Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (82 page)

Damn! Steve’s right. I
am
getting depressed. And look at that big ol’
death and suicide
up there. Yippee yay. What a future. Maybe Ian
did
kill herself. My God! Be careful, Allie.

She typed
antidepressants
into the browser, read the top entry. That’s what I thought: antidepressants
increase
serotonin,
decrease
REM sleep like acetylcholinesterase does, counteract Mestinon, stifle dreaming . . . or instigate crazy, nightmarish dreams. Nope, can’t do
that
. . . but what
can
I do? Gotta be a solution . . . figure it out, kid . . . now that you’re about to become a druggie and make it worse. Hope Steve’s right that understanding the dreams is the cure. Try that first and hope it works. She frowned. Don’t like where this is going . . . like paddling up the creek and chunks of my paddle keep breaking off. Be right, Steve!

Damn! Wonder if Emily’s pregnant. How will she know? You can miss a period without being pregnant. What if she’s just late? She typed
symptoms of pregnancy
into her browser.

Classic Symptoms of Pregnancy

        
•
Tender, swollen breasts
.

        
•
Nausea with or without vomiting. Morning sickness
.

        
•
Increased urination
.

        
•
Fatigue
.

        
•
Food aversions or cravings
.

        
•
Slight bleeding
.

        
•
Cramping
.

        
•
Mood swings
.

        
•
Dizziness
.

Wait a minute. Heard you can’t get pregnant while you’re nursing. She should be okay. She again queried the browser, stopped on the first sentence.

Women differ, and breastfeeding provides no birth control for some
.

Good Lord! Need something good to happen before we all go down. Oh . . . rape side effects. Need to know what she’s up against. She typed in
rape side effects
, clicked on the top entry.

Rape Side Effects

        
•
Diminished alertness
.

        
•
Mental numbness
.

        
•
Dulled sensory and memory functions
.

        
•
Disorganized thought content
.

        
•
Vomiting
.

        
•
Nausea
.

        
•
Paralyzing anxiety
.

        
•
Pronounced internal tremor
.

        
•
Obsessive compulsion for bodily cleanliness
.

        
•
Prevalent hysteria, confusion, guilt, crying
.

        
•
Astonishment
.

        
•
Excessive sensitivity to other peoples’ reactions
.

Wow! Lots of fun. Gonna be rough. A sudden remembrance flitted through her mind like a butterfly. Humph! Ginger said you couldn’t do a book or movie as good as my dreams. She’s right. Yet the dreams actually
are
like a book or movie . . . but way more suspenseful . . . because they’re real . . . and they feel like they’re happening to me . . . and I can’t live without them. Yes, Allie, you
are
addicted . . . and irrational and out of character . . . like Steve said could happen. You’re no longer Allie O’Shay. But suck it up. If we’re gonna do this, let’s get on with it. Morphic resonance and genetics can wait until tomorrow. She looked at her watch. Almost noon. Let’s go for it!

She set up the Stanford equipment, removed her clothes, put on a pair of short shorts and no top, to facilitate electrode attachment. Walking into the bathroom, she accomplished her bedtime routine then stared at herself in the mirror. My, my . . . what you’ve become, Allie O’Shay. But at least you’re not in denial, and freely admit you’re an addict . . . and about to become a druggie. Tears misted her eyes; she shook her head, blubbered, “What am I doing? Mom, Dad, God . . . please forgive me.” She took two sleeping pills and one Mestinon from their containers. Deciding to be cautious this first time, she cut the Mestinon pill and one sleeping pill in half, picked up one and a half sleeping pills and one-half Mestinon. She walked back into the bedroom with the pills and a glass of water, laid them on the night stand, then sat on the bed, her eyes still misty with tears. Don’t think about it, Allie. Just do it!

She hooked up the electrodes, ran the self-test function on the equipment. Hurry up, damn it! The green light finally flashed. She took a deep breath, stared at the picture of her family, which she’d placed beside the bed, sniffled, felt thin tears trickling down her cheeks. God, this is awful . . . so very, very not me. She sighed, shuddered with a
sudden chill, then moaned; she glanced again at the family picture, held her teary eyes on it for a long moment. Finally, she tossed the pills into her mouth with a sip of water, lay down, pulled the comforter over her, and closed her eyes.

Chapter 19

O
n the morning Emily cut the twenty-first notch in her period stick, she and five other women, escorted by two soldiers, carried buckets toward the water hole. Twenty yards outside the palisades, they found James Lassie. Emme Merrimoth saw him first, stopped still as a boulder; started to cover her mouth with her hands, hesitated; screamed, then screamed again and again and again. Others joined her while some, including Emily, simply stared in speechless horror at the pile of bloody body parts before them.

The two soldiers hesitantly approached the pile, looked at one another. One leaned close to the other, whispered, “Find the lieutenant . . . or a sergeant. Tell them what we’ve found . . . has to be Lassie . . . no way to tell for sure. But who else could it be?”

The other soldier said, “By the saints, what a death he must have had.” He nodded toward Lassie. “Hard to see how
that
was once a man.”

“Aye.” He shook his head. “Better be on your way . . . and get those women out of here if you can. I’ll stay and keep people away until the lieutenant comes.” He stared at the hideous mess, suddenly cupped his hand over his mouth, puked between his fingers, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he glimpsed others approaching from the village.

Lieutenant Waters arrived first. He stopped, stared at Lassie. “God’s blood!” Lassie’s legs and arms had been pulled from their sockets, piled on top of the man’s disemboweled torso, which had been completely skinned. His toes and fingers, all missing their nails, had been chopped off and stacked on top of the arms and legs like small pieces of kindling. His scalped head sat atop the pile, its severed ears, nose, lips, and gouged-out
eyes stuffed, along with his genitals, inside his open mouth. Except for the four Powhatan arrows stuck in the forehead, the skull’s empty eye sockets and thin circle of residual hair, below where his scalp had been, conjured the image of a vacantly staring monk in song.

Waters turned away as more soldiers approached. “ Myllet, Smith, form a detail; get a tarp, remove this poor man to the cemetery, and bury him; then post guards all around the perimeter . . . inside the palisades, where possible. No one is to leave the village until I say so. Gibbes, summon Governor Baylye. Tell him what’s happened and that I propose an immediate Assistants’ meeting.”

“Aye, sir.” The three spoke in unison but stood fast, their eyes locked on the morbid scene before them.

“Move out, men!”

Emily sat by the fire, the image of James Lassie’s mutilated body vivid in her mind; but as the image slowly faded, she again looked at her period stick, tallied the notches, prayed she’d miscounted . . . nay, twenty-three again. She looked at her sleeping father. Chest rattle worse: louder, thicker, gurgling, as if he’s drowning. Dying, he is . . . so jaundiced and weak. Naught I can do but comfort him. Pray, Lord, let this pass him by. She hid her face in her hands, felt tears on her palms. When she finally looked up, she glanced at the stick again. Two days past my time, tired, weak, muddled in my mind, so afraid, sick to my stomach. She held her hands on her midriff. Tight, some cramps but not like usual, not nearly as many or as bad. Mayhap I’m late . . . no.
Never
late, always early. Afraid, punishment for my pleasure. Doomed to be with a man I despise for all my days, naught but a lowly whore, now condemned to be used at will—all just retribution for my sin. God, have mercy on my soul. I’m so sorry. She looked back at the fire. Ellie knows something’s happened, see it in her face, asks where my spirit and smile are, commands me to smile. Tush! And what might I smile about? My dishonor? Being a harlot? Alack! I should have hung myself from that tree. She shook her head. Ellie must never know, for Virginia’s sake.
But what will happen when I show? How will I conceal it, hide my shame? Should I tell Tayler of the baby when he comes for me again? I think not. No, not until I show . . . if I haven’t ended my life by then.

Dizzy . . . sore. She rubbed her groin. Still some bleeding, probably from . . . from the rape. She visualized Tayler lying on top of her, her legs wrapped around his, their bodies moving in unison. She sobbed quietly, shook her head, trembled inside. Unworthy of any decent soul. Naught but a slut now. She saw an image of her mother’s anguished face. Oh, Mother, I’ve betrayed you, your trust, shamed myself and my family. And now . . . now I’m with child, condemned to be with a man I hate, be his whore . . . or a whore to any man who’ll pay to use me. Oh, Mother, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Lord, let me bleed. Suddenly a vision of Johnny Gibbes’ pregnant sister appeared in her mind: the young girl lay alone in her bloody smock, her hair matted, soaked in sweat; writhing, screaming in pain, bleeding to death in desolate agony; finally, lying still, her suddenly vacant eyes staring directly into her own as if warning her what lay ahead.

She pushed the thought from her mind, replaced it with one from long ago, one of her mother with a pained expression on her face. Over the previous weeks, Emily had seen her occasionally grip a piece of furniture to steady herself, abruptly clutch her abdomen. She’d also noticed other irregularities: more frequent visits to the close stool and privy, abrupt mood changes, unusual tiredness, and sudden dashes outside to gag or vomit. When Emily had asked if something was wrong, her mother had composed herself, smiled softly. “My dear, ’tis naught but the burden of pregnancy . . . I shall have a baby in the spring.” Emily’s face had beamed with excitement as the two had hugged, kissed, laughed, danced around the room. Then with deepest conviction, her mother had told her that the burdens she bore were nothing compared to the joy of bringing a baby—a baby conceived in love—into the world. And now as Emily acknowledged with a chill that she herself was experiencing those same symptoms, she whimpered quietly, again touched her abdomen. Lord, how will I treat this child born of sin? How can I love it? Will I not hate and despise it for the way ’twas conceived? She opened her eyes, stared at the fire. No. I could never do such; I shall love it as God intends. But how shall I not lament that ’twas not conceived
by the man I love, my dearest Isna, but rather by the force of a deceiver and blackguard I hate. A breath of hope suddenly brightened her face. But perchance . . . perchance I’m just late, will yet bleed. She glanced at the period stick again then stared into the fire, shook her head. No, ’tis not to be; I
know
’tis not to be, for I feel another life within me.