Beloved Lives Page 6

  After work, April met Trish at the house for her cat-sitting duty and told her about Weston’s ballet offer.

  “I think he’s hot for you,” April said.

  Trish was unpacking her overnight kit under Winston’s intense scrutiny.

  “Who isn’t?” Trish said breezily.

  But April could tell her friend was pleased.

  As soon as Trish's bag was empty, Winston tried to crawl into it. It was a tight fit, the bag being small and the cat large.

  Trish had brought a huge salad to share because it was too hot to cook, and April didn’t want to go out before she headed to the sleep lab. They spent the rest of the evening before April had to leave, hammering out more Shakespeare plans. The group consensus was cheeses, pate, and assorted fruits and vegetables to round out the cucumber sandwiches and champagne. Just in case, Trish was going to throw in some exotic cold cuts for those who required meat to survive outdoor theater. Of course, sunscreen, bug repellent, folding chairs, and spectacular hats were a given, so those items didn’t need to be included on the list.

  Finally, April started preparing her overnight bag, a slightly shabby back pack. This required a certain amount of adding items and removing Winston—or at least the parts of Winston that found their way into the bag.

  As she watched the packing process, Trish asked, “Any special instructions for your boy’s care and feeding? Anything other than the usual, I mean, like brushing him slavishly, feeding him tender bonbons, endlessly flipping the kitty-wand-of-ecstasy for his amusement, and groveling before his glory?”

  “Nope, I think that about covers it.” April zipped her back pack. “I really appreciate this. You’re a good friend,” she said, hugging Trish.

  “You know I love you, don’t you, kid?” Trish asked. “You go find out what’s wrong, and get better. That’s an order. Okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” April said, swiping at a tear that almost made it out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We can go someplace for breakfast. Your choice, my treat.”

  “I’ll be sure to work up an appetite. Sleep tight,” Trish said as she walked April to the door.

  They hugged once more before April headed off for the hospital.

  The day's temperature had been a near-record high. The heat and humidity lingered in the windless, evening air. Residual heat rose from the sidewalk, as April walked down her street, followed by the sickeningly sweet smell of the herbicidal honeysuckle. In the fading evening light, she saw a swallow flitting overhead, grabbing bugs for its supper as she turned the corner toward the hospital. The bird seemed undisturbed by loud laughter coming from a neighbor’s house, where a Friday night party was ramping up.

  The hospital was brightly lit for the evening visitors now leaving for the night after spending time with loved ones who were patients. April waved to the security guard as she passed through the lobby and took the elevator down one floor to the hospital's first below-ground level, where the sleep lab was located.

  As soon as she arrived in the outer office of the lab, she handed the sleep diary she had been keeping to the technician, a young guy with unruly hair who wore a white lab coat over jeans and a rock concert T-shirt. April wondered if he was one of the graduate students who helped man the labs overnight but didn’t quite know how to ask. She didn’t want to insult him if he was a famous PhD sleep researcher who just dressed as badly as she did.

  “Are you ready? Did you read everything? Do you have any questions?” he asked.

  “Yep, rarin’ to go, read everything, no questions,” she answered.

  He showed her into the small room where she would be sleeping. As soon as he stepped out, April unpacked her back pack then flossed and brushed her teeth in the little bathroom attached to the bedroom. Finally, she changed into the pajamas her mom had given her last Christmas. They were a snappy, pale-blue flannel ensemble covered in black-and-white penguins. April usually slept in the all-together, but there were cameras recording her for the sleep study. She didn’t want to find herself starring on YouTube. And she figured flannel was appropriate because the hospital was always air-conditioned beyond all good sense.

  After she signaled she was ready by waving to the camera, the technician came back into the room and chatted away as he hooked up all the leads.

  “So, for this polysomnogram we’re going to record an EEG of your brain waves.” He was putting electrodes on her head. “And an EMG to measure your muscle movement and an EOG for showing your eye movements and an EKG —”

  “For my heart rate. Yes, I read the brochure. Also, air flow through my nose and mouth, and cameras and microphones. Is there anything you don’t measure?”

  He stopped and looked at her. “We can’t see inside your dreams.”

  He was right. Only she knew what was inside her head.

  “Do people have any trouble sleeping with all this stuff on them?” April asked.

  “Not usually. You’d be surprised. Not sure why,” he mumbled as he worked. “Now,” he said, once all the gear was in place, “just do what you usually do before you fall asleep, and off we go.”

  He closed the door behind himself as he left the little room.

  April settled down into the surprisingly comfortable bed and opened her book. She wanted to snuggle Winston and say goodnight, but instead, she thought loudly in his direction, wishing him pleasant dreams. She managed to read four pages before her eyelids drooped, and she put the book aside.

  She fell into a monitored sleep, and the dream came on with a vengeance.

  Chapter 14. Bendy Straw

  It began as before but without the Zener cards. She floated on her back, also as before, slowly at first, then the movement becoming faster, the canyon walls closing in, the sound of a distant waterfall coming to her as before. Finally, the pain—searing, intense, endless. But when she woke to the sound of her own screaming, and her eyes flew open, she saw a face leaning over her, the dark face of a man with a wild look, as though he had not shaved or slept for a very long time. And he was terrified.

  “Miss Robins! Wake up. Please, wake up,” the sleep lab technician was shouting at her, shaking her.

  April’s eyes opened, really opened then. The face had been part of the dream. She laughed in relief. It was just a dream. The laugh made her cough.

  “Water,” she croaked through the familiar rawness of her throat.

  “Damn!” the technician said with feeling, reaching for the water glass with a bendy straw in it. “You scared me. Are you okay? Are you all right?”

  April looked at him then at all the leads connected to her body. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one with the data. You tell me if I’m all right.”

  She took the glass and sipped the water, soothing her throat. She liked bendy straws. She was going to take this one home with her.

  The technician—for the first time she noticed his name tag said Singh, Darryl—shook his head and straightened his back a little, as though he were trying to get a grip on himself.

  “Can you wait here a minute? I need to make a call. I’ll be right back.” He hurried out of the room.

  Where does he think I would go? I’m in penguin jammies.

  Still holding the glass, she reached for the book she had been reading before she went to sleep, but before she could juggle the glass and the book into position, the door to the little room opened again.

  This time, Singh, Darryl was accompanied by a doctor April had only seen a few times in the hospital corridors. His nametag said “Horner, Franklin.” She did know him by reputation. He was head of the sleep lab and all the research associated with it. He was famous enough that April was impressed.

  “Hello, Miss Robins. Are you feeling all right?”

  Dr. Horner was the definition of grandfatherly. His voice was amazingly soothing, peaceful as the grave. April wasn’t sure why that thought came to mind, but it seemed to her more restful than morbid.

  “I’m fine, except fo
r the sore throat. It happens a lot.”

  “A lot? This has happened before?”

  “Sure. That’s why I’m here. I have dreams like this fairly often.”

  Briefly, between sips of water, she told him her history, about when the dreams first appeared with her menses, increasing in intensity through high school and into college, how they went away when she married, how they had recently returned.

  “Miss Robins, I don’t want to alarm you, but your vital signs…What are the words I want to use? First, they collapsed, then they skyrocketed. I’ve never seen anything like it. If this has been going on for over ten years, I’m honestly surprised you’re still alive.” Dr. Horner sounded troubled.

  “Huh.” Strangely, this news did not alarm April. “But I am alive. So, what do I need to do? I want the dreams to go away. How do I do that? See a shrink? Take drugs? Buy a sleep number bed? What’s it going to take?”

  She waited for his answer, for the solution to her problem.

  “I don’t know. As I said, this is completely new to me,” Dr. Horner said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Give me a little time. I want to consult with some of my colleagues.”

  This wasn’t exactly what she had wanted to hear, but then again, April reassured herself, they were early in the discovery and diagnosis process. She waited patiently as Dr. Horner pulled a prescription pad and a pen out of the pocket of his white coat and began to write.

  “In the meantime,” he said, “I want to give you some medication. It will prevent you from dreaming. Dreaming is essential for good mental health, so you can’t take it for long, but this will help you sleep quietly for a while until we know what our next move should be. Please continue with your sleep diary, and let me know if there are any changes.”

  April took the prescription slip, saying, “Thanks, Dr. Horner.” She put the script into her purse by the bed.

  He continued. “Get that filled first thing in the morning.” He checked her leads as he talked. “I’d like to see you back here for another session next week. Obviously, you won’t take the medication the night you come here, but do take it every night between now and then. Darryl will arrange your next session. Okay?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” April nodded. “Goodnight,” she added.

  As they left the room, Dr. Horner turned to Darryl-the-technician and said, “Watch her carefully. If she begins another distressed dream, wake her as soon as you see her blood pressure begin to drop.”

  April played with her bendy straw and thought, I’m making progress. There is someone else involved in this dream, the face I saw before I really woke up. I’m getting closer to answers.

  She settled down with her book but drifted off quickly. Darryl-the-technician did not have to wake her the rest of the night.

  Chapter 15. Psychic or Not?

  “I’m back,” April called from the front door.

  Winston charged out of the bedroom and nearly knocked her over, rubbing his mass against her legs. Then he ran into the bedroom and came back, dragging his harness.

  “Really? You want to go for a run? What a good boy you are.”

  April sat on the living room floor and petted Winston all over while she put on his harness. He rubbed his face, back, tail, legs, and sides on her assorted equivalent body parts.

  “God, you two, get a room,” Trish said, zombie-ing her way into the living room. She was wearing a scarlet silk nightie that barely covered her shapely backside. “Run.” She yawned. “I’ll make coffee. Then you can tell me all about it.”

  April quickly changed into her running shoes and headed out the door. It was going to be a hot day, so running early was better. When she and Winston got back from their run, the aroma of coffee filled the house. April took a quick shower while Trish gave Winston his breakfast.

  As they sat down to coffee, April asked, “Where for breakfast? First Watch? The Corner?”

  “First, tell me how it went. Did you sleep? Did the dream come back?”

  “I slept. I remembered more of the dream. There’s lots more. I’ve got a script I need to fill. It will keep me from dreaming. Not healthy for the long term, but it should help for now.”

  “Well, you certainly look rested, and you sound a lot more optimistic. I think that’s definite progress.”

  Trish headed for the bedroom to get dressed in preparation for their foray to breakfast. Her ritual took considerably longer than April’s. Perfection can’t be rushed, Trish always insisted.

  “Was Winston good?” April asked, as she watched her friend transform from gorgeous to jaw dropping.

  “He missed you, but we managed. The kitty wand, however, may not recover.”

  They decided on The Corner for breakfast but had to wait to be seated. Once they were settled and looking at the menus, April finally told Trish about the physiological effects of the dream, the roller coaster vital signs.

  “That is really alarming. What did the doctor say about it? That can’t be safe.”

  April didn’t tell her what the doctor actually said—that he was surprised she wasn’t dead.

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s going to figure it out and fix it, and I’ll never have the dreams again. In the meantime, I’ve got the pills to stop them. I’m going to celebrate with the Bananas Foster French Toast. How about you?”

  Trish ordered Eggs Benedict. “And as much coffee as a human can drink,” she told the waitress.

  In spite of the crowd, their food came quickly. Trish and April began to consume their breakfasts with vigor.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” April said around a mouthful of French toast. “Mitch has the results from last week’s test with the Zener cards. He wouldn’t tell me over the phone. He says it’s complicated. You want to drop by this evening around five, and find out what the mystery is all about?”

  “Now that is intriguing. Suppose he wants to break it to us gently that we are totally talentless and have no business in his class?”

  “No idea.”

  After breakfast and on their way home, Trish dropped April at the nearest pharmacy. While getting her prescription filled and stocking up on the all-important kitty treats and replacement toys, April realized from the huge signs everywhere in the drugstore that the next weekend was Father’s Day. She spent half an hour picking out just the right card and decided not to wait until the weekend of Father’s Day to call her folks. She’d phone them tomorrow.

  After walking home from the store, April managed to get the laundry done and clean the house. She even took another stab, hack, and tear at the honeysuckle, although she was willing to concede it was a losing battle. At this point, though, it was becoming a matter of honor. Finally, she had to stop to shower off the sweat and dead-plant body parts to get ready for her date and the big reveal about her psychic or maybe-not-psychic test results.

  Mitch showed up promptly at five. He and Winston were busily destroying a brand-new feather lure on the end of a string when Trish arrived ten minutes later.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Trish said as she came through the door. “There was a heck of a line at the gas station.”

  “Hey, Trish,” Mitch said. He got up from the floor, relinquishing the lure to Winston. The cat proceeded to parade around the living room, dragging the toy like a trophy.

  “Okay, give us the straight dope.” Trish fixed Mitch with an earnest gaze. “Are we going to be opening a psychic hot line or calling one?”

  “Like I told April, it’s complicated. If you guessed every time, statistically you stand a twenty-percent chance of getting a card right—a one-in-five chance. Trish, your score was better than guessing. Now, it’s possible that you are a talented reader of body language, and I could have been giving tells that maybe gave you an edge, but still your score was pretty high.”

  Trish had that proud-of-herself look she always got when she was winning. April couldn't help comparing it to how Winston paraded his “kills”—predator pride.

  Mitch went on. “Do you mind
if I ask what you do for a living?”

  “I’m a sales rep for a drug company.”

  “Ah,” he said. “People who are successful in sales often have uncanny skills in reading people. Whether it comes from some telepathic ability or other gifts, such as reading gestures and body language, it’s a real asset.”

  “And me?” April asked.

  Mitch turned to her and said, “Before I can know for sure, I need more data points. Do you mind if we try a few more rounds?”

  “Not at all. It’s kind of fun.”

  Mitch went to his scooter and pulled the appropriate tools out of the seat storage space. With Mitch and Trish trading off on keeping score, they went through two more rounds of cards.

  When they finished, Mitch looked over the results.

  “How did I do?” April asked.

  “Same results as last time. You missed every card.”

  April laughed. “Guess I’m a dud then.”

  Mitch shook his head. "Hardly. This is kind of rare but well-known among researchers. It's called 'psi-missing'. You actually missed the target card more often than chance would predict. In fact, from a statistical standpoint, getting no cards right is as significant as getting a lot of cards right."

  "But I still guessed them wrong, right? So wouldn't that mean I'm not psychic?"

  “No, that’s the complicated part. No one can guess wrong one hundred percent of the time, unless they know the cards and are deliberately choosing the wrong ones.”

  April was confused. “You mean I blew the test on purpose?”

  “Probably not consciously. You work in a hospital. You probably shield yourself from all kinds of psychic insults. People are sick, in pain, dying, or in mourning around you every day. If you’re sensitive to other people’s thoughts or emotions, you need to block that somehow. You learn to miss, to not know and not feel. You can unlearn the ability to block, but you might not want to.”