In Dreams (3 page)

“Annie, I don’t know what the voice means. I just want to be able to go out without piling on concealer under my eyes. I would give just about anything to sleep through the night.”

In fact, in all my life, I have never slept more than four hours in a row. My record without sleep is thirty-nine hours. I toss. I turn. I’ve tried different pillows. My grandfather has bought me four different mattresses. Including that one with space technology that’s supposed to be the greatest mattress ever made. It may well be, and maybe astronauts sleep on the thing, but it still didn’t do the trick for me.

“Well, I honestly think you should try the hypnotherapist.”

I still think he might hypnotize me to do something weird. “Would you go with me?”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Like you have to ask.”

I look down at the magazine again. “What do I have to lose?”

If Wikipedia had a picture of a typical therapist, Dr. Koios would be it. He wears a tan tweed jacket with corduroy patches on the elbows, and his gray beard is clipped short. He has horn-rimmed glasses and pale, kind eyes. He sort of looks like Sigmund Freud—one of Carl Jung’s contemporaries. I tell him my whole story and background—my mom and her sleep disease and the fact that I have had insomnia my whole life. As I talk he keeps repeating, “Very interesting,” while tapping his two index fingers together. All that’s missing is his smoking a pipe.

Then he explains his whole hypnotic process to Annie and me. After telling us it’s really about deep, deep relaxation, he says, “What I am actually going to be doing, Iris, is teaching you how to hypnotize yourself, ultimately, so you can relax into sleep when you’re home. I’m also going to give you a trigger. When you go home tonight, and it’s time for bed, you are going to use this trigger, which should take you back to the relaxed state and then allow you to fall
asleep peacefully. The trigger needs to be something you’re comfortable with.”

Like what?”

“Well, some people, before they go to sleep, might stroke a soft blanket. Or they might even have a stuffed animal or something that they hold. And then what I do is transfer the feelings you’ll have when you are relaxed and in a hypnotic state onto that object or trigger.”

“I have a quilt on my bed, and the border on it is green velvet and super soft. I guess I could use that.”

“Excellent. Now, before we begin, do you have any questions?”

“Not really.” I’m sitting in a big, comfy armchair. My feet are propped up on an ottoman, and I see the mark on my ankle. I didn’t tell him about that. Because I really don’t need some therapist thinking I’m crazy. It’s bad enough
I
think I’m nuts.

“All right then,” he says in a soothing voice. “First, sink into the chair. Feel your body getting heavier and heavier. . . . Now focus on your breath. With each inhale, you sink deeper into relaxation; with each exhale, you sink still deeper. Breathe. Breathe. In and out, relaxing deeper and deeper.”

Minutes pass, and I hear his voice droning on as if it’s down a tunnel. My body relaxes, and I even feel
a little sleepy. My limbs are heavy. But then just as I finally start to let go, to drift into a place where I just might fall asleep, I’m in the long hallway, the one with many doors.

My heart starts beating faster. I can still hear Dr. Koios’s voice saying, “Inhale, exhale,” but I also hear
him
, the man in my dreams. He’s calling me.

“Iris! Iris!”

I fumble for my keys, hands shaking. There are so many keys, how can I be sure of the right one? But somehow I instinctively know. This one. I select a beautiful brass key—and open a tall, heavy wooden door with a polished brass knob so shiny I can see my reflection in it. I have to lean my shoulder into the door and push with all my weight to get it to open. And when I step into the room on the other side, I’m in the back of a large fancy theater—like on Broadway. No one is in there, and it’s very dark, and the silence is stifling. And creepy.

The seats are rich royal purple velvet with polished mahogany armrests. I walk down the sloped aisle, my footsteps muffled by the carpet, hearing myself breathe. My teeth chatter—the theater is icy cold. When I exhale, I can see my breath. And as I walk, the curtains part with a near-silent
whoosh.
A man is standing on the stage, directly in the center, in the brilliant beam of a spotlight. My stomach drops. It’s him. I know it is, even though his back is to me. His hair is long—to his shoulders—and dark. And then he turns around. My knees wobble, and my stomach flip-flops. I finally see him. He’s my age. And he is . . . beautiful. I have never seen a guy so hot in my entire life. And then he smiles, and he has two deep dimples, and dark eyes that seem to laugh. And he says, “Iris! You found me.” He starts toward the front of the stage, a look of desperation on his face—desperation and happiness.

I start running down the sloping aisle, feeling this joy that I have never felt before, but before I can get to him, before I reach the stage, before I can finally touch him and have him hold me in his arms, behind me I hear someone banging on the door to the theater. Loudly. Urgently. Angrily.

“You can’t let them take you away from me,” he begs. His face is horrified.

“Who are you?” I ask, trying to run to him, but my legs are suddenly heavy.

“Sebastian. My name is Sebastian. I want to go with you, Iris,” he begs in that growly voice of his.

“How?” I ask him, but I hear people behind me, charging up the aisle. I’m afraid to look. But finally, I turn my head, and I see them. Storming toward me. Men in dark suits, wearing dark, mirrored glasses. Men with the lean yet well-built muscles of former soldiers, who look like a private security detail for someone famous or very important. Stone-faced, with grim mouths. I turn to look at Sebastian on the stage, but he’s being pulled away, too, behind the curtains, by more of these efficient, military-like men. It takes five of them to hold him because he is fighting them so fiercely, and I feel them on me—these men—grabbing my legs and pulling me away. “No!” I scream.

“Iris! Iris!” He calls for me.

And then it is Dr. Koios’s voice I hear. “Iris . . . Iris . . . open your eyes.”

I don’t want to. I shake my head from side to side. I want to be back in that place with
him
. I’ve waited years to see him. And I have questions about who he is and why he’s always in my dreams. But Dr. Koios’s voice insists.

“Iris, you need to come back now.”

Finally, I open my eyes and blink a few times. Dr. Koios is standing over me, a concerned look on his face.

“You were in distress. Are you okay?”

I nod.

“Iris, can you tell me where you were? You were relaxing. I could see you going into a hypnotic state, but then you were obviously very upset, thrashing in the chair.”

I gaze up at him. “I don’t know. The dream is always the same. This long hallway. The keys. The doors. Searching for him.”

“Who?”

How can I explain it? I didn’t even know it until just then. That the guy in that theater—the face I finally got to see after all these years—is the love of my life. I’m sixteen. I know that sounds crazy. Not to mention he only exists in my dreams. Instead, I mumble, “I don’t know.”

Dr. Koios nods. “Well, I’ll tell you what. Let’s try again next week. Same time. We’ll see if we can’t conquer these nightmares together. Until then, don’t do anything differently. Let’s wait to use the technique in my office, where I’m sure you’re safe and I can guide you. All right?”

His face is kindly, and I find myself nodding.

But really, inside I’m dying a little. Because all I can think about is getting back to Sebastian.

Finally. A name. And a face. To go with the voice of the man of my dreams.

3

I dream, therefore I exist.

AUGUST STRINDBERG,
A MADMAN’S DEFENSE

O
n the way home in Annie’s cute little yellow VW bug, I’m quiet.

“So what happened?” she asks me. “Did you get hypnotized?”

“Yeah. Sort of. I felt myself going deeper and deeper under. Like I was finally going to
sleep
. And then . . . and then I was in this weird dream. And I finally saw him.”

“Who?”

“The guy in my dream.”

“Oh my God!
Get out!
So do you know him? Is he a movie star? Someone from school?”

“No. But he has a name: Sebastian.”

“And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

“Trust me.
This guy
I would remember. Oh my
God
, but I would remember.”

“So now what?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Dr. Koios couldn’t get me to fall asleep for real. I was relaxing, and then all of a sudden, I was in my nightmare again. In that strange world, the long hallway. Like half in a dream, and half hypnotized. So maybe he can’t help me after all.”

“Well, this was just the first session. Maybe you have to get hypnotized a few times for it really to work.”

I sigh. “I don’t know. I made another appointment, though.”

She pulls off the highway, and we head down Main Street in our town, which is lined with cafés and restaurants and cute shops, a yoga studio. My breath catches. I see them. Two of the men from the nightmare. They’re standing on the corner outside a bakery.

“Annie.” I swallow. “Tell me you see those two guys there.” I whisper the words so quietly I can barely hear myself.

“The two
Men in Black
–looking guys?”

“Yes,” I exhale, slightly relieved. Because if she didn’t see them, then I would be certifiable. But now
I don’t know which is worse. Because that means my dream world is real. Like the marks on my leg. And that’s impossible. I feel as if I’m going to throw up.

“Kind of weird-looking,” she says. “What are they, Secret Service or something? Is, like, the president coming here?” We stop at a red light, and the two of them are staring at us. At least I think they are behind their mirrored sunglasses.

“Yeah, I guess. Just step on it when the light changes, okay?”

“Sure.” She looks over at me. “Iris, babe, you’re pale as a ghost. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Not really.”

The light changes, and she floors it up Main Street. In the side-view mirror, I see the two men in the dark suits turn to look in our direction as we speed away. I feel icy cold. My stomach clenches.

Annie drives to my street, pulls in front of my house, and parks the car. “All right, spill it. I know something’s wrong, and it’s not just that you can’t sleep. I can tell. What is it? I’m your bestie. You have to tell me. It’s, like, the law.”

I wait a minute. Finally, I pull up the leg of my jeans and show her the marks.

“What does this look like to you?”

“I don’t know. Like your leg got attacked by a rosebush or something.”

I am not imagining it. She sees the marks, too. I tell her about the drops of blood on my bed. About the dreams.