To Dream

by James C. G. Shirk

part 1 of 3

Doctor Elias Handshoe leaned over his receptionist’s desk and ran a thin finger down the appointment calendar. The fumes from the mentholated cough drop she was nursing in her mouth wafted up his nostrils, eliciting a small scowl on his narrow face.

She’d already been off twice this week due to sickness, and he’d had to handle the phones and manage appointments himself. That was hardly the best use of his time.

“Mr. Fitzsimmons isn’t going to make it in today?” he asked, surprised to see the line scratched through the two o’clock appointment he’d written in last Tuesday.

Margo somehow managed to shake her head while simultaneously dabbing a tissue at her red nose, her action causing him to step back as nimbly as a man who had just spotted a rattlesnake in his path. If she dared to sneeze in his direction, he would fire her on the spot.

She glanced over her half-glasses, her green eyes bloodshot and watery. “Said he had a bad cold — couldn’t make it today — a lot of that going around lately,” she sniffed, “so, you’ll have a break between Mr. Sumpter and a late appointment I just took over the phone. Someone named...” she scanned her notepad, “Donald Chambers. He didn’t give any particulars, just said he wanted to see you, but he did refer to you by your first name, Elias. Do you know him?”

“Chambers, you say?” Elias asked, stroking at his small goatee. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well, he said he was going to be in town for a couple of hours — sounded like he was calling from the airport or something. Anyway, since Mr. Fitzsimmons backed out, I thought it would be okay for him to come in; he seemed insistent. I can call him back and cancel if you want. He left his cell number.”

“No, no, that’s okay.” He eyed her puffy nose again; it looked like someone had been rubbing sandpaper against it.

She noticed his attention and dabbed at it once more. “Sorry, my sniffles seem to be getting worse, the over-the-counter stuff isn’t working. I’ll probably need to go to the doctor.” She tucked the tissue up the sleeve of her flowered blouse and perused the book once again. “Mr. Chambers will be your last appointment until tomorrow afternoon. You said to keep the morning open, remember?”

“Of course I do. I may be late getting in.” Just like you have been all week, he thought. “Show Mr. Sumpter into the office as soon as he arrives. I could use the extra time with him today.”

“Would it be okay if I went home after he arrives?” she asked, struggling to hold back a cough.

He readily agreed — it was fruitless to do otherwise — and withdrew to the safety of his office.

* * *

Sumpter’s case was a difficult one; the depth of his recurring episodes was off the chart. Elias planned on trying something different with him today, something to maximize his recall under hypnosis.

Elias crossed over to the teakwood credenza, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a sample pack of Choranadine. The innocuous blue packet contained a new hypnotic drug enhancer. The pharmaceutical companies were always generous with their samples. According to the literature, the drug had proven effective in establishing lucid dream states in trial patients, and he hoped it would likewise with Rodney Sumpter.

While he had the packet in hand, he decided to go ahead and prepare a syringe and have it ready when Sumpter arrived. Elias’ nature was to be prepared, and he didn’t abide those who lived their lives leaving things to fate very well. It just wasn’t his style.

Syringe prepared, Elias returned to his desk and grabbed a couple of aspirins from his drawer. It couldn’t hurt to take them as a preventive measure, so he gulped them down with a glass of water from the carafe on the desk and plunked himself into the soft leather chair.

He hoped the tiredness he felt in his bones was from all the work he’d been doing lately, and not from something Margo had passed along to him. God, she could be tiresome at times, but she sure could type and take dictation.

Ten minutes later, she ushered Rodney Sumpter into the office and laid his file on the dark mahogany desk. She walked out with a nod of her red head and a few seconds after that, Elias heard the front office door close; she was gone for the day.

Again, he hoped she hadn’t infected the file with whatever abomination attacked her. He and Leo had plans to see La Bohème tonight, followed by a late night dinner at that new Italian restaurant on Fourth Avenue, Fiori Selvatici. He’d had the reservations for a month, and they were damn hard to come by.

And then, if he was lucky....

* * *

Rodney Sumpter shucked his overcoat onto a black metal coat rack on the back of the door and looked around the inner sanctum of the good doctor’s office. The leather couch and matching chairs had changed position since he was last here; it seemed Handshoe was always moving stuff around.

Rodney never moved furniture around in his apartment. He liked things in one place, predictable; but right now, only one thing seemed predictable in his life, and ironically it was the thing that brought him here again today.

He limped across the room, parked his black cane next to the chair he normally sat in, and slid down onto the soft leather fabric. Nothing but the best furniture in here. This one chair probably costs more than all the stuff in my apartment.

Handshoe’s eyes were fixed on the desktop — his mind obviously elsewhere — so, Rodney decided to go ahead and start the conversation. After all, he was on the clock. “Doc, that new medicine you’ve got me on hasn’t helped at all.”

Handshoe snapped his eyes toward him. “What do you mean? The Prazosin hasn’t helped you at all?’”

“I’ve been having the dream more often. In fact, every single friggin’ night since my last visit.” It wasn’t the way Rodney intended to start the session; the words sounded like an accusation, even to his own ears. Not that he cared. For what this guy was making, he should have cured him by now.

“It’s happening every night?” the doctor asked, the look on his face reflecting more skepticism than concern.

Like I would lie about it? “Cripe-sakes, isn’t that what I just said. Look at me!” Rodney shot back. He knew — the bags under his eyes and the dark circles around them were hardly better; if anything, they were worse, much worse.

“Truth is: I’m having the damn dream multiple times every night. It’s like a frickin’ tape set on continuous replay, and I tell you, the details are getting more and more explicit. It’s driving me nuts, Doc.”

“I see,” Handshoe said, glancing at the grandfather clock, which stood like a wooden sentinel in the corner of his office. The man always seemed obsessed with the time.

“We’ll talk about that more in a minute, but as I explained last week, the drug I prescribed has shown effectiveness for patients exhibiting post-traumatic stress disorder. After what happened to you, I thought it might help.”

He picked up the file and clicked his pen before moving around the desk. “Let’s give it some more time, shall we? After all, it’s only been a week.”

Asshole.

While Rodney waited for the doctor to take his seat, he surveyed the modernistic coffee table which squatted between the chairs. Its wide legs curved upward and then down onto the rectangular surface making it appear like some kind of beetle. He hated the damn thing. It always looked like it was about ready to jump on him. Stupid thing to think, he knew, but nonetheless, it always struck him so.

On its highly polished wood surface was a single, small white candle sprouting from a silver candle holder. The candle was the doctor’s preferred method of inducing hypnosis, and he’d put Rodney under several times using it — unfortunately, without uncovering much additional information. However, from the looks of it, it seemed he wasn’t about to give up that particular tactic just yet.

“We have some extra time today,” Handshoe said settling into his seat, “so before we start searching your subconscious, let’s discuss the details of your most recent dream. You said there were more details evident?”

Rodney rubbed his fingers across the white scar snaking its way below his lower lip. Stroking it had become a bit of a nervous habit, but he couldn’t help himself. He noticed the doctor watching him and moved his hand away.

“Christ on a crutch, Doc. Why go through it all again? I’ve explained it to you at least a half-dozen times before, and excepting the ‘replays’, nothing’s changed. Everything is just clearer: Same characters, same tune, same everything.”

He felt the familiar knot forming in his chest, as if having the dream consume his nights wasn’t enough, here he was about to recount the damnable thing again during waking hours. It just needed to stop, that’s all, just friggin’ stop.

Rodney sighed. “Doc, what I need is something to wipe it out, wipe it out before I go crazy. I’m dreaming, but I’m not sleeping, you know? Even the REM tests you gave me in the sleep clinic show that, remember? I’m exhausted.”

Handshoe nodded. “Okay, I see you are a bit worked up today. Let’s take a moment and gather ourselves. Take a deep breath, hold it for a second, and then slowly exhale like we practiced. Do that a few times, and concentrate on slowing your pulse — close your eyes if you like.”

Like he was going to close his eyes. He’d probably just start dreaming again.

He took the deep breath, however, and looked over the doctor’s shoulder at the lace curtained window as he exhaled. The curtains were a bit effeminate to his way of thinking. Behind them, he noticed snowflakes drifting lazily against the slate gray sky outside.

It had started snowing since he came in the building. He hoped it didn’t get worse. Driving in the white stuff made him nervous — it was snowing the night it happened. The night his life changed forever.

Sometimes I wish they’d never pulled me out of that river. I’d be better off.

The accident occurred just after midnight, while a light snow was falling across the city. He’d driven over the Markin Bridge hundreds of times before and never once experienced black ice on the surface. It happened so fast he couldn’t remember exactly how it began.

One minute he was on the road, the next under the ice, the shattered edges of the windshield piercing his lower jaw, forcing his mouth open as frigid water poured through the glass.

It spilled into his lungs with every tortured breath he tried to take. The last thing he remembered thinking was that there was no escape, nothing to do but drown... and that’s exactly what he did. The unexpected serenity in those last moments, unforgettable.

Why the hell did they have to snatch him back?

The medics who resuscitated him forty minutes later could scarcely believe he’d started breathing again, but he found out it happened sometimes — in water that cold.

The medical doctors at the hospital said he was delirious for two days after, but he didn’t remember that either. The only thing he took away from the experience was the recurring dream and the nagging feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“I know going over it again seems fruitless,” Handshoe broke in, “but indulge me.” The Doc pulled at his neatly trimmed beard and sat back in the overstuffed leather chair, his piercing gray eyes gauging him.

“Sometimes there are minor changes in a recurring dreamscape. Remember, I told you to try and watch for them? If details are coming into focus, it might be a signal your mind is ready to help us uncover the causes for the dream.”

He tapped his pen against the file cover. “You still have the pad and pencil on your nightstand to record your waking memories, correct?”

“Yeah, I’ve still got them,” Rodney sighed, noticing the knot in his chest had abated. His pulse had slowed. “But, all this talking about it isn’t working. Maybe it’s not possible to figure this thing out — maybe I need different drugs to just block it out.”

Handshoe shook his head, the movement slow and patronizing, as if pandering to a child who couldn’t understand what the adults in the room were talking about.

“Everything’s possible Mr. Sumpter. You just have to be patient and work at it.”

Great advice. You sound like my father.

“You can be anything you want,” his father had told him once and then killed the thought by adding, “Why do you choose to be such a loser?”

As far as Rodney was concerned, Handshoe was cut from the same cloth. He was nothing but an overpaid asshole, stretching these sessions out in order to gouge the company’s insurance. How else in God’s green earth could someone make two hundred dollars an hour just for listening to other people’s problems?

Not that Rodney had much to lose going over it again, except his own time, which he had plenty of, since he was still on disability.

“I have been working at it, doctor. I got nothing else to do but frickin’ work at it! Like I said, the dream’s been the same every night. There’s nothing new to write down.”

“I see.”

Rodney hated it when Dr. Handshoe said that. It sounded like another parent-child episode, a reprimand given without overtly doing so. His father did the same thing. Asshole probably thought he was holding back on him.

“Tell me about last night,” Handshoe said, moving on. “Leave nothing out. During this session, I’m going to ask you questions about details and your perceptions within the dream. It’s important that you be as accurate as you can.”

Rodney rearranged himself in the chair; the metal pins in his fractured leg made sitting in any one position for very long uncomfortable. Another present from that night — that and the friggin’ dream.

“Okay. It starts as always... I’m standing in the hallway,” he began, “in front of my high school locker, staring at my books crammed inside.”

He stopped. “There’s an American History book and a Civics book in there — didn’t really notice that before. I guess there are a few new details.”

“Uh-huh,” the doctor said.

Great, now he thinks I am holding back on him.

“While I’m looking,” he continued. “I get a slap on the back, and I turn around. It’s my best friend, Jimmy Dolan. He asks me if I’m going to the dance after the game.”

“And you tell him you are,” the doctor said.

“Yes, just like always, although it’s as though my voice comes from some other person. I’m watching myself talk to him, while I’m floating above the scene but somehow still there. I mean... I’m looking right into his eyes, and I know he’s looking at me. It’s like there’s a ‘viewing me’ and a ‘participating me’.”

“That’s not at all unusual in recurring dreams,” Handshoe said. “What are you thinking about?”

“You mean the ‘me’ who’s talking to Jimmy or the ‘me’ who’s floating above watching?”

“Either.”

Rodney pinched his forehead, trying to think. “The floating ‘me’ is thinking that I can’t believe I’m back in high school again. I know that I’m really thirty-five years old, living in Duluth, working for slave wages in the Transportation and Logistics Department of Chilson Frickin’ Amalgamated and that this is just a dream.”

“And what’s the ‘other you’ thinking — the one talking to Jimmy Dolan?”

His teeth involuntarily clenched, and the doctor noticed.

“Be truthful, Mr. Sumpter. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that even though I said I’d go to the dance, I know it will be a waste of time. It’s not like I’m going to get hooked up or anything.”

Another note in the book. “Why do you feel that way?”

“Don’t know.”

“Really?”

Proceed to part 2...