The Hour of Dreams (14 page)

After a few moments, she sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. “And now my Ron has gone off to fight.”

I knelt beside her, prompting her gaze. “Gone where?” I couldn’t imagine Uncle Ron fighting in battle at his age.

With her voice a little more resolved, she lifted her chin and said, “He’s gone east. When he heard there was resistance, he left, and by heaven’s good graces, I hope he lends a hand of justice to all of those who have taken away a piece of our hearts.”

The reference to loved ones triggered something within me, and I glanced around, immediately feeling William’s distance. During the intimate encounter with my aunt, he had silently walked away, his bag draped over his shoulder. Everything was happening too fast and too harshly for my mind to process, but watching him was making it difficult for me to breathe.

“W
ait!” I shouted, jumping up with a start. But it was too late. He was gone. Gone into the darkness, along with the rest of my surroundings. A hand jostled my shoulder.

“No!” I squirmed.

“Sophie! You’re dreaming again.”

“Wait,” I moaned, and with an uncomfortable jerk, I snapped myself awake. “Oh, my God!” Wes was sitting up, next to me, waiting in silence. Very much like when William had been in the cave. Thoughts and memories flowed through my mind so clearly, my emotions were still as twisted as they had been in my dream.

Sorrow, worry, fear, and confusion. “It was so real,” I whispered. “I was right there, and you were too, but we were different. Everything was.”

“What happened?” Wes asked, sounding so familiar, taking me right back to the dream.

“My parents, my brother. They were shot and there was a fire. Fires everywhere.” He placed a hand on my back, and I folded into him and held on tight. He began to rock us slowly. “And you left me,” I whispered, shaking my head.

He squeezed me tighter. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“But you did. I watched you walk away.”

He was quiet for a moment. Instead of arguing further, he asked me to tell him everything. And there, in the middle of the night, I repeated all that I could remember, and then he leaned away and looked down at me, holding my shoulders. “But you weren’t in the house when it was on fire? Right?”

I shook my head and he exhaled.

When I was through recounting, he said he was sorry—just like he had done only moments ago in my memories. I nodded, not knowing what else to do. His next response surprised me.

“What did your aunt’s house look like?” he asked.

“What?” After recalling the horror of my memories, he was asking about a house?

“The house. Can you tell me what it looked like?”

I shook my head, still not understanding the importance. “Why?”

He pressed on. “Because it may be the house in my memories. The one where we’re old. I wouldn’t have left you. There’s no way the story ends there.”

“But you really didn’t know me, and you were the enemy.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said flatly.

His assurance struck me as it always did, and before long, I felt an optimism return. But thinking back to the dream, the house hadn’t been my focus. “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed like any other farmhouse.”

“Was there a porch?” He picked up the snow globe. “Like this?”

I shrugged. “I think so, a small one.”

“Big enough for two chairs?”

I thought back, believing I had seen more than one, and nodded again.

Wes was not one to show his excitement on his sleeve, but the building energy was rolling off of him. “Now, tell me, was the house made of stone or wood?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Think Sophie. Stone or wood?”

“Stone, I think.”

“How many stories?”

“Two.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Were there two chimneys?”

Drawing a blank, I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“What about windows? How many?”

“Wes. Stop.” I drew the line when a small headache started to brew. “I don’t know. Geez. I’d just witnessed the killing of my, or Phoebe’s, parents. She, or I , was tired and afraid.”

Not letting up in the least, he continued on. “The house I remember was stone, had four windows on the second floor, two chimneys, and a porch. Just like this one.” He held out the snow globe.

The only thing I knew was that it could have been. The vision was already fading.

“What if it isn’t the same house?” I asked.

“What if it is?”

“Even if it were, it’s only a dream.”

“Sophie, it will never be only a dream. They’re all we have from the past. They’re gifts.”

“No, time is a gift,” I countered.

“Yes. And those dreams are opening the door to show how much of it we have.”

Wanting to believe in more time, I nodded.

From that evening forward, Wes was more determined than ever. I tried to go back to the dream to see where it went, but nothing happened. The last thing I remembered was William walking away from me, and it was hard for me to bank on any future decisions when neither of us knew where the memory went next. Wes, however, banked everything on it. He spent more time at the lab and came home late every night. It didn’t take long for me to fall back into a funk, lying around more than usual.

One particular Friday, I was home alone, lying on the couch, watching T.V., when I started to feel stiff. My elbows, knees, ankles…they all felt frozen. I stretched out, but it was painful. Dr. Carter had warned me about those effects, but geez. I felt old and decrepit, which made me angry. I was young, a newlywed. I shouldn’t have been lying around feeling like a great-grandma. The loneliness was something I may have been able to get past, but the wasting away was unacceptable. On top of it, a headache was brewing and I had to pee.

Frustrated, I pulled myself off the couch and made my way to the powder room. Flipping on the light, I dared a glance at my bored and disheveled self. Looking at my reflection was shocking. I no longer looked like the healthy girl in my dreams. My face was such a contrast to the shiny, contemporary, silver frame that surrounded the mirror. How did I get here? In my dream, even when life was in a complete uproar, I still looked young and pretty. Now I looked pale, my skin dry, my hair thin and flat. Where did I go? And why hadn't anyone said anything to me?

Had I been so wrapped up in avoiding the now that I’d completely let myself go? No wonder Wes was always at the lab. I wouldn’t want to come home early to the sight I was seeing.

I bowed my head and leaned my hands against the sink, no longer wanting to see my reflection.

It was clear to me that my body was failing from the inside out. My last appointment had revealed issues with my kidneys and liver. My body was essentially rejecting my treatment and killing itself.

Everything seemed so ironic. Having the clock count down on my life figuratively, based on Wes’ memories, was one thing. But now to literally feel it fading away was so overwhelming. I had to stop ignoring it and do something. Or else there would be no twenty years old and older, or enjoying whatever time I had left.

With a deep breath, I gathered myself and went upstairs to take my medicine. I wasn’t convinced it was working, but it was at least worth the effort. I also wanted to do my hair and look presentable for when Wes came home.

Once inside the bathroom, I grabbed the medicine bottle and pulled at the cap. The joints in my fingers were aching, making it even more difficult to open. Finally the cap popped off, but, like jumping beans, several pills went flying into the air. I tried to catch them while the rest hit the floor and rolled away in several directions.

Shaking my head, I went down to my knees and began picking up the pills. Between rolling my eyes in aggravation and feeling the blood rush to my head from bending to look under the sink, I missed the sensation of dizziness until it was too late. Down on all fours, the last thing I remembered was seeing small, red puddles drop to the floor, my hand reaching for my nose, and then everything fading to a narrow, dark tunnel.

***

At some point I heard voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. The harder I strained to hear them, the weaker I felt, until reluctantly I faded back into darkness again.

It wasn’t until I felt my forearms being pricked and stabbed that I squirmed myself into consciousness.

“It’s all right, Sophie. You’re okay. We’re just swapping your IV.”

Who was that? “I’m Dr. Weaver. I work with Dr. Carter and Dr. Lyon.”

I squinted away the bright light and focused on his face. Older, like Dr. Lyon, but unfamiliar. “Where am I?” I croaked.

“You’re at the lab.”

“Where’s Wes? Where’s my mom?” I tried to lift my head, but it felt heavy, and my neck hurt really badly. In fact, my whole body ached. Again.

“They’re upstairs. With Dr. Carter and Dr. Lyon. Don’t worry, the doctors will be down soon. You’re in recovery. We just need you to rest.”

“Recovery?” And what did he mean by the doctors’ return? And what about Wes?

“Wes? I need to talk to Wes,” I mumbled.

There was another prick in my arm and then the sound of tape tearing. “There now. You’re all set. Just rest. Everything went well.”

What did that mean? And why wasn’t Wes here?

“What do you mean by ‘everything’?” I asked, still lacking the strength to lift my head. The doctor directed his attention to someone I hadn’t noticed before.

“Go get her mother. Tell her she’s awake.”

Finally.

He kept telling me to rest, but all I wanted to do was move. I wiggled my toes and fingers, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here, and everything ached like I had been sitting down for too long. Within a few minutes, my mom rushed into the room, leaning over my bedside. “Thank God.”

“What happened?”

She started rubbing my head. “Wes found you passed out on the bathroom floor. They had to sedate you until they could get your organs functioning properly.”

“For how long? What’s wrong with me?”

“Honey, you’re going to be okay.”

I shook my head. “Where’s Wes?”

She smiled softly. “Honey, he gave some of his blood so they could extract the antibodies for the treatment that’s healing you. They’ve been working on it for a while, and it’s supposed to stop your body from attacking itself.” She smiled again, ignoring my question.

“Well, where is he? Why isn’t he with me?” I began squirming, feeling held down against my will.

She paused a moment and then her shoulders sank, which didn't give me a good feeling. “He’s having a procedure done.”

“What kind of procedure?”

She avoided my gaze and started moving my hair away from my face.

“What procedure?” I pressed.

“They’re taking blood from him.”

“Now?” Suddenly finding the strength, I sat up.

“He wasn’t sure whether you were going to make it, so he and Dr. Carter are attempting to reverse his transformation. So he can be normal. He thinks—”

“I know what he thinks,” I squeaked. “He can’t.” I tried to get up. Suddenly, people I hadn’t noticed before lurched forward and held me down. I couldn’t tell whether I was in a lab or an insane asylum. “Get off of me,” I growled.

“Sophie, calm down.”

“I want to talk to him,” I said through gritted teeth.

“That’s not possible right now, honey,” my mother responded.

“Please!” I begged.

For a moment, our eyes locked in a moistened stare-down. “Please,” I repeated.

She exchanged glances with Dr. Weaver until he nodded. “Let me check with Dr. Carter,” he muttered.

“Hurry,” my mom advised.

Leaning over, she hugged me and whispered in my ear. “He knows what he’s doing Sophie. You have to trust him.”

My head shook and the first tears fell. “How could you let him do that?” I whimpered.

“I didn’t have a choice, honey. I tried to tell him to wait. And he did, but yesterday you took a turn for the worse, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He insisted that you wouldn’t be okay until he set everything right.”

I just kept shaking off her words and his stupid idea. How could they? How could he? When he knew I couldn’t stop him? I was so angry and afraid at the same time. I wanted to scream, and it took everything I had to focus.

“What are they doing to him?” I asked.

“He said it would be something similar to dialysis. Tom shared his original blood type, so he’d been donating his blood over the past several weeks to build up to the possibility of a procedure.”

“Several weeks? How long was I out?”

“Six days.”

“So you knew this was coming?”

“No. Tom didn’t tell me. Wes asked him not to.”

I threw my head back, prompting a sharp pain behind my eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

He couldn’t just get rid of his cold blood. It wouldn’t work. Just as I was about to burst, Dr. Weaver came in, followed by Dr. Carter. Dr. Carter was holding a clipboard, and he chose to look at it instead of at me.

“What’s wrong?” I prodded, sitting back up, challenging him.

“Nothing,” Dr. Carter responded sheepishly.

“Then why can’t I see Wes?”

“He’s being treated. He’s not conscious right now. The transfer is still taking place.”

Somehow I mustered up enough energy and pushed my legs over the side of the bed, even though I was still connected to the IV. “I want to see him. Right now.”

I was more than prepared to argue, but he just smiled. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just amazed at how much better you are today. This is a huge accomplishment. The treatment appears to be working.” I shook off his optimism and tried to stand. “No,” he said. “You shouldn’t strain yourself. We’ll wheel you there.” He turned around. “Bring her the chair.”

I glared at my mother. If anything happened to Wes while I was unable to take care of him, I’d never forgive anyone, including myself.

They wheeled me and my IV to the elevator and on to the floor where he was being treated. We proceeded along a hallway lined with doorways, much like the level where the lab tests were done.