Lost in Dreams

by Roger Bruner

Although I’d told Aleesha about my guilt feelings months earlier, I hadn’t talked with her about them since. If she suspected that I was not only harboring, but nurturing those negative feelings, she didn’t say anything.

  So I dodged the issue in responding to Jo’s question. “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ll take the antidepressant, and maybe I’ll go see the psychologist, too.”

  “Psychiatrist,” Aleesha said. Why couldn’t I keep those two straight?

  Jo bent over and hugged me. Old times were back. That’s what I wanted to believe, anyhow.

  “Alice, uh, I’m sorry. Aleesha, how are you doing? I didn’t mean to ignore you. I understand you’ve become indispensable around here. Like a member of the family.”

  I couldn’t deny that Jo’s words were amazingly friendly. Accepting. Approving. And highly unprejudiced.

  But I still had a slight suspicion that—regardless of her choice of words—she preferred thinking of Aleesha as a servant and not a family member.

  “Only until Kim is up to taking over. I’ll teach her all of my housekeeping tricks, and then Mr. Scott will be so pleased he won’t even notice it’s not me anymore.”

  “Not unless he looks at the person doing the work,” Jo said.

  Strange comment. I decided to try something. “He still won’t be able to tell. He’s color-blind, you know.”

  Ahhh … Jo wasn’t able to squelch a major frown. Hitting below the belt might not have been fair, but I found out what

  I wanted to know.

  So Aleesha had been right about Jo all along, and the restoration of a good relationship between Jo and me wasn’t apt to bring her any closer to a friendship with Aleesha. I wondered why she’d bothered pretending to be nice to Aleesha. Probably to gain my approval.

  And it had almost worked.

  During those rare times I could focus enough to pray, I asked God to convict Jo of her prejudice—or could it just have been a strong dislike?—and to make ours a genuine, three-way friendship.

  Although Jo came over more frequently after that—she no longer tried avoiding Aleesha—I couldn’t see any improvement in their relationship. I really had to bite my tongue the time Jo said, “Aleesha, why don’t you run out to the kitchen and get Kim and me something to drink?”

  That superiority mentality angered and frustrated me, but Aleesha—future star of stage and screen—took control of the situation and appeared to have a great time doing it.

  “Yes’m, Miss Jo.”

  Despite Aleesha’s distaste for the racially derogatory aspects of Gone with the Wind—something she’d made me self-conscious about in Santa María when I told her GWTW had always been my favorite book and movie—she was playing the subservient Mammy role with style and sarcasm for Jo’s benefit. So Jo would benefit from the lesson Aleesha wanted to teach her, that was.

  “Would you gentle white folks prefer a soda, milk, coffee, iced tea, or water? And would you prefer sugared or unsugared drinks? I can run to the store if you want something we don’t have.”

  How Jo could have missed the sarcasm, I’ll never understand.

  “Maybe I’ll whip up a nice cake for you … from scratch,” she said. “And serve it unbaked,” she mouthed to me, “complete with eggshell fragments. “

  Jo couldn’t see what Aleesha was doing to her. No matter how much I felt like laughing—Jo deserved every bit of Aleesha’s put-on Uncle Tomfoolery—I almost felt sorry for her.

  Aleesha could take care of herself, but Jo? Uh-uh. She was no match for Aleesha.

  Before I could intervene, Jo announced, “No cake, but I am in the mood for a homemade milkshake. Aren’t you, Kim?”

  Jo, you don’t know what you’re asking for …

  “Sure ‘nough, Miss Jo. I just need to run out back and milk the cow first so the ingredients will be as fresh as you deserve.”

  Jo actually laughed at that, but she didn’t appear to notice that Aleesha was laughing even harder.

  “Miss Kim, your dad does have an ice cream maker, doesn’t he? Not one of those fancy electric ones that do all the hard work for you, but one I can hand-crank until I’m satisfied with the results.”

  “Sure. There ought to be one of those in the kitchen somewhere. Just check the cabinets. Or maybe the pantry. I’d help you if I—”

  “No, Kim,” Jo said. “You just stay where you are and rest. I’m sure Aleesha can find it.”

  I had no idea whether we owned an ice cream maker of any kind, but Aleesha had payback in mind, and I could hardly wait.

  “Chocolate or vanilla, Miss Jo?”

  “Surely you know chocolate will make my face break out …”

  Bad mistake telling her that, Jo. She’ll probably load your vanilla shake down with chocolate.

  “Could you just bring me a cola, please?” I said. “A diet cola, that is. With caffeine.” Since I was trying to set a good

  example, I smiled and said, “Thank you, Aleesha. That’s very thoughtful of you. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Okay, maybe I overdid it a tad, but I wanted to give Jo one last chance to avoid the consequences of her attitude. Unless she changed her mind about the milkshake and began treating Aleesha like the equal she was, she was in for big trouble.

  “One vanilla shake, one diet cola—with extra caffeine—and one belly laugh coming right up,” Aleesha said as she left the room.

  “Belly laugh?” Jo asked me. “What’s that? Some kind of mixed drink those black people drink?” At least she hadn’t used the n-word. I would have kicked her out for that. “Your dad doesn’t keep alcohol in the house, does he?”

  I couldn’t resist. “He doesn’t, but Aleesha does the grocery shopping now. I don’t know what all she buys. Dad doesn’t check the receipt. No telling what she’s chugging down in the kitchen right now.”

  Jo looked flabbergasted. I knew some Christians drink. Even some of the folks from church. But she didn’t. Her mama didn’t want to disillusion her.

  Aleesha did a lot of banging and clanging in the kitchen. Practicing to kill Jo, I suspected. Or at least to torture some sense into her. And Jo probably thought Aleesha had gotten drunk that quickly. She’d been within smelling distance of alcohol even less than I had, and that’s saying something.

  After twenty minutes of killing time rather than Jo, Aleesha came back. Whatever she’d done to that shake, it looked perfect. I almost regretted turning one down. At least she would have made mine edible.

  “I made this shake extra special, Miss Jo,” Aleesha said. “So don’t you go hurting my feelings by failing to drink every single drop of it. You understand?”

  I’d seen less ferocious looks than Aleesha’s on two grizzly

  bears in the zoo fighting over a piece of raw meat, but I’d never seen as strange an expression as Jo’s while forcing that shake down.

  Aleesha smiled when Jo handed her the empty glass and then belched loudly.

  “I have a little bit left in the kitchen, Miss Jo. Shall I fetch it for you?”

  Jo couldn’t respond, though. She was too busy running for the bathroom.

  I didn’t think Jo would ask Aleesha to play servant anymore. And I thought I’d go crazy waiting to ask Aleesha what she’d put in that milkshake.

  chapter sixteen

  As soon as Jo left the day we received the various diagnoses, Dad and I met in the living room. “Don’t you want to join us?” Dad asked Aleesha. His acceptance of her as a member of the family couldn’t have been a more complete contrast to Jo’s rejection. “We need to make a decision about going to the psychiatrist.”

  I wasn’t ready for her response, though. “Mr. Scott, I appreciate the invitation, but I have some unfinished homework. A project deadline is coming, and the end of the fall semester is just around the corner. I’m already reviewing for exams.”

  Although those things were true—the 4.0 GPA she had at midterm proved how seriously she took her studies—they were undoubtedly excuses. She must have thought Da
d and I could handle a few things without her help.

  “I don’t know what to think, Kim,” he said after Aleesha made her way upstairs. “I can’t imagine what in your head would affect your body this way.”

  Although he produced a feeble grin, I knew he wasn’t trying to be funny. We’d discussed my condition enough for me to know he favored any kind of help that might restore me to normal health. Anything short of a voodoo witch doctor, anyhow, but not necessarily exclusive of a faith healer. Concern for a family member could broaden the scope of any well-educated man’s faith. “In my head …?”

  How was I going to handle this? I couldn’t say anything about feeling guilty for killing Mom. I didn’t know whether

  he’d moved past his own guilt or not, but I was afraid his loving acceptance of me might change completely if he knew what I’d done. I couldn’t live with that possibility.

  “Mom’s death,” I said in a near-whisper, hoping he wouldn’t ask for specifics.

  “You’ve never lost anyone close to you, have you?” He knew I hadn’t, but I shook my head anyhow.

  “Your grandmother’s death didn’t upset you nearly as much as it did me.”

  He’d never said anything to me about his mother’s death. I shook my head again. “I didn’t know her very well.”

  He remained quiet for a moment. “I’ve spent so much time grieving over your mother’s death I’ve sometimes overlooked its effect on you. I’m afraid it’s hurt you more than I’ve realized.”

  I nodded, and then we met in a hug.

  More than you can realize, Dad. If only I could tell you what I’ve been going through … but you wouldn’t understand.

  How could you? I don’t understand it myself. I mean, what normal teen feels overwhelmed by guilt over her mother’s death because she called her mom while she was driving in bad weather? That’s irrational. It’s …

  It’s just plain crazy.

  chapter seventeen

  I didn’t look forward to seeing Dr. Lancaster, but at least he was a Christian. That established an immediate and significant bond. Almost as much of one as his assurance he wouldn’t tell Dad anything we talked about.

  I was so sick of lifelessness that I didn’t try to hold anything back. My words rushed like water from a collapsed dam. I talked about everything under the sun and a few things farther out in the solar system. He probably learned more about me during our first session than he knew about patients he’d been seeing for years.

  Those shrinks on TV always ask questions to probe their patients and make them understand themselves better. Dr. Lancaster didn’t have to. I asked questions and then I answered them myself.

  We ran out of time before I got around to telling him what was wrong with me, though. I don’t know why I didn’t start with that unless I wanted to make him feel he’d accomplished something worthwhile by the time he finally pulled that information out of me.

  Ha-ha!

  I started there on my next visit, though. Talking with someone who had nothing to gain or lose by hearing the truth proved amazingly easy. The truth as I saw it, anyhow.

  “Dr. Lancaster, I can tell you what’s behind my fatigue problem.”

  “You don’t say?” Nice, noncommittal response. The response of a professional listener. Probably only a few of his

  patients had ever attempted to diagnose their own problems. And only a handful of those people had been spot-on right.

  But I was one of them, and I knew it.

  “What I can’t tell you is how to cure it. I’ll leave that up to you.”

  There. Letting him handle that part should make him feel good.

  He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head in an unmistakable I’m listening posture.

  “I told you about calling Mom while I was waiting for her to pick me up at the airport …”

  He’d taken notes in a small notebook at our first meeting—he probably filled two of them and was wearing an elastic wristband today from all the writing. No notebooks this time, though. He was using a laptop. As much as I’d said at session one, he must have realized he couldn’t keep up with me a second time without typing.

  “What I didn’t tell you … Mom had her cell phone in her hand when they pulled her out of the car.”

  Dr. Lancaster stopped typing and looked at me. He’d probably heard just about everything during his lengthy career—he was even older than Dad—but I’ll bet he didn’t expect to hear that. He opened his mouth, but I kept going before he could speak. Not that I meant to be rude, but I had to finish before I lost my nerve. I wondered if this was anything like confessing sin to a priest.

  “According to cell phone records, she’d connected to voice mail just before the accident. She must have been listening to my message when she lost control of the car.”

  He wrinkled his brow. His eye twitched. I didn’t know the meaning of those motions in body language, but my story must have gotten to him.

  “I killed her, Dr. Lancaster. I might as well have. If I hadn’t

  called when I knew she was driving in horrible weather, none of this would have happened. If I hadn’t left voice mail, she’d still be alive.”

  I don’t know what I expected him to say, but he surprised me by not saying what I would have said to someone in the same predicament.

  Not something corny and unbelievable like “You can’t blame yourself.” Not, “But you needed to get in touch with her.” Not, “She made the decision to answer the phone, not you.” Not even, “You can’t be sure that being on the phone made her lose control of the car. “

  I’d already tried convincing myself of all those things. Asking, receiving, and accepting God’s forgiveness hadn’t helped as much as I’d expected. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been sitting in a psychiatrist’s office spilling my guts in an effort to overcome my fatigue.

  “Kim, you believe your feelings of guilt are the cause of your fatigue?”

  “What else could it be?” Judging by the faraway look in his eyes, my response must have stumped him. When he didn’t respond, I asked playfully, “Would you feel more comfortable talking about something else?”

  That brought him back to earth.

  “I’m sorry, Kim. You reminded me of a former client who experienced problems similar to yours.”

  “What happened to her? How did you solve her problem?”

  He turned away instead of responding. When he looked at me again, sorrow had replaced his normally emotionless expression. “You may want to change psychiatrists, Kim. I’m sure one of my colleagues can be more objective.”

  Huh? What are you talking about? You’ve told me I remind you of someone you’ve helped. Just answer the question, will you?

  “So how did you help her?” My persistence might have irritated him, but I couldn’t stand getting this close to a solution only to have him babble on about something irrelevant. Something that made no sense.

  “Kim, I … didn’t take her guilt feelings seriously enough. She … died. Before I could help.”

  A little part of me died then, too.

  chapter eighteen

  Although Aleesha started to open the front door for me, I didn’t want her to treat me like an invalid. So I pushed her hand away from the knob and opened it myself.

  “Dad,” I said in my most-energetic-but-still-pitifully-weak voice. “Dad …?”

  “Maybe he’s, uh, occupied,” Aleesha said before closing the door behind her. Her diplomacy amazed me at times. Especially compared with other times.

  I would’ve looked for him, but collapsing on the sofa took all the energy I had. I thanked God daily that at least I no longer felt like sleeping all the time, and today had been one of my more wakeful periods.

  “I’ll check on him,” she said. I didn’t object. A couple of minutes later, she was back. “Sounds like he’s on the phone. Maybe with Dr. Lancaster …”

  “Could be,” I said. “I gave him permission to talk with Dad as long as he doesn’t reveal w
hat I feel so guilty about.”

  If Aleesha’s wrinkled brow and scrunched eyebrows were any indication, she was as curious as I was about what my shrink might be talking with Dad about. But before we could speculate about it, the door to Dad’s home office opened, and he joined us in the living room.

  “Welcome home, Kim … Aleesha.” He kissed and hugged me before hugging her. I still couldn’t believe he’d kept all this warmth and affection bottled up inside for so many years.

  “That must have been some session you had with Dr. Lancaster.” He smiled.

  The good doctor must have been true to his word. Dad wouldn’t be smiling now if he’d learned about my crime. He’d start blaming me for Mom’s death, too, and I couldn’t live with that.

  “I suppose so,” I said. I hated to sound cautious, but Dad might have found out something I didn’t already know. That possibility made me uneasy.

  “From what Dr. Lancaster just told me, today was a breakthrough session. He’s never seen anything like this so early in counseling, and he’s been practicing for sixteen years.” He looked older than that. Especially at the end of today’s session.

  Dad must have been waiting for me to respond. I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “He didn’t tell you what my problem was, did he?” I had to know that before I could say anything else.

  “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. I knew he wouldn’t … and I knew you’d tell me whatever I want to know.”

  Need to know? Maybe. Want to know? No way.

  “Daddy …” I squirmed a bit on the sofa and started playing with one of the holes in the afghan. Mom would have gotten after me for stretching it. That thought was enough to make me stop.

  I couldn’t force myself to sit still, though.

  “I told him”—how much can I safely tell you?—”I told him I’ve been feeling really guilty about something.”

  Aleesha cleared her throat and shifted her weight. She hadn’t forgotten about the things I couldn’t tell Dad. I knew she was praying for me.

  His face grew a huge, instant crop of worry lines.