Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (14 page)

        
-
Dreams try to be candid and truthful
.

        
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Try to accurately interpret the background material and present it forthrightly

        
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The driving force of dreams often comes from somewhere beyond the dreamer’s own life and experiences
.

Sounds like the collective unconscious again. She closed her eyes, contemplated what she’d read. So he’s theorizing that maybe one person’s psyche, or
personal
unconscious, connects with other people’s unconsciouses, somewhere beyond the bounds of the person’s own memories and experiences, a.k.a. the
collective
unconscious. So when I’m dreaming in REM sleep,
my
unconscious connects to the
collective
unconscious and
pulls thoughts or experiences from it into my
personal
unconscious, where I dream about them in some kind of format. But which thoughts does it pull in? And why those particular thoughts? How does it choose? And how does my personal unconscious know where to look in the collective unconscious? Wow. This is fun. I could think about it all day, and the best part is nobody really knows the answers for sure—all theory, wide open.

As Allie flipped to another page, her cell phone vibrated on the tabletop. It was her advisor; she had an unexpected opening; could Allie be there at 5:00 p.m. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be there. Thanks for working me in, and again, I apologize for missing this morning.” Great! What am I gonna show her? This oughta be good.

On the way to her meeting, Allie’s mind wasn’t on her dissertation. It was on the list of dream definitions she’d interpreted, paraphrased, and summarized from Goodwin’s book before leaving the library. She memorized it as she walked, wondering how she might use it to persuade her advisor to introduce her to a faculty member who knew something about dreams. She glanced at her watch—plenty of time—then sat down on the grass under a shady cottonwood tree. Nice grass, like that girl in the dreams sat on . . . she’s sure pretty . . . see her in my mind. She unfolded the notes, read down the column, penning parenthetical comments as she went.

        
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“Image” = how clear the dream images are
(very)

        
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“Scenario” = plot
(well defined)

        
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“Features” = characteristics
(very real)

        
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“Intensity” = strength of dreamer’s evoked feelings
(strong, like real life)

        
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Vividness = sharpness, brightness, amount of color, detail
(all very real)

        
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“Places” = where it happens
(real or movielike)

        
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“Persons” = who’s in the dream
(all unknown; but remember faces, what they said and thought, have smell & taste)

        
-
“Dialogue” = script
(understand languages I don’t know, full paragraphs, remember most)

        
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“Lucid” = dreamer knows they’re dreaming
(had these before)
—proven
(not sure if current dreams are lucid)

        
-
“Mutual” (“Lucid Dreaming,” by Waggoner) = dream experienced by multiple people
(scientifically proven)

        
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“Dreamlight” =amount of light or brightness
(like real life)

        
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“Dreamtime” = pace of a dream
(normal when dreaming, quicker time between dreams)

        
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“Frequency” = how often dreams occur
(multiple REMs, over days—so far)

        
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Several types of dreams

                
o
“Somatic” = related to the body = brought on by sleeping on arm or too hot
(no)

                
o
“Sensory” = stimulated by senses picking up external events
(no)

                
o
“Synchronicity” = coincidental with some occurrence in the external world
(no, at least not a current event)

                
o
“Revelatory” or “prophetic” = reveal something or foresee something
(History?? Maybe)

Damn, these are good, should make sense to an expert . . . better type in my comments when I get home. She stood, proceeded toward the psychology building at a brisk pace fueled by her new knowledge and the fact that someone, somewhere had thought about dreams and might be able to understand what was going on in her head . . . her brain-mind as Hobson called it.

Fifteen minutes later, Allie’s quick mind and articulate tongue convinced her advisor that she had an excellent start on her topic and knew precisely what to do to mature and congeal it into an exceptional research project, one with the potential to make not only a sound material contribution but also a big splash that could lead to an excellent starting position there or at some other prestigious university. The advisor’s excitement had a contagious effect on Allie, and when she walked out the door, she was virtually skipping on air, ready to take a casual stroll across the campus lake. The only non-euphoric moment had come when Allie told her advisor she wanted to incorporate a stress-related dreaming connection, with therapeutic potential, and wondered if the advisor could hook her up with whoever the most knowledgeable dream expert in the department was. She
had cleverly woven several of her newly learned definitions into what she thought was an intriguing, plausible theory on how to use dream therapy to relieve stress, but her hopes plummeted when the advisor immediately frowned. However, after contemplating for a moment, the advisor nodded several times, suddenly displayed a
why not
look, and called Dr. Gene Jackson, who had participated in a number of dream studies and was, therefore, the most dream-savvy professor in the department. She told Allie she thought Jackson was a Freudian traditionalist but had been exposed to other theories and concepts, and that Allie might benefit from a conversation with him. After a fifteen second phone chat with Jackson, she hung up. “You’re on at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow. Good luck. See you in a couple weeks. I’ll be away for a little fun next week.
You
have some fun, too. Okay?” She waved the next doctoral candidate into the office. “Bye, Allie. Good session.”

“I will. Thanks, ma’am. Have a good time. I appreciate your help.”

That evening, Allie met her former roommate, Andrea, for a couple beers and pizza. Andrea, who now lived with her boyfriend, mentioned that she’d run into Erik and he’d looked quite dejected; she wondered what was up with the two of them. Allie’s eyes teared as she told Andrea what had happened, how she missed him, thought she’d made a mistake.

Andrea replied, “Oh, Allie. I’m sorry. That really sucks. You must feel awful. Have you thought about telling him how you feel . . . maybe not right now, but in a week or so? He’s really a good guy, and I think—”

“Already have. He’s pissed. Needs to chill. So do I . . . do some thinking.”

Later Allie sat at her desk, eyes welling with tears; thought how she missed Erik, how she’d made a mess of things; then decided it was for the better, for the moment anyway. Andrea and Thomas had been different: they’d decided at the same time that they were in love and wanted to live together, talked about getting married in a year or so. Funny, she thought, the thought of Thomas’ name gave me a twinge for some reason . . . not for him but for someone else with that name. Who? Don’t know another Thomas . . . or do I? She thought for a moment, broached a sudden smile.
That’s right! One of them was a Thomas . . . the girl’s father. This is crazy. How can I remember that?

She visualized them outside their house, talking, hugging each other. They’d had a little fight. She shook her head. She’s a brash one . . . but gentle and kind. She saw the girl reading her mother’s letter in the candlelight, crying, holding her black locket. Damn! How can this be? You can’t remember stuff like this. What was her name? It ends in
y
. Eh . . . Eh . . . Em . . . Emily. That’s it. Emily . . . Emily what? Co . . . Co . . . Cole . . . Coleman. Yes! Thomas and Emily Coleman. Then she talked to the older guy, the one who died. She took a quick breath. Fear, compassion, sadness at once flooded her mind. He and his son . . . same name. Heard it a bunch. The son loves Emily. How can I know that? Jo . . . Jor . . . George. George . . .
H
something.
Master H
-something . . .
h-a
. . . ha . . .
h-e
. . . he. No.
h-i
. No.
h-o
. . . ho . . . sounds kinda like that, but different . . . ho-oooh . . . haow . . . how . . . Howe! That’s it. George Howe.

Damn it! Who
are
these people? What are they to me? Why am I dreaming about them? It’s nuts! In my mind, more and more, like when I saw
Braveheart
freshman year . . . stuck with me forever . . . such an emotional story, took months to go away. Always in my mind . . . like now. But I don’t want to dream about this anymore . . . it’s bad, scary, and more bad’s gonna happen . . . feel it . . . don’t want to see it.

She composed herself, closed her eyes, forced herself to relax. Emily . . . really pretty . . . not
glamorous
beautiful, not prissy or aloof, just striking . . . unbelievably striking. And that older guy—and young George—thought so too, couldn’t take his eyes off her. They talked . . . he’s putting the press on her . . . way older, more mature than George . . . had a tough life. How can I remember this? Not right! What’s his name? Starts with a
T
. She went to a website of English surnames, checked the
T
’s. There it is:
Tayler
. Hmm. Funny spelling. How about the first name? Can’t remember. Wasn’t a vowel. Wasn’t a common name either. She brought up a list of English first names, started with the
A
’s, was almost through the
H
’s. “Aha! That’s it:
Hugh
. Hugh Tayler. Wow! This is impossible!”

She stared at the desktop, tried to recapture an elusive thought that had teased her mind a second before. What was it . . . what was it? I know!
Where the hell
are
these people? Heard a place name bedsides England. What was it? Heard it a couple times. Not where they
are
but where they’re
supposed
to be, where they
want
to be . . . maybe. Damn it! What was it? Hard sound . . . like chih . . . chah . . . cheh. Yeah, like that. Cheh something. Hell, I don’t know . . . but I’m sure it was a
ch
sound. She opened an online encyclopedia, typed in
che
. The closest suggestion to what she remembered was
cheese
. Sounded kinda like that, but not quite. Maybe
ches
. She typed in
ches. Chesapeake
was at the top of the list. That’s it! Chesapeake! “Oh my God! It’s a real place.” Allie’s phone rang. Damn! “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Allie Girl. You sound excited.”

“I am. Real excited. I just found out something really cool.” Slow down, Allie. “Actually, it’s sorta complicated . . .”

“Something to do with your dissertation? Not surprised. Learning new things has always turned you on.”

“Yeah. It’s about the dissertation. But I’ll tell you about it next time we get together . . . when I can lay it out on a piece of paper for you . . . pretty cool stuff. So how’s Dad? And the bro’s?”

“All doing great. Had a bunch of sick calves the last few weeks, but we’re keeping up with the doctoring so far . . . knocking on wood. Been plenty wet, which is wonderful . . . had a few gnarly cattle drives because of it, but you know the rule.”

“Yes, I do.
Never
complain about moisture no matter how miserable you are.” Allie thought of her trail drive from hell when she was thirteen: big cow-calf herd, twelve miles uphill, temperature near freezing, alternately pouring rain and snowing all day—no letup, two layers of rain gear and chinks soaked through, shaking with onset hypothermia, hands too cold and wet to feel the reins, feet too cold and wet to feel the stirrups, never-ending. Just keep going, she’d told herself, be there soon, keep going, keep going, come on cows, move it out . . . “So what’s up? I’ve been really busy.”

“Well, you never called to tell me about Erik, and . . . well, I’ve been a little curious . . . but only if you want to talk about it. Don’t want to pry.”

Allie felt a pinch in her heart that now accompanied thoughts of Erik. “Not much to say, Mom. Had a helluva big fight . . . doesn’t matter what
about; you know me, fight to the death, take no prisoners. That’s pretty much how it was. So we’re not together anymore . . . at least not for a while. Sucks, big time.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Of
course
, I miss him! Sorry, didn’t mean to snap. I’m pretty sure I was falling in love with him, maybe still am. He’s a neat guy. I mean, you’ve only met him a couple of times, but he’s really a good man: great values, honest, kind, even gentlemanly, which is rare these days.” Tiny tears trickled onto her cheeks. “We may get back together . . . too soon to tell; but I know he feels the same about me, so maybe we have a chance. Need to give it some time. We’ll see.”