Dangerous Dreams: A Novel

by Mike Rhynard

  Allie frowned, decided she’d better wear a lot more than usual.

  He smiled. “Don’t worry. A female tech will do all the wiring. Then after you fall asleep, I’ll be in the adjacent room watching the poly data on a remote monitor. So backing up a bit, after you’re wired, we’ll do a test run to make sure everything’s working right and then let you fade off to sleep.”

  “How many wires and where?”

  “Good question. There’ll be nearly thirty data channels, which will measure primarily brain activity because that’s what we’re most interested in; but we’ll also measure breathing rate, pulse, leg movement, and eye movement. So when you wake up and complete a dream log, we’ll try to correlate all the squiggly lines with the events you report from your dreams. Then based on what we find, we may change a few measurement parameters to focus on something in Allie O’Shay’s brain that catches our eye . . . like unusual activity in different regions, but the routine will be about the same. And depending on what we find, we may even move on to PET scans and MRIs, start looking at neuronal balance and synapses in different parts of your brain. The bottom line here is that you’re incredibly unique; and though I hesitate to use the word, you truly are a mutation from the norm. So your brain activity is probably far more pronounced and dramatic than a normal person’s would be, which I hope will make it easier to trace to the point, or points, of activity origin in your brain, so we can see what’s going on.”

  “Makes sense . . . intuitively. Something’s going on, for sure. But can people really fall asleep with all those wires and electrodes on them?”

  “Most do.”

  “Well, I think I’ll be very self-conscious, and I’ll be amazed if I can fall asleep.” This ain’t gonna work. Can’t afford to lose a minute of sleep time. Stuff happens too fast, might miss something.

  He shrugged. “Well, we’ll just have to try it and see what happens; and if you can’t sleep, we’ll try some low-grade sleeping pills . . . here.” He pulled a sheet off the top of the prescription pad on his desktop, scribbled on it, handed it to Allie. “Take this to the hospital pharmacy, and bring the pills with you tomorrow in case you need a little help falling asleep. The U has an account for this project and will cover the charges.”

  Allie suppressed the smile that wanted to appear on her face.

  “So since we’ll be looking at how all those parameters I mentioned change with the happenings in your dreams, and to get the max amount of recall, we’ll wake you up right after each REM period, and—”

  “What? No, Doc. I can’t do that.”

  His eyes widened. “May I ask why not?”

  “Sure. I can’t afford to miss a second of dream time. I’ve got to know what’s happening to Emily. Can’t be waking up and going through all the NREM stages again. I just can’t.”

  “Hmm. I see your concern; and I guess since your recall is so extraordinary, we could dispense with the wakeups . . . at least give it a try.” Can’t chance disrupting her, he thought. Got to keep it as normal as possible.

  “Great.” She squinted, pursed her lips. “You know, there’s another reason not to do it. I may be dreaming in NREM as well as REM, and we’d lose that if you woke me up after each REM.”

  “Good point”—she’s quick—“though NREM dreams are usually scary, and yours aren’t . . . I mean, in the bizarre sense. But no matter, at this point, I’m not taking anything for granted. We’ll skip the wakeups.”

  “Okay.” She smiled. “Wish I could start tonight.”

  “Me, too. I’m really excited about this, Allie.” He stared into her eyes, lingered a moment.

  Allie stared back, wondered why his wife had divorced him. She stood to leave. “Hey, Doc . . . Steve, I’m curious. How did you convince the committee to let me be your assistant?”

  He put his fist over his mouth, coughed, coughed again. “Well, the truth is, I can’t tell you.” Guilt inundated his mind as he thought of the compromise of professional integrity he’d committed to gain the support of the female professor Allie had twice seen him with. But there’d been no other way, he’d reasoned—the selection of his assistant had been imminent, and the research committee had settled on a favorite and lacked only a confirmation vote. No, without her support, he could never have swung the vote in Allie’s favor; and Allie was the Holy Grail, the linchpin, the once-in-a-century opportunity to achieve the breakthrough he now believed was within reach. Besides, he thought, Dr. Melinda Harvey—wild, sexually breathtaking Melinda Harvey—had approached him, rather than the other way around, about growing the relationship they’d begun with their torrid, one-night fling the year before; and though he hadn’t wanted a deeper relationship and felt conspicuously deceitful about using her, he’d agreed in silent exchange for her support. It had worked, and now he had to honor his commitment, which he knew would be pleasant at first but become increasingly difficult with time because he didn’t love her and knew his carnal passions would cool. Then there’s Allie, he thought—Allie the person; her growing emotional entwinement with Emily and the dreams is consuming her in a worrisome way that scares me because of where it might lead. Something bad happened to her great-great-grandmother because of her dreams; and even though I barely know Allie, I don’t want—can’t allow—the same thing to happen to her.

  Allie’s eyes probed deeply, piercingly. “Okay . . . but whatever you did, thanks . . . thanks very much.” Thin, grateful tears glossed her eyes.

  “My pleasure, Allie. I’m really glad I’ve gotten to know you . . . and not just because of your incredible dreams . . . you’re a neat young lady.”

  Allie was on her way to the pharmacy when a tantalizing, but disconcerting, thought nibbled its way into her mind, made her heart race with mischievous anticipation then pound with the same guilt she’d felt when she lost her virginity—a wonderful, whimsical breath of serendipity that told her to go home and make a copy of the prescription so she’d have Dr. Dressler’s signature and his penned ID number to forge prescriptions for the drugs she’d need to increase her REM sleep. It would be easy to peel a few prescription sheets from the pad on his desk when he wasn’t looking, easier still to pen in the drug of her choice, his signature, and his ID. She cringed at the deceitfulness of it but quickly discarded her misgivings in favor of the excitement of knowing she’d be able to dream at will, be with Emily . . . if she were still alive . . . see her saga through to the end.

  Allie pulled off the road, stopped the car, stared out the windshield. “And then what, Allie? Are you going to become an addict? Why are you doing this to yourself?” She flipped down the sun visor, looked at the picture of herself on her horse, pinned there with her favorite quote just below it: To thine own self be true.

  “I’m already addicted to the dreams, can’t live without them, got to be with Emily.”

  “Come on, Allie. You’re stronger than that. Your parents raised you better. You’re talking fraud, forgery, crimes. Don’t do it.”

  “But I have to. It’s the only way . . . at least until we figure this out.”

  “But by then it’ll be too late. Allie O’Shay will be no more. She’ll be a worthless, hopeless addict like all those sorry, lost souls you’ve pitied over the years. Don’t do it, Allie. It’s wrong!”

  She U-turned, drove toward her apartment and her copy machine.

  After picking up her sleeping pills, Allie returned to the apartment, glanced at her copy of the doc’s prescription. I can do this easy. She picked up a pen and wrote his signature. Not bad. She then pulled Dreamlife and The Dreaming Brain from the shelf, sat at the computer. Wonder what these guys say about increasing REM sleep. She started flipping through Dreamlife, stopped on a passage that caught her eye. She studied the passage for a moment. Hmm . . . basically says dreams are sometimes dangerous because they can simmer beneath the surface until they flare up and envelope us. An icy chill raced through her body. That’s me . . . and I’ve just started down the pathway to perdition. She trembled as
she thought about her plan, stared across the room at the picture of her and her family at her college graduation, then shook her head as a hesitant tear rolled down each cheek. She sighed, rubbed her eyes, rationalized that perhaps the drugs wouldn’t be addictive.

  “Don’t lie to yourself, Allie. You’re a fool for doing this.” She checked the time—only 7:30 p.m.—resumed her page scan. Better do this quick, need to dream.

  At 8:30 Allie decided to quit, head for bed; she nodded as she reviewed her interpretations of the material she’d just read:

  •Background

  oBrain activity depends on number of neurons, their interconnections, and their level of excitation—20-100 billion neurons in the brain.

  oNeuron = molecular structure—generates electrical signals— communicates its level of excitation to another neuron across a synapse

  oWaking state—aminergic system (neurons and their protein molecules [called amines]) dominates communication across synapses

  oDreaming state—when the cholinergic system (neurons and their acetylcholine molecules) dominates communication across synapses

  oThus, whether you’re awake or dreaming depends on whether the aminergic or cholinergic system dominates communication across synapses.

  ▪Aminergic dominance = waking state

  ▪Cholinergic dominance = dreaming state

  •How to increase dreaming state/REM

  oInjection of acetylcholine accelerates onset and increases frequency & duration of REM sleep & dreaming.

  oGet same effect by blocking acetylcholinesterase (stuff that breaks down acetylcholine to end dreaming state)—lets acetylcholine last longer— prolongs REM = more and longer dreaming

  •Drugs that do that:

  oAcetylcholine increasers and acetylcholinesterase blockers available as prescription drugs for myasthenia gravis, glaucoma, and other ailments—many choices.

  oPyridostigmine (acetylcholinesterase blocker) looks best

  ▪Longer lasting than others—oral, time-release capsule

  ▪All have lots of possible side effects—the usual stuff.

  ▪OD can cause severe illness, including muscle weakness.

  ▪Symptoms of excessive acetylcholine are many & ugly.

  ▪Addiction possible—read more

  ▪Rx drug is Mestinon.

  Wow! Time release and all . . . maybe take a little extra, dream all night and morning, read more tomorrow, check the fine print. Meanwhile, to bed. She looked at the clock. Jeez, Allie, only been awake for a little over seven hours.

  Her computer gonged to announce an incoming email.

  Allie,

  Have to come see you tomorrow. Got to be at the ranch the next day.

  Will be at Jordan’s tonight. See you tomorrow AM, NLT 10.

  Love,

  Mom

  Well, so much for sleeping late. She picked up the phone, dialed home. Damn it! She emailed because she knew if she called I’d tell her not to come, didn’t want to argue about it. She’s on a mission, scared, something really bad. Damn it! No answer. Well, I can still get a good twelve hours . . . about one and a half pills? Yup.

  She changed into her night clothes, walked into the bathroom, thought about Emily. What will I find? A pang of sadness tugged at her heart as she visualized Emily dead, face up on the beach, crabs and gulls picking at her beautiful eyes. A too-familiar wave of apprehension swept her mind like a fast-moving storm, left a gnawing fear in its wake. Lord, please let her make it . . . George and her father, too. Somehow, let them make it. God, I want her to live.

  She looked at herself in the mirror, searched her eyes. “Who are you turning into, Allie O’Shay? You’re wrecking your life . . . don’t do it.”

  She cut a pill in half, washed it down with a whole one. Hmm, maybe I can do the REM drug and some sleeping pills together. Better read more tomorrow. Birthmark itches bad.

  She walked into the bedroom, flopped onto the bed, stared at the ceiling. Allie Girl, what’s gonna become of you?

  Chapter 12

  As the sun passed its zenith and slid toward the western horizon, a heavy, salt-fish smell permeated the narrow outer banks like morning mist. The measured roar of ocean waves breaking onto the eastern shore overwhelmed the soft swoosh of gentle waves from the sound as they lapped at Emily and Thomas Colman’s feet. They lay face down, motionless on the sand, small crabs skittering about on their bodies, gulls waiting patiently nearby for the imminent feast.

  Emily stirred, rolled to her left side; the gulls flapped grudgingly into the air; the crabs scurried onto the sand. She looked down the shoreline with blurry, exhausted eyes, saw boards, pieces of rope, other debris littering the beach, nothing on the water. Sand covered her cheeks and forehead like grainy powder; and her hair was a tangled, sandy mop that hung down over her face as if she had just awakened from a weeklong sleep. So sticky and damp, she thought. She rolled right, onto her forearms, propped herself up, pushed the hair from her eyes, then looked to the left. “Father!” She pulled her knees under her, started to crawl toward him. “Father!” She pushed shakily to her feet, stepped toward him, staggered, dropped back to her knees, crawled the last yard. She pushed his shoulder. Nothing. Pushed again, harder. “Father! Wake up!” Is he breathing? She rolled him onto his back, wiped the sand from his face. His eyes were closed, face pale as the sand, chest flat and still. She snatched a fluffy gull feather from the sand, held it an inch from his nose and mouth, saw it flutter softly. Breathing. He’s alive. “Father! Wake up!” She pushed his shoulder again.

  Thomas Colman opened his eyes, blinked twice. “Emily . . . where are we?”

  She sighed, smiling weakly. “I don’t know, but . . . but we’re alive.” She kissed his cheek, closed her eyes; saw the seething black cauldron of water, she and her father clinging desperately to their board; saw herself pulling him back onto it when he’d passed out and slid off; kicking, screaming at him to hold on; saw herself slipping beneath the surface, exhausted, nearly drowning, refusing to surrender to the waves, grabbing the plank again; kicking, praying, fighting the evil water, her injured arm screaming in pain. She saw the lightning flash, the emptiness where George and the ship had been, remembered her scream, her desolate despair, her frantic cries. She raised her head, again looked up and down the shore, scanned for survivors. “George! George!” She cried softly, then wailed, shuddered; slowly lowered her face to the wet sand, dug her fingers into its soft, warm, claylike texture.

  Colman rolled onto his side, put his arm around her. “Emily, what happened to George?”

  She sobbed on.

  He pushed her shoulder. “Emily, where’s George?”

  “He’s dead, Father. Drowned. Dragged down with the ship . . . saving others . . . saved you and me. Gone, Father. He’s gone. Don’t you remember?”

  Colman pushed himself close to her. “No, Em, I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything after the mast broke.”

  Emily stopped crying, sat up, wiped her eyes. “George saved you, Father. You were unconscious. He brought you to that board over there.” She pointed at the six-foot plank lying on the shore behind him. “I was already there—he saved me, too. Then after he rescued you, he went back for others who were caught in the rigging . . . then everything was gone.” She looked out at the sound. “They’re all out there somewhere . . . under the water, tangled with the pinnace . . . I want to go back and find George. I can’t bear the thought of him dead out there in the water. I’m going out to find him.” She stood, walked to the plank, lifted the end, started dragging it into the water.

  Colman watched for a moment with hanging jaw and dumfounded eyes, then rose, walked to her, gently put his arm around her shoulder as he gripped the plank with his other hand. “ Em, you cannot go out there. You’ve no idea where to look, and there’s nothing to be done, even if you find something. Nay, Daughter, there’s naught you can do for George but thank God for his bravery and pray he’s in heaven.” He guided her down to the sand.
“And I must thank you, my dear, brave daughter, for somehow holding me on that board all night and getting me to this shore.”

  She looked at him with numb eyes, saw nothing, tried to grasp his words; leaned her head against his chest, wrapped her arms around him as she’d done as a little girl, closed her eyes; moaned softly, hid herself in the solace of his embrace. But her mind returned to George—his surprised, smiling face when she’d shoved him and run away on the pathway to the shore their first day at Roanoke, his lingering sorrow at the loss of his mother, his breathless grief at the brutal murder of his father, the adoring honesty in his eyes when he told her he loved her more than life itself. As she sobbed and pulled her father closer, she suddenly saw George tethered to the ship, floating underwater, blank eyes staring at her, begging for help. She moaned softly as she blinked the vision away.

  After a long silence, Colman said, “Come, Em, we must pray for George . . . and for ourselves, I fear.” With a damp stiffness, he guided himself and Emily to their knees. They looked like out-of-place sculptures wrapped in a tight-fitting cloak of silence. He held her hand, looked skyward. “Almighty Lord, we, your children, offer you profound thanks for our deliverance from the wicked jaws of the sea. We also thank you for any others you may have spared.” He coughed. “Lord, we also commend to you the spirits of those who perished in this terrible storm . . . especially that of young George Howe, who sacrificed himself that others might live. No finer soul have you ever put upon this earth.”

  Wailing and trembling, Emily sank back on her heels, lowered her face to her sandy hands.

  “And may he revel in your grace in paradise. Last, Lord, please guide us as we seek our deliverance. And when we’ve been reunited with our brethren, protect us as we struggle to survive in this hostile land, so all may serve your will. Amen.”

  Colman lowered his gaze to Emily, then leaned forward and touched the back of her head, glided his fingers through her hair, softly caressed the back of her neck.