Authors: Davis Bunn
Elena swallowed. “Trevor Tenning.”
“Those two looked like they’d had grilled cockroaches for breakfast.” Vicki chuckled. “But word kept spreading. Our in-house techies have been going nuts. By midnight, the press conference was a viral phenomenon. An hour ago YouTube announced you had taken over the premier spot. Girl, you’ve had almost four million hits.”
“It isn’t me.”
“It is as far as my people are concerned. This is beyond big. My board will let you write your own check if you’ll do a book on this.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying? We have
no idea
where this is headed.”
Vicki went quiet. When she resumed, her tone had grown somber. “Keep a journal. Make careful notes. Plan on turning this into a book. People will want to know. That is, assuming there is a tomorrow.”
• • •
Two hours later, Rachel caught Elena just as she was leaving for class. “The press is demanding another conference.”
“But there wasn’t any dream last night. Was there?”
“Not that I’m aware. You’ve heard about Portugal?”
“Yes.”
“They feel like everything has changed as a result.”
“I don’t see what we can offer. We’ve already answered every possible question. They can air what they have on tape.”
“Trevor and the senator both agree with you.” Rachel gave an exasperated sigh. “The dreamers have asked for us to set up the online conference as you suggested.”
Behind the request she felt the pressure of future actions, one after the other, and yet she still had no sense of guidance or even of calm. “I need Jacob Rawlings to be involved.”
“He is not the world authority on dreams. You are.”
“His work made the initial connection among our colleagues.” Her voice echoed as she descended the concrete stairway leading to the parking lot. “Not to mention his own patient is one of the senior officials experiencing these dreams.”
“Who is that, by the way?”
“I can’t divulge names, sorry.”
Rachel sniffed. “All I know is, he publicly denounced your work before the professional world. He
insulted
you.”
“Not anymore.” Elena crossed the parking lot and beeped open her car door. “And having a second counselor participate can be very helpful in maintaining a steady course.”
“Very well.” Rachel’s voice turned brisk. “Reginald has managed to speak with all the dreamers. The best time for the online conference call would be six thirty tomorrow morning.”
Elena started her car and turned the AC on high. “I will make that work.”
“Reginald will send you an e-mail with instructions. Now then. I’ve received several urgent requests for one-on-one interviews.”
Elena slipped the car into gear. “No.”
“You are seen as the group’s official spokesperson. You are the recognized authority. People need a face they can put to this crisis. Someone who can help them understand—”
“I don’t understand any of this,” Elena replied. “Not the dreams or their purpose.”
“Then you will tell them precisely that,” Rachel replied.
“I already have.”
“They need to hear from someone who can discuss this in a logical, professional manner. You are the only one out there.” Rachel hesitated, then added, “Elena, please. They
need
you.”
• • •
Just before eleven, Elena entered a packed lecture hall. Every seat in the banked auditorium was taken. More students lined the rear wall and the side rows. The buzzing conversation abruptly cut off at her entry. As she climbed the two low stairs to the wooden platform holding the dais and the whiteboard, the rear doors opened once more and Reed Thompson entered, followed by the provost and Elena’s immediate superior, the head of the psychology department.
Elena set out her lecture notes, fighting the dreaded prospect of being fired once more. She stared at her hands as they rested on her carefully prepared sheets, and offered a silent prayer. She then bundled up her planned lecture and replaced the pages in her briefcase.
She put on as brave a face as she could muster and smiled at the class. “I can’t imagine what you would like me to discuss today.”
As soft laughter spread across the room, Elena used the
broadest pen and wrote on the whiteboard,
Dream Analysis.
She ignored the ripple of anticipation and went on, “Most of the leading figures in my field do not consider the analysis of dream content a valid science. Many psychologists tend to treat it with the same disdain as alchemy. I will discuss their objections another day. All I will say today is that Dr. Jacob Rawlings was until recently a leading opponent of dream analysis. He is in the process of changing his mind.”
A young woman in the second row raised her hand. Elena said, “Yes?”
“Is he as good-looking in person as he is on television?”
“I saw him yesterday,” another woman said. “He’s a major hunk.”
When the laughter died, Elena said, “We need to hold to a tone of professionalism. This is especially true with discussing dream analysis. Opponents will use any excuse to discredit the entire field. As I know from bitter experience.”
She swiftly filled the whiteboard with the standard table her colleagues used in dream analysis. “I suggest you take notes, as this will be covered in your exams.”
She knew she had adopted the coldly formal tone she had used in front of the cameras. It was a reflexive response to the three men standing by the rear doors. There was nothing she could do about it. As she wrote, she explained, “These are the two key models currently used in analyzing dream phenomena. This first row contains the most widely accepted breakdown of dream sequences: instigation, visual imagery, delusional belief, bizarreness, emotion, repressed memories, and uncovered meanings. The second row is the explanation offered through psychoanalysis, and the third row contains what is called activation-synthesis. This is a more recent approach, championed by professionals who seek to combine psychological and biological trends. So here we see under the heading, visual imagery,
the psychoanalyst would interpret this as a regression to sensory levels, while the activation-synthesists would describe this as an activation of higher or subconscious visual centers.”
Elena had long yearned to apply the rigor of her profession to a full scrutiny of dream analysis. For decades her colleagues had met in quiet corners at professional conferences and spoken of this only with a trusted few, knowing full well that if they went public, they would face the same derision and condemnation as she had known.
Forty minutes into the lecture, she asked for questions. A somber young man in the fourth row asked, “How do you explain these dreams on the news?”
She had known this was coming from the moment she wrote the first words on the board. Now that it was here, she found herself filled with a deep sense of calm resolve. “If you strip away all the sensationalism, what we are dealing with is known as foretelling. This concept is often met with derision among psychologists. The reason for this is simple. Virtually every long-term study of dreams has revealed that foretelling is far more common than previously recognized, particularly among people of strong faith. By this I mean people who pray regularly, are part of a community of believers, and study the Bible.”
She ignored the resulting buzz of conversation, cleaned her carefully prepared summary from the board, and wrote the name
Sigmund Freud
. “The father of modern psychoanalysis was an opponent of any notion of God. He restricted his view of human nature, and dreams, to two essential components, which he called simply ‘us and them.’ The body and the external world. The ego and the id. The individual brain and the outer environment. Freud saw dreams as an unconscious attempt by the mind to work through events and emotions that were imposed on it by the external world. Nothing more. He was vehemently opposed to any concept of a divine force at work. His rejection of religion was so
vicious that some contemporary analysts suggest it was actually a phobia. Freud wanted a dream state that was observable, subject to human analysis and control. To inject the divine into this meant there were things a scientist could neither predict nor analyze. So, as far as Freud was concerned, it simply did not exist.”
Elena capped her pen, set it on the podium, and finished, “With respect, I disagree. Freud’s severance of this link blinds us to a wealth of possibility and understanding. The evidence may be swept under the carpet. But the evidence is still there. The dream states contain remarkable insights into a linkage between the physical world and what lies beyond.”
She lifted her hand to block a hundred further questions and said, “Class dismissed.”
• • •
The three men moved against the tide heading for the exit. As they descended the stairs, one of the students who clustered around Elena asked, “What’s going to happen next?”
“I have no idea.”
“But one of the other dreamers, he’s saying things are going to get worse.”
“When was this?”
“I saw it on the news just before class.”
“I can’t answer for anyone but myself. The dreams are very vivid. They do not talk about steps beyond the one image. I personally think offering predictions beyond this one image is extremely dangerous.”
Reed Thompson interrupted. “Elena, could we have a word?”
The president’s formal tone caused the remaining students to fade away. Elena took a grip on the podium and waited. Her fears grew into a tense knot at the center of her gut.
The head of the psychology department was an older gentleman whose face beneath his graying beard had begun to descend
like hot tallow. “I congratulate you on a most remarkable lecture, Dr. Burroughs.”
She did not trust her voice, so made do with a nod.
“I don’t know what I expected to hear, but your professionalism rang through.” He hesitated, then added, “I must tell you, I was opposed to your hiring. I thought it was little more than a publicity stunt, something Reed hoped might lift our college’s profile. I warned him that this might well blow up in our faces. When I first heard of this recent issue, I thought my worst fears had been realized.”
He examined her as he would a bit of new evidence that had disproven his thesis. He said reluctantly, “I have been wrong before. I will no doubt be wrong again. Now if you will excuse me, I have a class of my own to teach.”
Reed watched him leave with a thoughtful expression. “He ran my Sunday school class until his wife became ill. I’ve had the impression ever since I arrived here that he preferred to keep a tight separation between his faith and his profession.”
“At least he has a faith,” Elena replied.
“You threaten him,” Reed said. “You push him outside his comfort zone.”
“Then why did you bring him today?”
“I wanted him to see you at work.”
“You had no idea what I was going to say. You couldn’t. I didn’t know myself.”
“I didn’t need to,” Reed replied. “I know you.”
Elena felt her face redden. Then she noticed how the provost was looking back and forth between the two of them, his head canted slightly. He smiled at some secret joke. Elena’s face grew redder still.
Reed went on, “Tonight is my daughter’s birthday. Will you join us?”
“She probably doesn’t want to share you.”
“Stacy asked me to invite you.”
“Did she?” Elena saw the provost smile, and felt her face grow redder still. And she did not care. “I would be delighted.”
• • •
They dined at D’Jon’s, an upscale restaurant in the historic island village. The two dozen bayside houses dated from the nineteenth century. The restaurant had formerly been the residence of a pineapple plantation, back when Melbourne Beach was connected to the mainland by a little steam train. Five days a week the train pulled flatbed cars piled with fruit and avocados across the wooden bridge and then south to the Fort Lauderdale port. Weekends the produce cars were replaced by miniature passenger wagons. Working-class families strolled along the white sand or swam at the two beaches, one for men, the other for women and children. That evening Elena dined on fresh Atlantic grouper and joined in the conversation about everything under the sun, except dreams.
Stacy played the grown-up. This was her night, and she loved it. Her makeup was far too heavy for a girl her age. She wore a sheer black Valentino dress—a gift from her father and bought when he was not around, Reed assured Elena. In the candlelight and the soft laughter, Elena glimpsed the woman who should have been seated in her own chair.
The evening flowed beautifully, and was capped by father dancing with daughter to the music of a jazz pianist and an upright bass player. Elena watched and smiled and felt a subtle pang—not for the life she and her late husband had once known. Rather, for all these new future hopes.
As they left the restaurant, Reed turned on his phone and excused himself to check his messages. Elena resisted the urge to tell him to wait, to not permit the world entry. Stacy seemed to accept it as part of her father’s life and responsibilities.
She and Stacy crossed the street and walked out the long city pier. A plaque stated this was a remnant of the old railway bridge, destroyed in 1917 by a hurricane. By the time World War I had ended and the town could rebuild, the world had moved on. A lone fisherman sat at the end, dipping his cane pole into the night-clad water.
Stacy leaned over the rail and said, “That guy with you on television looks cute.”
“Jacob Rawlings is more than cute,” Elena replied. “He’s gorgeous.”
“Do you like him?”
“Before all this started, I would have laughed at such a question. He publicly humiliated me. He represents the part of my profession I most dislike.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Daddy . . .” Stacy sighed.
Elena leaned on the railing next to her. They stared at the causeway bridge, rising from the black waters like a light-flecked ribbon. “Your father is a wonderful man. And you are one amazing young lady.”
“Do you think, well, you and Daddy could ever . . .”