Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (49 page)

He put his fist over his mouth, coughed, coughed again. “Well, the truth is, I can’t tell you.” Guilt inundated his mind as he thought of the compromise of professional integrity he’d committed to gain the support of the female professor Allie had twice seen him with. But there’d been no other way, he’d reasoned—the selection of his assistant had been imminent, and the research committee had settled on a favorite and lacked only a confirmation vote. No, without her support, he could never have swung the vote in Allie’s favor; and Allie was the Holy Grail, the linchpin, the once-in-a-century opportunity to achieve the breakthrough he now believed was within reach. Besides, he thought, Dr. Melinda Harvey—wild, sexually breathtaking Melinda Harvey—had approached
him
, rather than the other way around, about growing the relationship they’d begun with their torrid, one-night fling the year before; and though he hadn’t wanted a deeper relationship and felt conspicuously deceitful about using her, he’d agreed in silent exchange for her support. It had worked, and now he had to honor his commitment, which he knew would be pleasant at first but become increasingly difficult with time because he didn’t love her and knew his carnal passions would cool. Then there’s Allie, he thought—Allie
the person
; her growing emotional entwinement with Emily and the dreams is consuming her in a worrisome way that scares me because of where it might lead. Something bad happened to her great-great-grandmother because of
her
dreams; and even though I barely know Allie, I don’t want—can’t
allow—
the same thing to happen to her.

Allie’s eyes probed deeply, piercingly. “Okay . . . but whatever you did, thanks . . . thanks very much.” Thin, grateful tears glossed her eyes.

“My pleasure, Allie. I’m really glad I’ve gotten to know you . . . and not just because of your incredible dreams . . . you’re a neat young lady.”

Allie was on her way to the pharmacy when a tantalizing, but disconcerting, thought nibbled its way into her mind, made her heart race with mischievous anticipation then pound with the same guilt she’d felt when she lost her virginity—a wonderful, whimsical breath of serendipity that told her to go home and make a copy of the prescription so she’d have Dr. Dressler’s signature and his penned ID number to forge prescriptions for the drugs she’d need to increase her REM sleep. It would be easy to peel a few prescription sheets from the pad on his desk when he wasn’t looking, easier still to pen in the drug of her choice, his signature, and his ID. She cringed at the deceitfulness of it but quickly discarded her misgivings in favor of the excitement of knowing she’d be able to dream at will, be with Emily . . . if she were still alive . . . see her saga through to the end.

Allie pulled off the road, stopped the car, stared out the windshield. “And then what, Allie? Are you going to become an addict? Why are you doing this to yourself?” She flipped down the sun visor, looked at the picture of herself on her horse, pinned there with her favorite quote just below it:
To thine own self be true
.

“I’m already addicted to the dreams, can’t live without them, got to be with Emily.”

“Come on, Allie. You’re stronger than that. Your parents raised you better. You’re talking fraud, forgery, crimes. Don’t do it.”

“But I have to. It’s the only way . . . at least until we figure this out.”

“But by then it’ll be too late. Allie O’Shay will be no more. She’ll be a worthless, hopeless addict like all those sorry, lost souls you’ve pitied over the years. Don’t do it, Allie. It’s wrong!”

She U-turned, drove toward her apartment and her copy machine.

After picking up her sleeping pills, Allie returned to the apartment, glanced at her copy of the doc’s prescription. I can do this easy. She picked up a pen and wrote his signature. Not bad. She then pulled
Dreamlife
and
The Dreaming Brain
from the shelf, sat at the computer. Wonder what these guys say about increasing REM sleep. She started flipping through
Dreamlife
, stopped on a passage that caught her eye. She studied the passage for a moment. Hmm . . . basically says dreams are sometimes dangerous because they can simmer beneath the surface until they flare up and envelope us. An icy chill raced through her body. That’s me . . . and I’ve just started down the pathway to perdition. She trembled as she thought about her plan, stared across the room at the picture of her and her family at her college graduation, then shook her head as a hesitant tear rolled down each cheek. She sighed, rubbed her eyes, rationalized that perhaps the drugs wouldn’t be addictive.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Allie. You’re a fool for doing this.” She checked the time—only 7:30 p.m.—resumed her page scan. Better do this quick, need to dream.

At 8:30 Allie decided to quit, head for bed; she nodded as she reviewed her interpretations of the material she’d just read:

        
•
Background

                
o
Brain activity depends on number of neurons, their interconnections, and their level of excitation
—
20-100 billion neurons in the brain
.

                
o
Neuron = molecular structure—generates electrical signals— communicates its level of excitation to another neuron across a synapse

                
o
Waking state—aminergic system (neurons and their protein molecules [called amines]) dominates communication across synapses

                
o
Dreaming state—when the cholinergic system (neurons and their acetylcholine molecules) dominates communication across synapses

                
o
Thus, whether you’re awake or dreaming depends on whether the aminergic or cholinergic system dominates communication across synapses
.

▪
Aminergic dominance = waking state

▪
Cholinergic dominance = dreaming state

        
•
How to increase dreaming state/REM

                
o
Injection of acetylcholine accelerates onset and increases frequency & duration of REM sleep & dreaming
.

                
o
Get same effect by blocking acetylcholinesterase (stuff that breaks down acetylcholine to end dreaming state)—lets acetylcholine last longer— prolongs REM = more and longer dreaming

•
Drugs that do that:

                
o
Acetylcholine increasers and acetylcholinesterase blockers available as prescription drugs for myasthenia gravis, glaucoma, and other ailments—many choices
.

                
o
Pyridostigmine (acetylcholinesterase blocker) looks best

▪
Longer lasting than others—oral, time-release capsule

▪
All have lots of possible side effects—the usual stuff
.

▪
OD can cause severe illness, including muscle weakness
.

▪
Symptoms of excessive acetylcholine are many & ugly
.

▪
Addiction possible—read more

▪
Rx drug is Mestinon
.

Wow! Time release and all . . . maybe take a little extra, dream all night and morning, read more tomorrow, check the fine print. Meanwhile, to bed. She looked at the clock. Jeez, Allie, only been awake for a little over seven hours.

Her computer gonged to announce an incoming email.

Allie
,

        
Have to come see you tomorrow. Got to be at the ranch the next day
.

Will be at Jordan’s tonight. See you tomorrow AM, NLT 10
.

Love
,

Mom

Well, so much for sleeping late. She picked up the phone, dialed home. Damn it! She emailed because she knew if she called I’d tell her not to
come, didn’t want to argue about it. She’s on a mission, scared, something really bad. Damn it! No answer. Well, I can still get a good twelve hours . . . about one and a half pills? Yup.

She changed into her night clothes, walked into the bathroom, thought about Emily. What will I find? A pang of sadness tugged at her heart as she visualized Emily dead, face up on the beach, crabs and gulls picking at her beautiful eyes. A too-familiar wave of apprehension swept her mind like a fast-moving storm, left a gnawing fear in its wake. Lord, please let her make it . . . George and her father, too. Somehow, let them make it. God, I want her to live.

She looked at herself in the mirror, searched her eyes. “Who are you turning into, Allie O’Shay? You’re wrecking your life . . . don’t do it.”

She cut a pill in half, washed it down with a whole one. Hmm, maybe I can do the REM drug
and
some sleeping pills together. Better read more tomorrow. Birthmark itches bad.

She walked into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed, stared at the ceiling. Allie Girl, what’s gonna become of you?

Chapter 12

A
s the sun passed its zenith and slid toward the western horizon, a heavy, salt-fish smell permeated the narrow outer banks like morning mist. The measured roar of ocean waves breaking onto the eastern shore overwhelmed the soft swoosh of gentle waves from the sound as they lapped at Emily and Thomas Colman’s feet. They lay face down, motionless on the sand, small crabs skittering about on their bodies, gulls waiting patiently nearby for the imminent feast.

Emily stirred, rolled to her left side; the gulls flapped grudgingly into the air; the crabs scurried onto the sand. She looked down the shoreline with blurry, exhausted eyes, saw boards, pieces of rope, other debris littering the beach, nothing on the water. Sand covered her cheeks and forehead like grainy powder; and her hair was a tangled, sandy mop that hung down over her face as if she had just awakened from a weeklong sleep. So sticky and damp, she thought. She rolled right, onto her forearms, propped herself up, pushed the hair from her eyes, then looked to the left. “Father!” She pulled her knees under her, started to crawl toward him. “Father!” She pushed shakily to her feet, stepped toward him, staggered, dropped back to her knees, crawled the last yard. She pushed his shoulder. Nothing. Pushed again, harder. “Father! Wake up!” Is he breathing? She rolled him onto his back, wiped the sand from his face. His eyes were closed, face pale as the sand, chest flat and still. She snatched a fluffy gull feather from the sand, held it an inch from his nose and mouth, saw it flutter softly. Breathing. He’s alive. “Father! Wake up!” She pushed his shoulder again.

Thomas Colman opened his eyes, blinked twice. “Emily . . . where are we?”

She sighed, smiling weakly. “I don’t know, but . . . but we’re alive.” She kissed his cheek, closed her eyes; saw the seething black cauldron of water, she and her father clinging desperately to their board; saw herself pulling him back onto it when he’d passed out and slid off; kicking, screaming at him to hold on; saw herself slipping beneath the surface, exhausted, nearly drowning, refusing to surrender to the waves, grabbing the plank again; kicking, praying, fighting the evil water, her injured arm screaming in pain. She saw the lightning flash, the emptiness where George and the ship had been, remembered her scream, her desolate despair, her frantic cries. She raised her head, again looked up and down the shore, scanned for survivors. “George! George!” She cried softly, then wailed, shuddered; slowly lowered her face to the wet sand, dug her fingers into its soft, warm, claylike texture.