Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (32 page)

“Wow. Just wow! So she—my great-great-grandma Ian—dreamed history . . . just like me. This is wild.”

Nancy nodded slowly, knowingly. “Yes, it is.”

The knowledge of
not
being the only one to dream history both awed and excited Allie, made her wonder anew why and how it happened to only a chosen few—perhaps a mutation of some kind. She wondered if Ian had dreamed about Emily, about the Lost Colony, had seen what she’d seen— all now meaningless because of Emily’s death.

Emily’s brutal end suddenly reappeared in Allie’s mind; grief again numbed her senses. She sat, morose and misty-eyed, for several minutes processing her mother’s revelations, wondered what would happen next. “Mom, did Ian dream
real
history? Like, were her dreams
validated
somehow?”

But before her mother could reply, Allie shook her head briskly. She said, “Wait, Mom. Don’t answer that. I’m trying to get my head around this, and I’m being confusing. What I mean is: there’s the basic historical events, and then there’s all the stuff that happened to individual people, like their feelings, their loves, their hates, all the behind-the-scenes, interpersonal stuff that actually
made
the history happen. Like, how could
any
historian ever know or validate that stuff? And how could Ian or I ever know if what we dreamed was true or just vivid imagination? Do you see what I’m saying?”

The color drained from Nancy’s face like the pink of a dissipating cloud at sunset. “I
do
see what you’re saying, but I don’t know the answer.”

“Mom, you don’t look so good. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine”

She could read her mother like a well-worn book. “You haven’t told me everything, have you, Mom? You’re holding something back again. I feel it.”

Nancy shook her head. “No, Hon. Honestly! That’s all I know.”

Allie shook her head in frustration. “Did she tell you where the dreams come from? Or why every four or five generations? Seriously, it sounds like a fantasy tale, or sci-fi or something.”

“No, she didn’t, and I don’t think she knew.”

“But what about the accuracy thing? Did she ever say if the dreams were true or not?”

“She . . . she . . . yes!” Nancy admitted. “She told me they were
absolutely
true, and . . . and . . .”

“Damn it, Mom!
And
what
?
Tell me, for God’s sake. And how did she know?”

Nancy bit her lower lip, considered her response, held her daughter’s hands, then nodded slightly, continuously until she spoke. “Allie, we’re not dealing with known science here. All we’ve got is what an old, old woman told a little, little girl a long, long time ago. No one’s ever asked a shrink or a dream expert about it, and I don’t have the answers, so I honestly can’t tell you how she knew they were real.”

Allie looked away for a moment. “Well, Mom, where does it end? I mean, do the dreams go on forever? Will I spend my whole life watching history unfold and seeing people I’ve come to love suffer and die? And when it gets to be too much, will I finally have a nervous breakdown and shoot myself, or go permanently crazy and get put away in a nuthouse? Will I, Mom? Is that what happens?”

Nancy spun away from her daughter, covered her mouth with her hand. “I . . . I don’t know, Allie.”

“Mom, what’s wrong? Something bad happens with these dreams doesn’t it? And you know what it is, and you’re not telling me . . . because it’s something you’re deathly afraid of.” She hugged her mother, laid her head on her shoulder, felt her shudder as she cried. “It’s okay, Mom. I know you’re not telling me for my own sake . . . but, Mom, I’m so afraid. Help me. Tell me what you know.”

Nancy squeezed Allie to the limits of her strength while her conscience screamed at her to tell Allie
all
she knew, but the consequences forbade it. “Allie, Hon, what would you think if we went to see someone who knows about this stuff, tell them about your dreams, about Great-Grandma Ian, everything . . . before it’s too . . . too . . .”

“Before it’s too
late
! That’s what you were gonna say, isn’t it? So something bad
does
happen.”

Allie pulled her mother close, felt her tremble, felt like the two of them were suddenly adrift on a tiny raft on the open sea. “Mom, I want you to stay with me. I’m scared . . . scared of what might happen when I go to sleep . . . also scared of what might
not
happen. Do you understand what I mean?

Nancy nodded.

“The dreams—
these
dreams—have taken hold of me, pulled me in, made me part of them by making me part of Emily, almost like I’m her. But now she’s dead, and I don’t know what’ll happen when I sleep. Will I dream again, see her lying dead, her head smashed like George Howe’s, or see her being buried? Or will the story go on without her? Or will I dream another history dream, or just some dumb normal dream, or nothing at all? Hold me tighter, Mom. I’m afraid.”

Drowning in compassion, Nancy held Allie close, swayed her back and forth in a gentle, metronomic motion as she had when she was a little girl.

Finally, Allie said, “Mom, I have to leave. I have to go to a lecture. It’s by a famous dream research psychologist—Dr. Steven Dressler—and I have a meeting with him afterward. If I get the chance, I’m going to tell him everything that’s happened. Maybe he can help . . . but on the other hand, since Emily’s dead and the dreams are probably over, maybe I should just forget about it.” She felt her mother tense, her mind racing, knew what she was about to say.

“No, Allie! You get your ass to that lecture! And you tell him every damn thing you know . . . everything!” She pushed Allie to arms’ length, held her shoulders, glared into her eyes with a desperate, fearful look, and prayed that Steven Dressler could explain the dreams, how to preclude their inevitable, dreadful consequences. “Do you understand?”

Allie’s excitement pushed her grief to the back of her mind. She couldn’t think of a time in recent memory she’d been so stoked. She’d read Steven Dressler’s biography three times, agreed with Dr. Jackson that he had all the right tools for leading-edge dream research. Then in his talk, he’d mentioned all of the dream theories and terms she’d read about; and by the time he was halfway through, she’d decided she
had
to meet him, even if Emily
was
dead and the dreams over. But his summary comments invigorated her like a transcendental revelation; he spoke his conviction that dreaming’s governing science lay hidden in some yet-to-be-discovered combination of the concepts he’d presented and that his task as the university’s endowed chair would be to formulate governing hypotheses and subject them to conclusive experimentation. Wow, she thought, this is for me.
I’m
going to play a pivotal role in his discoveries. Not sure how I’m going to lead
him
to that conclusion; but damn it, I’m gonna do it.

As she stood and applauded with the audience, Allie fantasized about the future. Dressler had been relaxed, casual, affable, displayed none of the self-exalting peremptoriness she’d witnessed in so many academics. Rather, he’d exuded a straightforward, honest sincerity, her type of sincerity, and it had ignited a burning determination to know and assist him. But as she worked her way down the row of seats to the aisle, dream logs in hand, a shock wave of intimidation hit her like a blow to the head. Jeez, O’Shay! Just who the hell are you that you think you’re gonna dance right up to a world leader in dream research and say, “Hi, I’m Allie O’Shay. You don’t know me yet, but I’m here to guide you to the penultimate discovery of dream science, be your mystifying keystone of success, the one who leads you to the Nobel Prize.”

Yeah, right! Okay, now I’m nervous. My God, she thought, he’s gonna think I’m nuts when I tell him about the dreams and how I feel about Emily. A flash of Emily lying dead near the stream on Roanoke Island wisped through her mind; but she again blocked the vision of her battered, bloodied arms and head, winced as a sudden spit of pain knifed its way through her excitement and into her heart. She quickly supplanted the vision with one
of Emily alive, laughing, joking with George, sparring with Hugh Tayler, verbally jabbing her father.

As she walked toward the podium, two thoughts suddenly hit her: she’d had a series of incredible dreams, perhaps such as no other living person had ever had; and if she
was
, in fact, unique, Dressler might actually see her as the valuable linchpin she believed herself to be. Yes, she thought. That’s it. That’s my selling point, my
only
selling point, unless he cares that I’m reasonably intelligent, have a probing mind and common sense, apply myself like no other, and . . . oh yeah, am decent looking. But you better put it across the right way, Allie, or it’s dead on arrival. Okay, go for it!

She walked up behind a woman who was talking to Dressler, her deportment that of a professor. While she waited, she studied Dressler: decent looking guy, almost handsome; about six feet, early forties; slightly oval head, proportional features; nice brown hair, slightly long and pushed back, no gray, vivid green eyes; decent build and shape for an old guy; looks confident, but who wouldn’t with his credentials?

The professor said, “Well, thanks, Steven, looking forward to it. See you soon.”

As the woman turned away, Allie wondered if she’d asked him for a date. She walked up to Dressler, looked him in the eyes, forgot what she was going to say.

He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Steven Dressler. How are you today?”

Allie felt like she’d just swallowed a softball. “Uh, hi, Sir, I’m, uh . . . I’m Allie O’Shay. I think Dr. Jackson talked to you about me?” It was more of a question than a statement. “I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Oh, yes. Glad you said your name.” He snickered. “Dr. Jackson couldn’t remember it, but he described you perfectly.” He stared silently and deeply at her for a long moment then continued. “He said you wanted to ask me some questions related to your dissertation. How can I help?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about dreams . . . actually some dreams I . . .” Slow down, Allie, ease into it.

“Whoa, let’s back up a minute. Why don’t you give me a quick rundown on your dissertation proposal. Dr. Jackson said you have a very interesting dream aspect to it, but it would be helpful to know the overall context.”

Uh oh, she thought, what did I tell Jackson? Damn! Flushed it after I talked to him. Stupid twit, why didn’t you anticipate this? Pull it out, Allie. The group of people behind her waiting to speak to Dressler annoyed her, amplified her stress, gridlocked her mind like a car stuck in a traffic jam. After an awkward silence, she blurted, “Well, it’s about melding psychology and science to help people cope with severe stress, so they can become motivated contributors to society. And the dream connection—”

“Wait a sec. Tell me more about what you mean by melding psychology and science.”

Allie’s brain felt mired in thick, nearly dry concrete. “Well . . . uh. . . hope I don’t offend you, but I’ve always thought clinical psychology was far too clinical and egocentric, and that a larger dose of science would make it more focused and effective. And the dream part—”

“You’re headed right up my alley . . . Allie.” He smiled. “Excuse the pun.” He glanced at the group of people waiting behind her. “I have a thought. Why don’t we continue this in a better setting . . . perhaps tomorrow afternoon? I’m
very
interested in what you have in mind, but I really should have a word with these folks behind you before we’re kicked out of here.” He pulled out a pocket calendar, flipped it open to a paper-clipped page, and glanced at it for a second. “Can you come to my office at two tomorrow?”

“Sure. I mean . . . yes, sir.” She looked into his eyes, shaped a feeble smile, nodded repeatedly, as if nods substituted for the words she couldn’t find. Finally, she said, “Thanks . . . uh . . . oh, by the way, I really enjoyed your lecture . . . the one last year, too. And sorry for taking so much of your time. See you tomorrow.”

“Great.”

As she turned and walked away, he looked at the next person in line. “Hi, I’m Steve Dressler.”

Well, Allie thought, you blew that one big time—klutz. Ever talk to anyone important before? Sensing imminent tears, she darted into the ladies’ room, looked in the mirror as the flood started down her cheeks, then noticed she’d worn an old t-shirt, cutoffs, and a pair of thongs to the lecture. Oh my God, you idiot! Probably thinks you’re a flake or something
worse. Where’s your frickin’ head, O’Shay? Buried in a pile of horse shit, that’s where.