Don't Wake Me if I'm Dreaming Page 5

  “How’d you get that?” I break from the boy’s grip, snatching the chain. The man’s intense eyes meet mine. I gasp, pinching my eyes close, fearing a reaction. I wait for a piercing, or gust of the wind, something, but feel nothing other than humiliation. I skeptically open my eyes, glancing at the man’s muddled expression. “Who are you? This belongs to my friend! What have you done to her?” I ask, demanding an answer, as the gun shakes uncontrollably in my hand.

  His distressed gaze meets the gun that remains aimed at his chest. “I’m Jack,” he speaks, trying to suppress his fear.

  “I don’t care about your name!”

  “I answered your question,” he states, swallowing hard.

  “Why are you here?”

  “There’s been an accident.” He glances at the little boy again. “It’s his mother. The driver didn’t see her in time. She needs your help.” His previously fretful tone gains more control when speaking.

  Confused, I hesitate a moment, now fearful of an accidental shooting I lower the gun. “Help how? Where is she?”

  “I’ll show you.” His face softens. “Trust me.”

  I unintentionally huff. “Trust you?”

  “Your options are slim right now. Trust me if you want to save her.”

  I nervously place the gun in my waistband. “Okay, I’ll help. No funny business though.” I glance back at the little boy. “What do I do?”

  The man steps forward until his face is a foot from mine, my breath never more uneven. I study his silvery blue eyes, feeling uneasy and doubting him, and for a very brief moment our eyes meet. My vision changes, nearly taking my breath. I am now seeing into Jack’s thoughts, in the same way the little boy showed me his thoughts, only I can’t control anything I am seeing, I’m only able to watch and wait as if I’m not even present.

  A short distance away, I see two people on the shoulder of the road looking over the guardrail yelling out. It takes a moment before I recognize Vance’s blond hair and voice, and Aimee’s cry. I try to yell out for them, but am unable to make a sound.

  “Scott,” Vance yells.

  “Scott, come to mommy, baby!” Aimee sounds frantic.

  They both call out several times. I realize they must be the little boy’s parents as he runs toward them from my direction. I helplessly try yelling, wanting them to know he is here, running toward them, but nothing happens. A silver car with dark windows rounds the twisting narrow corner ahead. As Aimee and Vance turn to face the road, they notice their son. My heart pounds violently in my chest, helplessly witnessing what I fear will happen next. Aimee screams, darting to grab her little boy from the car’s path. Swerving to miss the boy, I watch the screeching tires slide across the asphalt to a stop, missing Scott by a foot, hitting Aimee instead.

  “Nooooooooo!” Vance yowls as he helplessly watches his wife’s body roll over the car’s hood. Instantly, Vance grabs the boy into his arms, pressing the boy’s face against his chest and darts to Aimee’s side. He sits the boy down and lifts his wife into his arms. The car door swings open, releasing a horror-stricken young man.

  “I didn’t see her. I’m sorry.” He rushes to Vance’s side, placing a hand on Scott’s back, tearfully pleading his sorrow. I am helplessly paralyzed as they grieve over her lifeless body.

  The vision is gone. My body goes limp as Jack grabs my arms to catch my fall. His face turns to a blur, and then all goes black.

  ***

  I shot up in bed, covered in sweat, gasping to catch my breath. Momentarily disoriented and scared, I half anticipated seeing Jack as my eyes adjusted to the streetlight from outside the bedroom window. I felt something poking into my backside, and reached, feeling the gun, placing it on the nightstand. I shed my clothing as I rushed to the bath and turned on the shower, stepping in before the water adjusts to a comfortable temperature.

  Still not having gained my composure from the shockingly cold water or traumatic nightmare, I collapsed against the shower wall, panting, as the water drenched me. I held the shower curtain to keep from toppling over while catching my breath. It’s only a dream, a stupid, fake, irrational, senseless dream. I thought in anger. My thoughts swarmed around Aimee’s body, her son, the silver car, and the man from the forest, reliving the dream in my mind. I had no clue how the guy ended up in the forest, in a tux. I wondered if perhaps he was driving by when the accident occurred and stopped to help. How could he have stopped when none of this ever happened? I continuously strolled through a rollercoaster of emotional bewilderment as I tried to rationalize the dream, but it was senseless attempting to rationalize something that made absolutely no sense and was completely out of my control. I made myself stop the rampant battle of confusion that was in my head. I would have to let it go and pray my dreams would dissolve into a new series. Hopefully something a lot more pleasant, but I’d willingly take on any nightmare that didn’t share the continuous death of my best friend.

  I dried off and dressed, this time in my pajamas. I was determined, come hell or high water, not to return there, to that dream. Within a matter of minutes, I consumed three shots of tequila before swigging from the bottle, sucked the juice of a lime, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed intending to pass out. It had taken a short time before the alcohol settled in, making me into sap. I did my best to clear my head of Aimee’s tragic death, and instead thought of Jack, which was easy from my drunken stupor. Not his vision, nor his purpose, just the man I had just met in my dream. His every detail flooded me as if our encounter was existent. I clearly visualized his face, his deep almost black hair, the dark five o’clock shadow outlining his sharp jaw. His eyes gave me chill bumps remembering them glistening as if absorbing the sunlight. They were a perfect silvery-blue, like crystals. He was amazingly flawless, attractively so. As handsome and kind as he was, seeing him again in my dreams was not worth the agony of subjecting myself to another night of witnessing Aimee’s death all over again.

  With a final yawn, I pressed my face into my pillow, feeling myself sinking like an anchor, passing out.

  Sanity

  Wrapped in a towel, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror doing my makeup. I rehearsed the one-sided conversation that in a couple short hours would involve my doctor. I had to explain to her, face-to-face, “I have enigmatic people that visit me in my sleep. They make me hallucinate and see into their thoughts, and even though the events haven’t occurred, yet, I’m shown exactly how it will happen and it’s up to me to do something about it. And if that’s not fruity enough, I have the same dreams every night with the same people, in the same location, and the same events.” Well, that didn’t sound crazy. I sighed heavily.

  I stared at my vacuous self, wondering how the doctor could resist the temptation of referring me for a psychiatric evaluation with the intention of locking me in a padded cell. Saying the words out loud had me second-guessing my sanity, leaving a nauseating feeling in my stomach. I suddenly wondered if this was how mom felt.

  Just a little over seventy minutes later, my mind was still on my mother and how she must have suffered the same as I, or the other way around. The doctor’s assistant took my blood pressure, but I was completely oblivious to her words, fearing the impending conversation with the doctor. She finally caught my attention when she said, “You’ve lost a few pounds since your last check-up, likely from stress, but overall your vitals are great.”

  I must have looked at her like she spoke a foreign language because her tone slightly changed when she spoke again. “Should I repeat myself?” Was her subtle way of acknowledging I hadn’t paid attention to a word she said as she pressed a smile.

  “That’s great, weight loss,” I mumbled unthinkingly, slightly sinking in my seat at the excess poundage she carried, hoping not to have offended her.

  Relieved when the door opened, interrupting the awkwardness of the moment, the assistant strode out of the room rather perturbed as the doctor ambled in and began reading from a chart the assistant pushed into her hand.


  “Lucid nightmares, insomnia, exhaustion, loss of appetite.” She looked at me. “Now that can’t be fun. Aside from sleep-related issues, is all else okay?” She peered at the nurse’s notes.

  “Uh, sure, as fine as can be, considering, but there has been a bit of a spiral effect from my dreams. It’s definitely affecting other aspects of my life.”

  “I see that.” She flipped back a page checking over my last visit. “Can you explain a little about the dreams?” She glanced at me only a second, continuing her reading.

  “Uh…well.” I apprehensively shared the humiliating details about my nightly haunts with vague details. “I have reoccurring nightmares every night. I’m terrified to sleep, since the dreams leave me disoriented and scared. I don’t really know what’s causing them, but on the rare occasion that I manage five hours of sleep at night, I feel a sense of accomplishment. But those occasions are far and few between.” That version sounded doubtlessly saner than the conversation I had with myself prior to the appointment.

  “Bad dreams, weight loss, no appetite, little sleep, anxiety,” she spoke while writing. The doctor handed me a prescription slip written in chicken scratch.

  “What is this?” I asked, trying to read it.

  “It’s a thirty-day prescription for sleeping pills. Use them diligently. It should help you get caught up on sleep, and will likely make it so you don’t remember your dreams. And please, eat something. Your weight is a border lining questionable concern. I want to see you in a month.”

  “That’s it? I just assumed this would require more than a pill fix?”

  The doctor lowered her glasses, and then gripped the end of her pen recapping it. “Sasha, I think it might be a good idea to talk with a specialist and get a solid perspective on this. I am not a sleep expert, but I am concerned. I wrote in your chart for the front desk to send referral information for an appointment with a sleep specialist named Doctor Chiaki. Her subspecialty is within several medical specialties including neurology, pulmonology, internal medicines, holistic medicines, and psychiatry.”

  “Psychiatry? Really?” I gulped. She had to say the one word I feared most.

  “It’s part of the practice. It’s very common for people to have nightmares, even the inscrutable sort. This situation, however, appears to be affecting your overall wellness. It sure doesn’t sound like much fun to be so miserable and tired all the time. Pills will help for now, but not forever, so I’d suggest making the appointment and see if there is an alternative treatment.”

  I nodded, understanding with little hope for a permanent cure, but for now, accepted the prescription.

  “The front desk will give you the number for Doctor Chiaki, and I marked urgent on the referral process to get it started. She’s a wonderful lady and I think she’ll be a great help figuring this nightmare out. No pun intended.” She smiled meekly. “Now, fill the prescription, go home, eat something please, and take a sleeping pill and get some rest, doctor’s orders. Don’t forget I’d like a follow-up appointment in a month to see how you’re doing. If you have any issues with the pills, discontinue using them right away and call here immediately. We’ll go from there.”

  “And the side effects?”

  “There will be some, possible drowsiness, but I’ll assume you’ll take drowsiness over nightmares and little sleep.”

  “Excellent.” I smirked.

  The receptionist provided Doctor Chiaki’s information on a card, and began the referral process as I was leaving. I hadn’t even made it to my car before having Chiaki’s receptionist on the phone. I figured the sooner the appointment the better.

  ***

  I took the little blue pill and slept that night, and slept right through the alarm clock, only waking when my work secretary called to ask if I was out ill. I didn’t recall having a single dream or nightmare, and for that I felt grateful. However, experiencing the side effects of a raging hangover when I woke, I was not so thankful for. The same story repeated the next few nights no dreams, no car accident, no hot man in the woods, little boy, or dead best friend. Just sleep, hour after hour of bottom heavy, abysmal deep sleep.

  Matt made the comment more than once about me in total zombie mode, as I sat staring at his TV hardly blinking from a near lethargic state. It wasn’t until he realized I was uninterested in sex that he finally expressed his concerns. I felt obligated to fill him in on the big picture of having sleep issues and nightmares, but for now, I was reluctant to discuss the matter any further. And when he saw how uncomfortable it made me, he didn’t press.

  ***

  When I arrived at Doctor Chiaki’s office a week later for my appointment, it was like entering a Japanese Tabernacle. I expected a Geisha woman to appear from behind the front desk when I hit the small gong with a mallet. To my surprise, she wasn’t, nor could she be any less pleased about the misuse of the décor.

  “That’s for decorative purposes.” She pointed to the gong with sharp brow.

  “I suppose it’s placed there to tease clients. I’ll remember that next time.” I mirrored her expression. “What exactly is this place, anyway?” I glanced around, uncertain if I entered the right location.

  “Your physician didn’t explain why she referred you here?” Her tone softened.

  “I know why I’m here. I’m just not sure what here is. I expected a sleep study clinic, not Gandhi’s Temple,” I muttered with a short laugh.

  “Yes, well, the doctor will decide your treatment plan. Sleep studies are typically conducted at the hospital. This clinic is used for consultations and other therapies. Please take a seat and fill out this form.” She handed me a clipboard and pen. “The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said, walking away from the desk toward a hallway.

  After filling out the paperwork, I sat fidgeting with a Zen garden on the coffee table a few minutes before the receptionist called me back to the clinic room. “The doctor will see you now.”

  I took a seat on a long, narrow, red fainting sofa, and took in my surroundings. Between a much larger tabletop Zen garden and a Pendulum of swinging balls, I found no need for the magazines on the end table. The ambiance of the clinic made sense when the doctor entered the room. She was tiny, cute, and definitely Japanese. Doctor Chiaki stood maybe four foot eleven, her jet-black hair in a slight A-line bob, with rounded bangs framing her round face. She wore little makeup, with scarlet lipstick that matched her blouse and pretty much the entire room.

  “I’m Doctor Mei Chiaki. Are you Miss O’Callaghan?” she spoke soft and sweetly.

  “Yes, I’m Sasha O’Callaghan, nice to meet you.”

  “Okay, nice to meet you.” As she approached me, she extended her hand offering a small teacup. “Drink, it will relax you. It’s herbal tea with honey.”

  “Thank you.” I accepted the cup and watched as she made herself comfortable on the tall red velvet chair across from me.

  “I read the information faxed from your doctor. I think you’ve come to the right place. Tell me about yourself.”

  “Okay, what specifically would you like to know?”

  “How about your family history,” she suggested.

  “Okay. There’s just me, I’m twenty-four, and my brother Sam, and our dad, Doug. My mom passed away when I was nine, but I remember her well. Umm, Sam is married to Erica, and they have two children, but I don’t see them very often. He lives in Washington D.C. and works all the time. My parents were both only children so no other family there. My mom and her aunt were close and I grew up with her around, but she also passed away. So now it’s just my brother’s family and dad and me, and here in North Carolina, just me. My dad lives in Alaska and works on the shipyards as a welder. I normally see him once a year. I’m not a fan of flying.” I stared into the teacup trying to think of what else to say, realizing how small my family was. “I see my brother maybe twice a year over a long weekend, that’s it.”

  “No grandparent?”

  “Not for a few years.”

>   “Tell me a little bit about your life other than family. Who is Sasha?” She smiled.

  I spent a few minutes giving her a short synopsis of my life leading up to the most recent dreams. She asked about my career, my social habits, personal relations, and how I spent my free time. I sensed her expression meant she felt sorry for me to have so little family and neglected social life.

  The doctor asked about my mom with a gentle nature in her tone, wanting me to recall my best memories of her and how she had passed.

  “She was a pianist and sang like a beautiful bird. She was gentle, soft-spoken, kind—even when in a dreary mood. She was really pretty, a good mom in my opinion.”

  “And you mentioned she had nightmares. Did she ever tell you about them?”

  “No, her aunt told me about it after my mom passed. I’m sure had she known I would have similar dreams, she would have told me, but I know they were bad.”

  “I’m sure she would have,” she agreed.

  The doctor went into a series of questions that I answered before she walked to her desk. She uncovered a clock looking instrument with a small square pagoda top, wound it up from the back, and set it next to the Zen garden on the coffee table.

  “Watch the needle move counter clockwise. It will help clear your mind so you can focus.”

  “Is this a hypnotic clock?” I asked skeptically.

  “Not exactly, but it is intended to help you focus and relax. I will ask you a series of basic questions, you give me best answers, and then I’ll help you recall some of your dreams, and see if I can make sense of what’s going on. Now relax and concentrate.”

  I watched the hand spin counterclockwise much faster than that of a second hand on a clock. My eyes were instantly fixated.

  “What is your name?” she asked, breaking my concentration.