Dreamers Often Lie

by Jacqueline West

  “. . . As we’ve said, according to the most recent scan, the contusion looks relatively minor.”

  Mom nodded, her eyes coasting over my face. I wasn’t sure she even saw me.

  “Of course,” the doctor went on, “in cases where consciousness seems unstable, we . . .”

  Sadie slipped another bite of Jell-O into my mouth. Behind her, Hamlet raised the cracked yellow skull. Its bony forehead was wrapped in strips of white medical gauze.

  I almost choked.

  “Too much?” Sadie asked.

  I shook my head.

  “. . . due to the impact to the frontal lobe,” the doctor concluded.

  Hamlet tapped the front of the skull helpfully. I glared at him.

  “With this type of injury, it’s just hard to tell,” the doctor said, answering some question from Mom. “Effects on memory, personality, physical functions can vary widely . . .”

  Hamlet made the skull nod at me. I closed my eyes.

  I’d heard speeches like this one before. It had been two years, but the words were still as clear as memorized dialogue in my head. Frontal lobe. Cranial hemorrhage. May not regain consciousness. I wished I could swat the words out of the air like wasps, keep them from ever touching my mother again.

  “Want any more?” Sadie asked.

  Don’t let them know what you see.

  I opened my eyes. “Sure. Thanks.”

  I kept my gaze on my sister’s hands, away from the dark figure behind her.

  “. . . especially with the severity of the headaches she seems to be experiencing. Then there’s the bruised cartilage in the rib cage, although that seems to be causing her less pain already. And of course there’s the scalp laceration. It’s healing well, the staples are out, things are looking good. With time, it should fade to a faint scar.”

  I swallowed another spoonful. “When can I go home?”

  Everyone’s heads swiveled toward me. Hamlet tilted the skull inquisitively at the others.

  Sadie’s face was unreadable. The doctor looked at my mother. Mom’s gaze skidded past my face and onto the pillow.

  “. . . Soon,” said Mom at last.

  The doctor patted my ankle. “We’d like to keep you under observation here just a bit longer.”

  “I understand.” My throat still burned, and now it was sticky with Jell-O, but I tried to put on my calmest, most mature voice. My Meryl Streep voice. “I’ve just missed so much school already. I want to get back to normal as soon as I can.”

  “That’s what we want too.” The doctor gave me a smile. “We just need to make sure you do it safely. And even after we release you, you’ll have to keep taking it easy for a while. No activities. No screens. Minimal reading. Nothing that would tax your brain. It’s dull, I know, but your brain needs time to repair itself.”

  “That means no school for a while,” said Mom, in a voice like tissue paper.

  The doctor turned from me to my mother. “She’s really doing very well.” He waited for her to nod. She didn’t. “Any other questions?” he went on, looking around. “From any of you?”

  “No.” Mom had to clear her throat and repeat the word. “No. Thank you.”

  “I’ll check on you again soon.” The doctor gave us all another nod and smile before striding out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him. I realized that Hamlet had vanished too.

  Mom stepped closer to the bed. She placed one hand on Sadie’s shoulder. Then, tentatively, she reached out and put her other hand on my arm. She looked like someone walking across an icy street, holding on to both of us for balance.

  Sadie stared down at my blankets.

  Mom let out a long, quiet breath. One of her yoga breaths. Then she forced her eyes up to my face. “Would you like us to bring you anything from home? Any clothes, or bath stuff, or . . .”

  “No, thanks. It’s okay.” I gave Mom a smile. “I just want to go home.”

  “You will.” Her voice was carefully light. “Soon.”

  “I’m feeling fine. Honestly. I mean, my head aches, but it’s not that bad. Really, Mom.”

  Mom gave a little nod. She chafed her hands together.

  “It’s just—you know—if I could be recovering out there instead of in here, I’d choose out there.” The ache behind my eye let off a small explosion. I fought to keep from wincing. “Maybe I could do half days at school, or something. Or maybe I could just go to rehearsals at first, and keep up with everything else at home.”

  Mom gave another tiny nod. “We’ll see.”

  “The doctor just said I’m doing really well, right? And I don’t want to waste any more time.” Stay calm. Mature. Logical. “I mean—I can catch up with everything else on my own, but the play is—” STAY CALM. “It’s a one-time thing. This might be my only chance to play this role. Maybe ever. If I don’t go back soon, Mr. Hall will have to give my part away.”

  Sadie gave a noisy sigh. Over her shoulder, I could see that Shakespeare had reappeared in his vinyl chair below the window.

  Mom straightened slightly. “Jaye . . . the play is not the most important thing here.”

  Shakespeare’s eyes were like magnets. I had to fight not to look at him. “It is to me.”

  “It’s not more important than you getting better.”

  “But it’s why I need to get better.” Desperation was seeping into my voice. I squeezed it out again. “I mean, it’s part of why. Please, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll be careful. I just need to get out of here.”

  “Jaye . . .” Mom turned to Sadie for support, but Sadie was staring into the Jell-O’s wobbly red depths, pointedly keeping still. Mom turned back to me with a sigh. “If the doctors think you’re well enough, and if you’re really feeling and acting like normal, then . . . Soon.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Soon.”

  I could do that.

  I could act normal. I could pretend to be the pain-free, ordinary, everyday Jaye. The one who belonged in the auditorium with Nikki and Tom and Pierce, running lines for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The one who couldn’t see William Shakespeare leaning back in his hospital chair at this very second, picking a bit of lint off his tights. He gave me a knowing smile. I ripped my eyes away.

  You can pretend everything’s fine, I told myself, turning back to Mom. Pretend you can handle all of this. Just like you’ve been doing for years.

  CHAPTER 3

  Voices rippled through the dimness. One higher, one lower. Both unfamiliar. Coming from somewhere nearby. My eyelids were heavy, but I raised them just enough to let in a blurry sliver of light.

  I was still in the hospital room.

  It was night, or very early morning. The walls were gray mist. The reflection of moonlight on snow—or maybe just the haze of city streetlights—slipped around the edge of the blinds, and a thin band of electric light slid through the crack under the door.

  In the dimness, I could see two figures standing beside my bed. One was tall and narrow. The other was small, with short, choppy hair. At first I thought the smaller one might be Nikki, but when it spoke, it didn’t have her voice.

  “Blood pressure?” the tall one murmured.

  “One sixteen over seventy,” said the small one.

  The tall one leaned closer. High cheekbones. Pointed chin. “Bandage?” he asked. Tiny green lights, like fireflies, whirled above his head.

  “Right here.”

  I felt a tug on the tender spot inside my elbow.

  The other face moved nearer. I could see its sharp features, its messy hair full of leaves.

  Something cool and damp rubbed my inner arm. Something else pattered down onto my face, sprinkling my half-shut eyelids.

  Raindrops? I thought. No. Petals.

  Oh, said my groggy brain. Right. A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Puck and Oberon. How did the love spell go
? Flower of this purple dye, hit with Cupid’s archery; when thou wakest, if he be by . . .

  The petals dissolved against my burning forehead. I felt each wet spot shrinking at the edges, tightening on my skin. What came next? If he be by . . . But the words were vanishing like the petals, going up in little puffs of flame.

  Oberon’s voice spoke again. “. . . No more than the weary vexation of a dream. Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen.”

  Titania’s line. What was it? The ache roared hotter. Come on. They’re all waiting. Everyone’s waiting . . .

  A blast of yellow light fanned across the room.

  I blinked.

  A male nurse in blue scrubs was just gliding out the open door. Another nurse, a woman with short curly hair, tucked the sheets gently under my side.

  “There she is,” the nurse whispered. “Any pain?”

  I shook my head. A lie.

  “You’ve been getting some real sleep?”

  I swallowed. Even my tongue felt scorched. “I think so. It’s kind of hard to tell.”

  The nurse smiled. “Well, even if you’re not completely out, just lying still and resting your brain will help.”

  “That’s the problem.” I closed my eyes halfway, blocking out the light from the open doorway. “My brain really doesn’t want to rest.”

  “Remember your technique.” The nurse gave the sheet a last tug. “Focus on that calming image, and clear your mind as well as you can.”

  Calming image. Calming image? What else had I forgotten?

  Before I could start to panic, an empty stage with red velvet curtains settled down in the center of my mind.

  I felt my bones loosen.

  “Got it?” the nurse murmured.

  I closed my eyes the rest of the way. “Got it.”

  “Good. Now, just rest.” Her voice shrank as she backed away. “Press the button if you need anything.”

  There was a click from the door. The yellow glow disappeared. I could feel the darkness against my eyelids.

  The empty stage waited.

  I knew just how my footsteps would sound if I climbed up onto the black boards. I knew how those red velvet curtains would feel against my fingers: heavy and fur-soft on the outside, rough and rigid on the back. I gazed up at the imaginary stage in the imaginary theater in my head, and my breaths came easier. The fire in my skull was burning down.

  It hadn’t quite gone out when the curtains gave a ripple.

  And then, again, there were voices.

  First it was Oberon’s. Wake when some vile thing is near . . . Beneath that, very softly, I could hear Hamlet muttering about dreams, and then another voice, another man’s voice, repeating, I dreamt a dream tonight, again and again, until my head pounded along with the words. What play was that from? I couldn’t remember.

  Don’t try, I told myself. Empty stage.

  But the voices wouldn’t stop. And now there were more. Oberon and Puck, and Hamlet, and Lady Macbeth joining in with her sleepwalking scene. The curtains rippled again, like someone on the other side was struggling to get out. I tried to hold them still.

  Empty stage. Empty stage.

  But the harder I tried, the stronger it got, until the folds of velvet split apart.

  I braced myself for Shakespeare, like last time. But the person who stepped out onto the stage was someone younger. Someone in dark clothes. Someone with an angular jaw and tapering eyebrows. Pale eyes. Tangled black hair.

  This time I recognized him. Maybe because the lighting was better. Maybe because now he was onstage, where he belonged.

  Romeo stepped over the lip of the stage and headed toward me. His legs were long and thin, but he moved smoothly. Almost gracefully. He wore a little half smile.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” I asked sleepily. “In the snow.”

  He sat down in one of the chairs beside my bed, just far back enough that I couldn’t see him, not even from the corner of my eye. But I could feel him there. Listening.

  “You know . . . Oberon and Puck make sense,” I said after a second. My voice was starting to slur. “I’m in their play. Shakespeare makes sense. I guess Hamlet and his stupid cracked skull make sense. But I haven’t even read Romeo and Juliet in years.”

  Still no answer.

  “Fine. Don’t talk to me. I won’t talk to you either.” I turned my eyes up to the ceiling. “I don’t need someone to walk in and find me calling an empty chair Romeo, anyway.”

  “No one’s going to walk in,” said a voice. Deep. Familiar. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Look.” I tried to point at the window, but my arm just gave a little flop against the blanket. “It’s almost morning. You have to go.”

  “That’s just the moon.” The sheets crinkled softly as he leaned over the bed. “Let’s talk. It’s not day yet.”

  I closed my eyes. Don’t let them know what you see.

  “I get it,” I said. Or I thought I said. My lips felt fuzzy, and my body was full of wet sand, and the mist was swirling closer. “That was a dream, and this is a dream, and Hamlet and Puck and Shakespeare and everything else. Because of this.” I tried to point to my head. Another arm-flop. “But I know it. I’m not crazy.” I managed to pull my hand out of his grasp. “I know it.”

  “Juliet,” I thought I heard him say, before the darkness wrapped itself around me again. It coiled gently, turning me heavy and boneless, and it had just pulled me down to a place where there were no more words or faces or questions when my sister’s voice reached in and dragged me back up.

  “Jaye, you could try to help me out here. You don’t make a great Barbie doll.”

  I looked down.

  I had gotten out of bed. Partway out of it, at least. My back was braced against the mattress, and I could see my own bare feet on the white tile floor, very far away.

  Sadie was crouched beside me, yanking a pair of khaki pants up my legs.

  I smeared the confusion off my face. Just pretend. Pretend this is the dressmaking scene from Jezebel, and you’re Bette Davis.

  “Who picked out these clothes?” I asked as Sadie wrenched the waistband up under my hospital dress.

  “Who do you think? I’m afraid to step inside your room, let alone into your closet. Something made of black velvet and dust bunnies would swallow me.”

  Sadie untied the hospital gown. As she slid it over my arms, I noticed that the needles were gone. Fraying wads of cotton were held against my skin with strips of tape. I looked like an old couch leaking its stuffing.

  Sadie held out a peachy-pink sweater. “Arms up.”

  “Oh my god. I haven’t even seen that sweater since middle school.”

  “Let’s hope it still fits, or you’ll have to wear your hospital gown home. Arms up.”

  Sadie pried the sweater over my head. Its fibers scraped a tender spot, making me suck in a breath.

  Sadie grabbed my wrist before I could rub my sore forehead. “Hold still. We’re not done yet.” She pulled my arms down, tugging hurriedly at the sweater cuffs. “God, I can’t wait to get out of here.”

  “You can’t wait?” I stepped into the boots Sadie had positioned for me, wobbling a little. “I hate these places.”

  Sadie stared into my eyes. “Plus, you’re feeling much better, right? Not just trying to escape?”

  “Yes,” I said defensively. “I’m feeling much better.”

  Mom stepped into the room. Her winter coat hung open over a zippered sweatshirt, and her hair looked frosty-wet, like she’d rushed out of the house right after a shower. “All set, ladies?” Her eyes flicked around the room, not lingering anywhere. “Ready to go home?”

  I put on a smile that made my cheeks sting. “So ready.”

  They helped me into my winter coat. The long black wool felt scratchy and hot and unbelievabl
y heavy, like I was wearing a brick wall. My boots weighed twenty pounds apiece. With Mom and Sadie holding me by either arm, we shuffled out of the white room. I was sure an alarm would go off when we stepped through the door, like the two of them were shoplifting me. Had I actually pulled it off? Did everyone believe me? It took all my concentration to put one foot in front of the other, to keep my spine straight, to keep my head from tumbling off my neck.

  “Sorry I’m so slow.” I had to stop moving for a second to get the words out. “It feels like I haven’t walked in months.”

  Mom spun toward me, her face instantly worried. “But the nurses have been walking with you every day. You walked around this whole floor yesterday. Remember?”

  “Oh. Yesterday. Yeah.” I made my nod casual. “I just meant . . . I feel rusty. That’s all.”

  Mom tightened her grip. “Tell us if we’re going too fast. Or if this feels like too much for you right now, we could—”

  “No. I’m fine. I’m slow, but I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  The hallway walls were pale green. The floor was covered in misty gray tile. I could see our shadows coasting beneath us, like birds’ reflections in icy water.

  Other shadows fluttered behind us. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see an impatient nurse or doctor stuck in our wake.

  Instead, there were fairies.

  Three of them. They had sparkly skin and pointed features and bare feet. All three of them beamed at me.

  Then they started to sing, in little flutey fairy voices.

  Over hill, over dale, thorough brush, thorough brier;

  Over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire,

  I do wander everywhere, swifter than the moon’s sphere . . .

  I clenched my teeth and turned away. The fairies kept singing, skipping behind us, showering us with petals that apparently only I could feel.

  Mom gave me another anxious look. “Is something wrong?”

  “I just—I thought I forgot something. But I didn’t.” I tugged her hand with my arm. “Let’s go.”

  We turned the corner into another, busier hall. Elevator doors pinged open and shut in the distance. Patients with walkers and rolling IV poles stared after us with tired eyes. I kept my head down, pretending I couldn’t hear the harmonizing voices right behind us.