Life Is but a Dream (8 page)

But something inside of me has changed.

I notice it right away when I try to drift back there—the first time I’ve attempted to drift anywhere in weeks. It doesn’t feel the same as it used to. I can’t place what’s different at first. It’s just a feeling pulsing through my body. I lay in the hospital bed watching clouds get torn apart as they move through the sharp branches of pine trees. They make no noise moving across the window. They don’t change colors as they die, and the world stays with me just as strong as the second before.

The clatter of squeaky carts being pushed down polished hallways floats through the crack under my door. I can hear other familiar sounds, part of the hospital’s routine. The opening and closing of patients’ self-locking doors. The toilet flushing in the room adjacent to mine. A brief shout from outside the window like the sound of children running. It is quickly covered over by the rumble of a truck gaining speed as it leaves the parking lot.

It’s strange being able to hear so clearly when I was expecting this place to fade. Concentrating used to filter out everything around me. This morning it only seems to make it clearer.

It’s not just sound, either. My hands feel more real. I wrap them around my chest and press them into the space between my ribs. They are ice cold and it stings as they warm.

The smell of disinfectant in my room is suddenly overpowering.

Even the blanket around my legs is warmer. Tucked tighter. Almost suffocating me as I realize my knees are drenched in sweat.

In fact, everything is more precise except for the memory of being in the backseat as our car sped along the summer coast seven years ago. It didn’t flood to the front of my mind like I hoped. If anything, it seems to slip farther away the harder I try to capture it.

When Nurse Abrams enters my room, I’m shivering. She stares at the blanket draped over the side of the bed and half on the floor. —
Everything okay?
— she asks.

—
I don’t know
— I say.

—
Why? What’s the matter?
— she asks, approaching me with more haste than usual.

—
I don’t know exactly
— I admit. I place the back of my hand on my forehead and tell her —
I think maybe I have a fever or something.
—

Nurse Abrams takes me gently by the wrist and lowers my hand. She’s always so careful when she touches me. I guess that’s because some of the patients here don’t like to be touched. I’ve seen them. The way they freak out frightens me. Not because of how they shake or scream, but because their outbursts are so sudden and seem so unnecessary. It makes them look—crazy.

I don’t mind when Nurse Abrams puts her hand against my forehead because I’m not crazy. I watch her lips counting silently to ten before she grins. —
I doubt you have a fever, but I’ll take your temperature just to be certain
— she says with a wink, and I like that about her. That even if she thinks I’m wrong, she’ll listen.

After checking the thermometer, she declares that I’m completely normal. Within range of normal anyway, and she can tell the news disappoints me. —
Something’s clearly bothering you though. What is it?
—

—
It’s … hard to describe
— I tell her.

—
Try me
.—

My mouth is dry and the words are hard to form. I swallow a few times trying to find them and Nurse Abrams studies me. She tilts her head so that her short blonde hair nearly touches her shoulder. Finally, I explain to her about the blankets and smells, but leave out the part about trying to drift away and how the magic feeling of my memory has dulled. —
Dr. Richards said eventually things might start to feel more … real
.
Is this what she meant?
— I ask.

—
You should ask her about it this afternoon
— Nurse Abrams says. —
But I would guess this is part of it. You’ve been here for quite a few weeks now and have been getting better day by day. It sounds to me like your symptoms are finally fading into the background. Dr. Richards will be able to tell you for sure. But I imagine you’ll be able to return to your normal life soon enough. Won’t that be nice?
—

Normal life? My breath seizes inside of me for a split second at the very thought. The idea of going back to school and seeing the same crowds in the halls makes my brain get claustrophobic. But then I realize that the suggestion is supposed to make me happy and I smile in agreement. —
Nice. Yeah
— I say as cheerfully as I can manage.

My hands are still shaking. I stick them under my legs, trying my best to hide my fear from Nurse Abrams. I don’t want her to know I’m upset. She’ll tell the doctors and then I’ll have to answer questions about it.

What really scares me, even more than having to go back to my old life, is the thought of having to go back there without the safety of getting lost in my daydreams.

The more I think about it, the more I believe Alec is right—that this is what they want. I wonder then, how long will it be before I’m just sleepwalking through life like everyone else?

I take the postcard off my bed and put it back inside the book, feeling more confused than ever. Alec will help me figure it all out. He understands how I feel better than anyone else. He’ll be able to explain it to me, I know he will.

I hop off the bed and dress in the clothes I threw over the chair the night before. Nurse Abrams raises an eyebrow and smiles. —
I thought you weren’t feeling so well?
— she asks. —
Where’s this burst of energy coming from?
—

—
I don’t know
— I mumble, thinking I’ve done something wrong. But when I glance up at her, I can tell she’s only trying to be friendly. I speak more clearly then, talking through a smile. —
Just want to get started. You know, get something to eat.
—

The way Nurse Abrams nods is like she’s hiding a secret. —
And maybe see your friend Alec?
— she asks in a teasing tone that reminds me of Kayliegh. But not like recent Kayliegh—more how she used to be back when we shared everything. She used to tease me too about whichever boy I liked. It wasn’t to be mean. She knew I sort of liked it because just bringing it up made a crush feel more like a romance somehow.

—
Yeah, maybe
— I say shyly, tucking my hair behind my ears.

I hurry for the door. I want to see Alec as soon as possible—before all of these questions get muddled in my head. As I pull on the handle and enter the hallway, Nurse Abrams calls out —
Hold on there
— so excitedly that I freeze.

She takes three heavy steps away from the side of my bed where she’d been folding the blanket and approaches me. She’s holding a small paper cup with my medicine.

I take it from her, seeing the two blue pills still sitting at the bottom.

I place them in my mouth and swallow. They slide like chalk down my throat and I’m free to go.

*   *   *

I enter the cafeteria with words ready to pour out of me but Alec isn’t there. I want to wait by the door but I know it isn’t a good idea. It attracts attention from the nurses. Attention attracts suspicious questions and I know from firsthand experience that one hesitant answer can disrupt the entire day. I did that once before and that was all it took—sent off for an entire day of tests and observation. They’re so nervous and protective here. Nothing we do is ever separated from our illness. If they see me outside the cafeteria, tapping my foot while waiting impatiently for Alec, in their eyes it would be because of my schizophrenia and not simply because I’m anxious to see him.

I’m not risking a whole day without him just for the chance to wave as he turns down the hall. It’s better to go inside and wait with a tray of food at a table. Acting normal is always better here.

The food is laid out on a buffet table near the back of the room. There’s also a counter to the side where I could order something hot: eggs or oatmeal or pancakes. But I still feel a little feverish from earlier and not really hungry.

What I really want is coffee or tea, but we’re not allowed caffeine here. Hospital policy says it’s too dangerous because it might mix with our medicine the wrong way. It doesn’t matter that my mom let me drink one or the other every morning for the last two years. The hospital’s rules cancel out all others.

I miss spending that time with my mom. It was the one thing we always did together. I would come downstairs and she would already be in the kitchen with two mugs out on the counter. Our kitchen at home catches all the morning sun and I would have to blink at its brightness until my sleepy eyes adjusted because it floods the room with watery halos that seem to turn the wooden cabinets into gold. My mom says it’s one of the reasons she wanted to buy the house. —
It’s hard to start the day in the dark
— was one of her favorite sayings. She has never painted the walls in the nearly twenty years since she and my dad moved in. She says the sunbeams paint them a better color than she could ever choose.

I always liked to sit quietly at the table in the same room with her. I’d watch the sunbeams dance in my drink, making it sparkle. It didn’t matter if my parents had been fighting about me the night before or if they were angry with me about something I’d done—the mornings were always calm. There was always the chance in the morning that everything would be better by the end of the day.

I think we all believed that. My dad, somewhere upstairs, invisible in the steam of a shower and running late, believed it most. Me at the kitchen table, studying the subtle shifts in light as cloud-animals paraded across the endless sky, I believed it the least but hoped. My mom was in the middle and kept herself busy to ward off doubt. In the mornings, she was a wildfire spreading throughout the kitchen. The entire house would come alive with the clanging of dishes being placed hurriedly into their cabinets after spending the night drowned in the dishwasher.

I would sip my coffee or tea, never stirring the milk I poured into both. I was always worried about the spoons spending so much time underwater. They are the only utensils with faces—faces we lend to them each time we look into their deep bend. I imagined them screaming and waving their heads around as they drowned. I stopped using spoons when I was eleven. My mother couldn’t stand watching me eat cereal with a fork only to drink the milk from the bowl afterward.

The idea of not using a spoon suddenly seems so odd. I pick one up, wondering why I ever felt so strongly about such a little thing.

I take a bowl filled with diced watermelon, pears, oranges, and apple slices nicely arranged like a kaleidoscope. I don’t plan on eating them. I just want the candy smell of fruit near enough to cover the sterile scent of Band-Aids that clings to the plastic tables and chairs and trays.

For over a week now, Alec and I have sat at the same table every day. Now nobody else sits there. It’s saved for us. But as I take my seat, he still hasn’t arrived.

He’s late.

I don’t take my eyes off the door—expecting any moment to see his eyes shining like green stars in a green galaxy. Then mine will grow brighter too.

Over and over, I picture him walking in, trying to rush the future forward. I close my eyes and imagine taking the journey from his room to the cafeteria. I count the seconds. I count the number of steps it would take—trying carefully to remember just how many doors he needs to pass and how many turns he needs to make to get here. I’m almost at the end when I hear him laughing. —
Do I even want to know what you’re doing?
— he asks, pulling the chair next to me out from under the table.

—
Alec!
— I say a little too quickly and too loud.

—
What’s wrong?
— he asks, sitting down and taking my hand. It trembles inside his and I see the concern creep across his face. —
You seem frazzled.
—

—
Nothing’s wrong
— I sigh with a sense of relief. —
I was worried you weren’t coming, that’s all.
—

—
Why would you think that?
— he asks through a smile, gently blowing on my hand and rubbing it between his until I stop shivering. —
It’s not like there’s a lot of places for a mental patient to go
— he says, trying to lighten the mood. But once he sees that I’m still a little on edge, he stops. His voice gets serious again. —
Sabrina? What happened?
—

My mind drifts back to the morning in my room—to the feverish nerves and the faded postcard of a dolphin that used to shimmer with magic. I start to worry all over again. —
Nothing happened. It’s just … I don’t know. This morning, I’ve been feeling different.
—

—
Different how?
—

—
Well. I used to have these … like dreams
— I tell him. —
They call them dreams anyway, but they weren’t really dreams. Not like the going-to-sleep kind or anything. It was more like being someplace else, you know? But lately, I don’t know. I don’t see them anymore and I’m starting to wonder if that means I’m getting better or getting worse.
—

—
Do you want to see these things?
— he asks me.

—
This morning I did.
—

—
Then how could it possibly be better for you not to?
—

—
I don’t know, but that’s what Dr. Richards says
— I tell him. —
She says seeing those things are part of my illness. That being the way I am causes me to be … delusional.
—

—
Delusional? That’s what they told you?
— Alec is visibly angry now. I can feel the tension in his grip.

—
They say the things I see aren’t real
— I tell him.

—
Like what?
—

I lift up my shoulder and press my chin against it nervously. —
Sometimes
— I say —
I can see the sky change colors. I just move my hand and rainbows appear. Other times, it’s more than that. It’s like … I go someplace else. Everything around me changes then.
—