As the Muni took her downtown to her meeting with Jean and Phoebe, she wondered what she was going to tell Jean about her dreams. Phoebe was wrong—Jean would never believe her. Or worse, she would think Sara was crazy. Sara had no desire to deal with any of this. Maybe she could somehow put a spin on the story? Tell Jean she had a friend who was having Alice’s symptoms and ask her what she thought?
Alice’s symptoms… Last night’s dream bothered Sara. If Alice was hearing the voice of her dead father, what was the reason? Maybe it was something that ran in the family—dreaming about dead people. Either that or insanity. Could it be she had more in common with Alice than she thought?
Sara was the last one to arrive at the restaurant. Phoebe embraced her warmly, while Jean, not quite sure how to greet her, awkwardly did the same. After the initial catching-up and ordering of food, a nervous silence settled between them.
“So, Sara,” Jean started, “uh, Phoebe here tells me you’ve been having some strange dreams.”
Sara wished for some dark hole to open up so she could disappear into it, preferably for a long hibernation. She glared indignantly at Phoebe, who shrugged.
“I figured I’d help you out, get the ball rolling… I called Jean after you left Santa Monica. I may have filled her in on like, everything,” Phoebe said.
“Right. Thank you.” Sara could barely contain her annoyance; the warm feelings from just minutes before quickly evaporated. “Look, Jean,” she said with a pained smile, “I know how this must sound… I have no good explanation for it either. I don’t think I’m crazy, though…”
“I never said you were,” the older woman answered calmly.
“Right. You didn’t. You must think it, though.”
“Why?”
“You’re a doctor. Is it normal to have dreams about the past, about dead people’s lives?”
Jean did not answer immediately. “No,” she said eventually, “it’s unusual. But Phoebe says you’ve had this happen before and your dreams turned out to be true. So you’re either a liar, or delusional—in which case you believe your own stories—or you’re telling the truth. I don’t think you’re the first, and of the two remaining choices, I prefer to believe the latter. If you’re delusional, I’m sure we’d notice it sooner or later anyway.” Jean was staring again, as if she could assess Sara’s sanity through sheer scrutiny.
Sara fought the urge to take cover under the table. “Jean, could you blink when you look at me—so I know you’re human?”
Jean’s mouth twitched, and she obediently blinked a few times.
“I can’t prove them,” Sara continued. “My dreams, I mean.”
Jean waved her concerns away. “There are lots of things we can’t prove. Even in the medical field I’ve seen a miracle or two, so to speak. Just because you can’t prove something doesn’t always mean it’s not there.” She placed her hand on Sara’s. Her skin was cool and dry, and her touch felt oddly reassuring. “Why don’t you let me worry about what I can or can’t believe and fill me in on your dreams. Phoebe says they’re fascinating.”
Sara took a deep breath. Then she pulled out her laptop, and one by one, retold her dreams, ending with the one from the previous night, which was also new to Phoebe. “That’s it,” she concluded. “So far.”
Jean’s forehead was creased. “And you wonder what was going on with Alice, right? She was thin and pale? Suffering from cramps, you said? Menstruation-related? Or gastrointestinal? Do you know?”
“No. I don’t. I assumed it had to do with her stomach. But I guess it could be one or the other.”
“That’s broad. What else? Joint pain. Tremors. Headaches. She seems a little paranoid, perhaps—with hallucinations, hearing her dead father. Did I forget anything?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I noticed.”
“It’s a huge list of symptoms,” Jean said. “For a differential diagnosis, that leaves us with a plethora of possibilities. She can’t have been much older than thirty, which isn’t that old for us, but back then, people died much younger. Based on what you told me, I’d consider an autoimmune disease, cancer, mental illness, ingestion of some sort, like heavy metals—just to name a few. It’s notoriously difficult to make diagnoses based on symptoms described that many years ago. You said she was taking laudanum?”
“She was, in 1901, at least. But later I’m pretty sure she managed to come off it. I don’t think the laudanum was related to her symptoms.”
“Laudanum is an opium tincture. It helped with pain, cough, diarrhea—you name it—the doctors were not stingy, I suspect, as they had few other treatment options. Apparently, in Alice’s case, it was also the drug of choice after miscarriage. But laudanum didn’t cure anything, and addiction was a real problem.”
“Bummer,” Phoebe said. “I’d hoped you could just tell us what she had.”
“Sorry. It’s intriguing, though.”
“She seemed to think William killed her baby,” Sara said.
“Was he abusing her? We don’t know, but you’d think Julia would be aware of that. Julia clearly thought it was a miscarriage. Keep in mind, the woman who’s claiming he killed her baby is also hearing her dead father.”
Sara flinched inwardly. Hearing dead people was not a trait that instilled confidence.
“This is all very unsatisfying,” Phoebe complained. “I guess you’ll just have to dream up more clues, Sara. I keep thinking there’s more to this. Maybe William ran off with Julia. Or a murder—away with the wife.”
“But they both died in the same year,” Sara said. “No one picked the fruits of Alice’s death, so please, stop talking about murder. I really don’t need any more terrifying dreams. Besides, they don’t come on command. Sometimes I just dream the same dream over and over again. And the dreams have never shown me the answer before. I’ve always had to figure it out.”
“Okay, I’ll let it go.”
“Besides, I’ve got other things to worry about. My apartment lease ends in four days, and unless David remembers he has a girlfriend, I need a different place to stay.”
“He still hasn’t called? Seriously?”
“No,” Sara said, dejected.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should call his mother.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Give it a try. You’re always welcome to stay with us for a while,” Phoebe offered. “It’s up to you. I’d love to have you. That is, after you talk to David. I think you need some answers.”
Despite their inability to diagnose Alice’s illness, they had a good time that afternoon. Sara had to admit—grudgingly—that Phoebe’s indiscretion had actually worked out well. She now understood what Phoebe had meant about overstepping personal boundaries; keeping secrets was not one of her strongest qualities. But it was hard to stay angry with her—Phoebe’s bubbly and outgoing personality contained very little, if any, malice. Before parting, they decided that they should get together soon for a weekend at Phoebe’s place.
Later that evening, fed up with David’s childish behavior, Sara picked up the phone and dialed his number. Again it went straight to voicemail. This time she left a different message, saying she was worried, and if he didn’t call her back by tomorrow, she would call his mother. His mother was a fierce woman, and if he acted like a jerk, she would have no restraint in telling him so.
Ten minutes later, her phone rang. A picture of David flashed on the screen. She picked up, her heart pounding in her chest. “Hi. You finally called back.”
His voice was gruff. “Yes, well, I don’t necessarily want you explaining things to my mother. But I guess you knew that.”
“Yeah. I did. But I also wanted to know you were all right.”
“I’m doing great. Can I go now?” The tone of his voice startled her. He was angry. She had seen him irritated before, maybe even a little pissed off, but this was a completely different David.
“David? What’s wrong? What did I do? I called�
�you never called back. Why are you acting so weird?”
“Me? Weird? That’s rich coming from you. Seriously. You know, I thought I could trust you.”
“You can trust me—what do you mean?”
“I saw you, Sara. I saw you with that guy, in front of your apartment. It looked very cozy. I trust you two have been getting along?”
“What?” Sara felt like a bomb had just gone off in her head. “You mean Sid? That was not—that wasn’t what it looked like.” Her cheeks were burning; she was glad they were on the phone.
“I don’t know any Sid. It was the dude with the ponytail. You were kissing. That’s what it looked like.”
“He kissed me.” It wasn’t the greatest defense, but it was all she had. “Not the other way around. I was—taken by surprise. It took me a moment to react, but I broke it off.”
“A moment? That was a long moment. I left.”
“It didn’t seem that long to me.” Panicked, she thought back. Certainly not minutes—seconds, maybe. But how many seconds? “I stopped him, sent him on his way, and I haven’t seen him since.”
David stayed silent.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in San Francisco?” Sara asked.
“I wanted to surprise you. And I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I flew out there, and this is what I got.”
“Oh, David, that’s… that’s so sweet. I’m so sorry. I only went to dinner with him because I was alone, and you didn’t call, and I needed some company. It was supposed to be just that—dinner.” She sighed. “Obviously I shouldn’t have gone. It was stupid. Look, I like him—Sid, I mean. He’s fun to hang out with. But that’s it. He means nothing. I’m in love with you—not Sid.” There, she had said it. The dreaded four-letter word. She closed her eyes, waiting for his response.
It didn’t come.
“David?”
“I need to think.”
“I understand,” she said, resigned to the fact that this was now out of her control. “How much time do you need? My lease ends in four days. Can you at least let me know if you want me to come back?” The moment she said it, the finality of it rang in her ears. If only there were a way she could un-say it.
David was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Sara,” he said. “Seeing you with that guy… Plus you’ve been acting… different.”
“I’ve been going through a lot of stuff.”
“I believe you. But I think there’s a whole lot of stuff you’re not telling me.”
“Maybe I’d have told you if you’d been here.”
“We’ve been over this. And I was there, remember? Look, just—just give me some time.”
“Okay.”
“Talk soon.”
“Bye.”
She stared miserably at the phone in her hand. That had not gone the way she thought it would. Their relationship so far had been effortless, for the most part. Spending almost every day together, they couldn’t get enough of each other. And now they did nothing but fight. A little voice inside her head reminded her that she carried much of the blame this time. Her face grew hot again as she considered what David must have thought when he saw her with Sid that night. If she had seen David with another girl, she would have been devastated—and yes, angry.
Sara retreated to her bedroom. Her heart felt like it had shrunk to the size of a walnut, squeezing out stabs of pain that reverberated through her entire body. The thought of losing David was too much to bear. She took one of the sleeping pills she had left, sending gratitude to the doctor who had prescribed them last year. Hugging her pillow tightly, she waited for her brain to disconnect and stop telling her she was a complete idiot.
Chapter 14
The next day, with the sound of screeching tires and crushing metal still fresh in her ears, Sara tackled the remainder of her apartment. Moving mechanically, she packed up boxes and divided her possessions into two groups—storage or donation. It took her most of the morning. Then she loaded up her car and drove back to the storage unit. Ignoring the number of boxes already in the unit, she crammed the new ones in, leaving barely any space to move around. On her way out, she closed the door with a determined slam, locking everything away, out of sight. Hopefully the “out of mind” part would follow.
After a quick trip to the donation center, she went back to her apartment. She surveyed the almost empty space. The few things that were left she could load into her car and drive back to… She sank to the floor, leaning her back against the empty kitchen cupboards. Back to where? Dunnhill? That would probably make the most sense. But then what? She didn’t understand. Why had she allowed her and David’s relationship to start unraveling? Was it just her? Or was it both of them?
After putting on some coffee, in the hope that it would clear her mind and warm her up, she lay down on the bed. It was either that or sit on the floor, since there were no more chairs or sofa. Late afternoon sunlight peeked in through the blinds. A little self-conscious, she pulled the comforter over her—she really should be outside and taking a walk or something instead of hiding under the covers. But her bed was so comfortable. She closed her eyes. Maybe just a short nap. Just for a minute, then she would get up…
The first thing Sara notices is the smell. It’s like being near a campfire, but worse. The room around her is dim. Smoke is drifting in from underneath a closed door. She can vaguely make out a shape lying on the bed.
Something is roaring, like a hungry beast, toward the bedroom. Things are breaking, snapping, falling. The place is unnaturally hot, even to someone who grew up in Los Angeles. Sara fights the scalding air, her throat constricting, needles in her lungs.
Someone is coughing, the sound barely audible over the roar. The shape on the bed is stirring, lifting itself up. With visible effort, it rolls off the bed. Then it stops moving.
“Don’t stop!” Sara wants to yell. Opening her mouth, she finds her tongue won’t cooperate; it’s like a piece of leather, dried out by the hot air. She wants to do something—open the door, help this person escape. But her feet are glued to the rug she stands on. For a few agonizing moments, she is forced to wait. Then, to her relief, she sees the shape moving again. Clawing, crawling, making its way to the door.
The progress is too slow, the movements too weak. This person is bound to fail. They are both gasping for air, each breath lacking the oxygen they need. As the shape creeps closer, Sara sees a flash of long, red hair—a hint of color in the grey room.
Struggling to stay upright, Sara loses track of time. The woman on the floor is slowly giving up her fight. Sara watches in despair until there is no more movement—just a still body, surrounded by a room in constant activity. There’s a loud crash and something collapses. The beast has entered. Orange light dances, throwing shadows on the woman’s face, her features frozen for eternity, her hair glowing as if caught in the sunset. Red tongues shoot up, licking the walls, eating the floor. It’s only a matter of minutes now, seconds perhaps, before the room and everything in it will be devoured.
Sara looks around, her heart pounding in her chest. She can hardly think. In vain, she lifts her arms in front of her face to keep the heat from singeing her skin. She needs to get out. But how? The floor cracks and the bed disappears. The triumphant flames claim their prize, roaring in victory.
Giving up hope, Sara sinks down, hugging her knees against her face. Rocking back and forth, she screams silently against the fabric of her pants. Then her ears pick up a new sound. Through all the hissing and howling, Sara hears a muffled ringing. It’s familiar. With all her will, she focusses her mind on the beeping noise. It grows louder and louder…
So loud! The fire alarm was blaring. Half awake, Sara managed to sit up. Smoke was everywhere. Coughing violently, she got up, walking in the direction of her front door. Unable to see, she walked with her arms outstretched, but ended up near the kitchen. It was so hard to breathe. Her head spun.
She took a few steps toward where she estimated her front door was locat
ed. The fire alarm was still blasting, hurting her ears. Finally her hands touched something. Wood. The door! She searched frantically for the handle. Where was it? There! The handle was there, in her hand. She pulled. It was locked.
She screamed silently at herself for her habit of locking doors. The lock, where was it? Why couldn’t she reach it? She was surprised to find that she was sitting on her knees. Fighting to stay alert, she stood up and searched for the lock again. Her fingers found metal. There it was! She unlocked it. Now press down the handle. Why was everything so dark? She needed to breathe. Just one more breath. Her knees buckled. Then there was nothing. Just darkness.
Chapter 15
“Sara? Sara! Wake up!” The man’s voice was far away, but it seemed to be getting nearer. Something hard was moving her. A whoosh of cold, fresh air blew in her face. She opened her eyes.
Someone was leaning over her. “Are you okay? Can you say something?”
“Who are you?” she managed to say in a croaking voice. She swallowed, making a painful expression. Her throat felt swollen and dry. The faint smell of smoke lingered in her nostrils.
“It’s Sid. Remember me? Your fire alarm was going off. It looks like you passed out. What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”
“Hurt?” It took a moment for her mind to clear. “No. Not hurt. There was a fire.”
She could make out Sid’s face now, hovering over her. His expression was uncharacteristically serious.
“Is anything hurting?” he asked again. “You were in front of the door. I had to move you a bit.”
A Dose of Deadly Intentions Page 8