Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (35 page)

Dressler’s jaw dropped. He nodded, tried to continue but couldn’t, stared blankly at Allie. His brain muddled with sympathy as he watched her struggle with her tears, waited for her to control them. “I was also going to tell you that dissertation committees look very askance at candidates who want to change their topics, and frequently disapprove such requests, but I guess that point’s irrelevant now. So the last reality is that the university has
a structured process for choosing major research assistants, and there are already no less than ten applicants for the assistant position, several with doctorates and considerable experience in hand. It’s a tough, qualified field.”

Allie’s emotions ricocheted like a golf ball, hard-pitched into a tile shower. “But what if you told them you wanted
me
?”

“That would certainly help, but there are other factors involved that I’m not at liberty to discuss.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her how the selection process would wreck her privacy, perhaps her life. “Suffice to say, we’re dealing with a committee of stodgy, political, egotistical, career academicians—like me—who have a favorite in the selection process and are already out lobbying for them. And I see I’ve completely disappointed you and ruined your day.”

“You’re right, Doc. But it’s partly my fault. My expectations were too high, and I didn’t do enough homework on the process. And now I’m going to cry.” The tears rolled down and off Allie’s cheeks. “Sorry,” she blubbered, “it’s not your fault. Don’t feel sorry for me.”

Dressler blinked at her use of the word
Doc
—his ex-wife had called him that. Then a wave of compassion for Allie’s anguish struck like a strong gust of wind; he wanted to hold her close, console her, but knew he couldn’t, knew he’d done the right thing; wanted to tell her his game plan, decided against it. Don’t want to raise her hopes, he thought, too much of a longshot. “So, Allie . . . may I call you Allie?”

She nodded as she rubbed tears from her eyes.

“I can’t tell you what I plan to do, but I’ll tell you this: your dreaming capabilities are worth more than all the other candidates in this game combined, and I’m going to spend the night reviewing your package in greater detail and—”

Allie immediately bubbled with excitement, sniffling as she whipped the folder containing her detailed proposal and attachments from her backpack and handed them to him. “Sorry to interrupt, Sir. Here’s the detailed version. Lots more meat. It’ll help.”

He took the package, thought how amazingly prepared she was. “Thanks. I’ll do my review and some serious thinking, get back to you sometime tomorrow afternoon. But please don’t get your hopes up; the
odds are slim . . . and I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I know you’re excited about this . . . so am I, but . . . oh, you mentioned you were okay with getting wired up and being in a sleep lab, but we also, on occasion, use drugs to induce sleep and extend REM sleep—completely safe stuff and under very controlled circumstances. Would you be okay with that, as well? There
can
be side effects with these things, but they—”

Allie nodded. “Sure, but why did you ask me that if I’m probably not going to be involved?”

“Just needed to know your feelings on the subject. Please don’t read anything into it. Some folks don’t want anything to do with the drugs and—”

I do, thought Allie. “I’d be fine with that . . . but who would write the prescriptions?”

“I would. The state just authorized psychologists to write prescriptions, and”—he looked at his watch—“ oh . . .”

Allie immediately stood, extended her hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

As he rose and pressed his palm against hers; he felt a warm rush, thought how honest her grip was, how soulful and genuine she herself was.

I like him, Allie thought. He really wants to do this, but he’s worried about something; has an idea pinging around in his head, some plan to make it happen. Trust him, Allie. Lord, please let it be.

He walked her to the door, where she stopped and faced him.

“Thanks, Dr. Dressler. I really appreciate your listening to me . . . and thinking about all this. I know it’s way out there, but everything I’ve told you is true. These dreams are possessing me, and I need your help to understand and control them. Hope you can find a way to make it work. Thanks again.” She stared silently into his eyes, again saw the flicker of sadness, wondered what it was.

“You’re welcome, Allie. I’ll give it a good shot. Thanks for sharing something so personal with me.” He couldn’t pull his eyes from hers, had sensed the desperation in her voice. He thought how much he liked her, warmed to the thought of working with her but felt a lump of intimidation in his throat when he thought about the challenge ahead.

“Oh, Doc. Can you answer a question for me? Do people in comas dream?”

“Some do, some don’t, but I can’t tell you why. Why do you ask?”

“Emily may be in a coma . . . actually, I
hope
she’s in a coma. So if people in comas do dream, are there REM and NREM periods?”

“Perhaps, but possibly more random and of unusual lengths because the trauma that caused the coma could induce a neuronal imbalance that would cause one population of neurons to dominate another for an abnormally long time.”

“Makes sense. That’s Hobson isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. Very good.”

“Well, that helps. So ’bye, and thanks again.” She turned, walked out the door and down the hall.

He followed her out, watched her as she waited for the elevator; relished the thought of working with someone with such an amazing gift, resolved to find a way, but again felt a twinge of uncertainty about the prospects.

As the door opened, she looked back at him, smiled, waved, then stepped inside.

Nancy answered the phone. “Hi, Allie Girl. How’d it go?”

“Uh, kinda good, kinda bad.” Allie told her the details. “So I think he’s really jacked about the proposal, but he’s worried about how to pull it off, didn’t seem real hopeful—lots of school politics, personalities, all the usual BS. So I’m not holding my breath.”

“Well, have faith. Do some praying. I have a feeling it’s going to happen. By the way, did you dream last night?”

Allie’s tenuously risen spirits plunged as she saw Emily lying dead by the stream, thought of the Viking dream. “Yeah. I did, Mom.”

“Well?”

Allie told her what she’d seen, articulated her theories, her confusion, told her she needed a longer dream session to figure it out, then said she’d call again after she heard from Dressler.

At ten p.m., Allie dressed for bed. She pulled the comforter over her, stared at the ceiling; relived the day’s emotional extremes, realized she was mentally drained, void of emotion; prayed for Steven Dressler to find a way . . . and for Emily Colman to live.

When the Viking ship appeared, Allie was lucidly aware she’d seen blackness for a long time, and though asleep, sensed that she was in a new dream.

The sleek-looking ship pitched and rolled its way through the ocean swells with the grace and agility of a much larger ship. Bjarni sat in his rowing position eating some kind of dried fish while Tryggvi, the determined-looking man who had been at the prow, now stood at the stern, his arm draped over the tiller, talking to another man. Both had ruddy complexions, light brown hair, and blue eyes; the new man was taller and thicker than Tryggvi, perhaps six years older, and had a rough, menacing, less intelligent look about him.

With the index finger of his free hand, Tryggvi pointed at a line on the roughly sketched animal-hide map he held in the fingers of his tiller hand. “So, Hefnir, when you and—”

Allie awoke to her cell phone ringing beside her, fumbled for it, knocked it off the bedside table onto the floor, found it after the last ring. She didn’t recognize the number, glanced at the clock—11:59 p.m. Checking her voicemail, she heard Dressler’s voice; her excitement surged like a racehorse breaking from the starting gate. She hit
redial
and
talk
, flipped her hair out of her face, then rubbed her eyes with the backs of her fingers.

When Dressler answered, she said groggily, “Hello . . . Dr. Dressler?”

“Allie . . . whoops. Sounds like I woke you up. I’ll call you in the—”

“No. It’s okay. I’m awake. I heard your call, but I dropped the phone.” She popped upright in the bed, eyes wide with anxious anticipation.

“Were you dreaming?”

“Afraid so,” she said dejectedly.

“Not Emily, huh?”

“No. Vikings again. I’m depressed . . . and I have a feeling I’m about to be more depressed.”

“Well, I hope not. I’ve been looking at your package all night. It’s more amazing and exciting every time I read it. Allie, I can’t let you get away. Will you be my research assistant?”

Allie’s lips parted as she gasped; her bleary eyes sparkled. “But . . . but what about the committee and the dissertation topic and—”

“I’ll handle it. I’ve got a plan. I’ll make it work. Sooo . . .”

“Oh my God, yes, yes, yes. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank
me
. It’s
I
who need to thank
you
for showing up at this most poignant moment in my life. Can you come to my office at five thirty tomorrow afternoon?”

“Yes, yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

“Great, now go back to sleep . . . and find Emily. See you tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Doc. See you then.”

“Goodnight.”

When Allie’s heart stopped racing and her excitement subsided, she thanked God for convincing Dressler then fantasized about the exciting times ahead, saw herself dreaming in the lab, immersed in Emily’s life. But then the reality of her last dream supplanted her excitement, left her lying in bed with the same dreadful question squeezing her mind like a vice. Were the Vikings
Emily’s
dream or her own
new
dream? It’s life or death for Emily, she thought. I’ve got to know. She sprang out of bed, walked to the bathroom.

Damn it. I’m gonna find out. She opened the drawer that held her sleeping pills, removed two, shook her head: no, too much; she cut one in half, put the other half back in the bottle. Gonna dream until I know what’s happening. She figured one and a half pills would put her out for a good twelve hours without risk—maybe long enough for two or three additional REMs. She looked at her watch—12:10 a.m. “Plenty of time to un-grog before the meeting.” She swallowed the pills, walked into the bedroom, lowered the blinds. She then set her phone and clock alarms for 1:15 p.m., rolled under the comforter, and closed her eyes.