft and he’s – wait a minute, that’s not right. There isn’t any “he” at the moment for me to be in bed with.
She. It’s Beth. She’s in bed with me – I don’t know why, I don’t remember – and then it all comes back in a rush. I had a nightmare, I freaked out, and she decided I needed to be held. Except it isn’t helping. I sit up, and it’s as though it never went out of my head – I’m seeing it again, the bedroom, the man, the…
Beth stirs herself awake, sits up. I can barely see her; I’m still in that bedroom, still watching that helpless girl scratching and clawing and…
Beth fades in and out of view; for a moment I can see her more clearly. Her eyes narrow, focusing on mine. Then she’s gone again, and I’m watching the – the – the murder. That’s what it is. I can’t get it out of my head.
I feel – what? A hand, soft, gentle, on my cheek. It’s Beth. She’s back. She’s moving towards me, her face is just an inch or two away from mine, her lips are…
“What the hell are you doing?” The bedroom and the man and his victim are gone, and Beth is suddenly three or four feet away from me, her hand up, bracing herself against the wall. My hands are out in front of me; I must have shoved her away into the wall without even realizing what I was doing.
She’s staring hard at me, right into my eyes, trying to see if I’m back here with her, if the nightmare is out of my mind. It certainly is. She stares for another moment or two and then, without any warning, she dissolves into laughter. “You should – God, you should see your face right now!”
I don’t really see what’s funny about anything right now. “What were you doing?” I snap at her, breathing rapidly.
She needs a few seconds to recover her composure. “You were gone again, and I felt like I had to do something to bring you back. It was either that or a good hard slap.”
My breathing slows; it’s almost back to normal. “I guess that makes sense.” I think I might have preferred the slap. But I have to admit that her way did work; I’m certainly not thinking about the nightmare now. I'm pretty sure she's driven it away for the night.
“You forgive me?”
Of course I do. I lean over and hug her. “You bet.” Our heads turn towards the alarm clock in unison: 5:20 AM. “You think we can get a little more sleep? I’ll be OK by myself now, I think.” If I didn’t know better and I heard myself just now, I might even believe it.
She’s already up and halfway over to her bed. “I know you will,” she answers. I wish I were as confident as she is.
I’m sure I did things this morning. I must have gone to my class, and I assume I had conversations with people and all the usual things that make up the day. I can’t remember any of it right now. It feels like I’ve been sleepwalking all morning, which really isn’t too far from the truth.
Now, lunchtime, I almost feel something close to awake. I’m in Lardner Commons, which far too often means I’m staring at a bowl of Froot Loops. Today is no exception.
Needless to say, Lardner is the dining hall for this side, the north side, of campus. Also needless to say, the food is usually, to use a technical term, yucky. We’ve got a rule: if you can’t immediately identify it by look and smell, you don’t eat it.
Almost everyone else at the table shares my opinion of today’s entrée. Beth is sitting across from me, and – maybe to show solidarity with me – she’s also chosen the Froot Loops. Joe Karver, the upstairs Resident Assistant, went with Cheerios. John from New York selected Frosted Flakes, and George from the fourth floor apparently decided to be a rebel and went straight for dessert. He’s busy slurping down a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
Jackie and Fred, two of our freshmen, joined us, too. When I say “our freshmen,” I really mean it. Carson House is a very friendly place; at least it’s been for all of my time here. With only a handful of freshmen out of the hundred or so of us who live there, most of us have gone out of our way to make sure all of them feel like they belong. It looks like we’ve fallen down on the job a little bit, though. They clearly haven’t memorized the rules of the dining hall; Jackie and Fred are the only ones at the table to brave the hot food.
“I think its Swedish meatballs. That’s what the sign said,” Fred says, when Joe asks him what, exactly, he’s eating. Amazing.
“If you have to read the sign,” Joe starts, and then we all chime in, “You don’t want it!”
We chat about our final exam schedules while we eat. Finals start a week from today – on a Friday, for some reason none of us have been able to figure out. Jackie’s the most worried, she doesn’t know what to expect. We all try to reassure her that finals really aren’t that bad. George tells her that last year, when he was a freshman, he played Monopoly every night of finals and he still did fine. I happen to know that’s true, since I played in a couple of those games as well.
Having put Jackie at ease, our conversation turns to plans for tonight. It is Friday, after all. There are a couple of fraternity parties, and the campus movie. As usual, none of that really appeals to me, so I just sit tight and listen as Jackie and Fred start talking about this new club downtown that they got into last week, a place called Checkpoint Charlie’s. It’s the new “in” spot, apparently.
“That’s a great idea,” I hear myself say. I’m not quite sure where the words are coming from. “Yeah. I want to go out and dance and drink way more than I should. Let’s go.”
Beth stares at me, extremely confused. A few hours ago, I was a complete wreck. And in any event, the idea of me actively wanting to go out when there’s studying I could be doing is a shock to her. Honestly, I’m just as surprised as she is. I had no idea that’s what I wanted to do until I heard myself say the words. I’m not entirely sure that’s a good thing, but too late to worry about it now. “Are you sure?” Beth asks
“Maybe it’s not such a great idea,” Joe adds. “Y
ou don’t look like you’re feeling too well.”
Well, thanks for noticing that. Thanks a lot. I wasn’t sure until just this second, but now I definitely am. “I’m fine. And I’m sure that I want to go out. OK?” It’s OK with everyone. “Jackie, you and Fred want to join us?”
“They’re only eighteen. How do you expect them to get in?” Joe asks. It’s not his fault; he is the RA, after all. I suppose it’s his job to discourage irresponsible behavior. Maybe that means we should be irresponsible every so often, so that he’s got something to do. Isn’t that what they call “division of labor?” “They got in last week, Joe. I’m sure they’ve got it all figured out.”
Jackie grins, fishes into her purse and pulls out what looks to me like a pretty convincing fake driver’s license. Hey, whatever works. The rest of us are legal, at least Beth and Joe and me are. It doesn’t matter anyway. The really important point is that maybe going out and having a good time will take my mind off the damn nightmares and I can get a decent night’s sleep. It seems like a good plan to me.
It’s nine o’clock, and everyone’s waiting downstairs for Beth and me. She looks great, which is no surprise. She generally does. What is a little surprising, at least to me, is just how good I look. That sounds immodest, but what the heck. I’m allowed to be immodest once in a while, right?
Beth spent the last two hours helping me do my hair and makeup, and she absolutely demanded that I wear the dress I bought with my birthday money. It doesn’t quite say “do me” – nothing I own says that – but it might say “buy me some drinks and dance with me and I’ll think about it” if I wear it with the proper attitude. It’s black and strapless and – for me, at least – very short. It’s such a change from my usual wardrobe that I barely recognize myself in the mirror. Especially with my hair up and the way-more-than-usual makeup job.