Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  Definitely.

  No, that was too freaky, insane, couldn’t be true.

  Resisting the urge to scream—only crazy people scream at themselves, and I wasn’t crazy, right?—I rinsed the shampoo and soap away, stepped from the shower, and grabbed a towel. I surprised myself when I realized it wasn’t just water heating my face but also tears.

  Had I just killed a patient? I sank down onto the bench in front of the lockers, hugging myself. Had my stubborn pride, vanity that I could handle my symptoms—denial that they were even symptoms at all—led me to freeze right when my patient needed me most?

  To hell with my delusions of hearing dead nuns… what about the reality that she might be dead because of me?

  I grabbed the blow-dryer, trying in vain to drown out the recriminations. Of course I’d lost patients before. What ER doc hasn’t? But I’d never felt responsible, to blame for it. Like I said, there’s no cure for death.

  But what if Patrice had had a chance? If I hadn’t frozen, if I had moved faster, could I have saved her?

  You know how sometimes it feels like the world around you is tumbling past, too fast to see or grasp hold of, as if you’re caught in a giant washer and your mind is the agitator, shouting, “This can’t be happening, this is not happening,” and there’s nothing you can do except accept that this is happening? That’s how I felt. Numb, uncertain, scared about everything I was denying. Which left me in a state of surreal calm.

  My hair still damp, I changed into my street clothes: a pair of cargo pants and a fleece pullover. My stomach clenched against fear. I did what I’d been too cowardly to do before: I called Louise.

  Louise Mehta is my best friend, a neurologist, and one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. Plus, she’s whiplash funny. You have not heard a dirty joke until you’ve heard it told by a middle-aged, meticulously dressed Indian woman with a posh British accent.

  But Louise does have her faults. She loves routine, likes everything to follow a precise order. Her life is governed by bullet points.

  Not me. As an ER doc, chaos is my constant companion. Lists and practice guidelines, standard operating procedures, paperwork in triplicate—they all give me hives. I like being flexible, juggling a bunch of ideas—often contradictory—playing devil’s advocate.

  Drove my mom nuts. I was the kid ignoring the silly coloring books and getting busy playing Michelangelo on the living room walls. But this new chaos overtaking my life? Too much even for me. I needed a sober voice, someone who could make sense of it all.

  “Hello?” A man answered on the fifth ring. Geoff, her husband. He’s a biostatistician—even more regimented than Louise, but somehow still fun to be around, although I almost never understood half of what he was talking about. The price of brilliant friends.

  “It’s Angie. Is Louise free?” Sounds of kids laughing and grownups talking filled the background. Right. Thanksgiving. A night when normal families got together and did normal family things. Don’t ask me what those are. My family congregates at my uncle’s bar to play music and get drunk. Turkey and apple pie optional.

  “She’s kind of tied up, Angie. Tiff ate two-thirds of a mincemeat pie and threw up all over her favorite dress. Louise is up giving her a bath and trying to save the dress before she melts down completely.” Their three-year-old fashionista is named Tiffany—both Louise and Geoff swear it was the other’s idea. “Is this an emergency?” he asked. “She’s not on call, but—”

  Was I really going to ruin my best friend’s holiday with a crazy story about a dead nun and hearing voices?

  Proof. I needed proof. Then I’d have something solid to fight.

  “No,” I told Geoff. “Just calling to wish you all a happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too, Angie. Take care.” He hung up.

  I couldn’t leave the ER without stopping at Mrs. Kowacz’s bedside. I’m no saint. More like a glutton for punishment. I needed to see if I could make it, this thing I had no name for, happen again. Mrs. Kowacz was the only not-quite-dead-yet person I knew.

  After all, muscle tremors and insomnia are one thing. Hallucinations? Catatonia? Seizures? Fits that leave patients dead? Those are symptoms that get you kicked out of medicine. Fast.

  Whatever these spells were, I was going to do it. Try to… I didn’t even have a word for it. Communicate?

  “Could I have a moment with her, please?” I asked Mrs. Kowacz’s extended family, interrupting their prayers. Three generations gathered around her, the youngest great-grandchild asleep beside her on the hospital bed, her children holding her hands, patting her shoulders, one granddaughter combing her hair smooth. “I’m leaving for the night and wanted to check her one last time.”

  The eldest son—in his late sixties himself—gathered the others and shooed them beyond the curtain, giving me some privacy. “Thank you, Dr. Rossi,” he said as he exited. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.”

  I forced a smile, feeling lousy for taking advantage of them and pushing them away even for a few minutes. “You’re welcome.”

  I made sure the curtain was closed and approached Mrs. Kowacz. She looked like she was sleeping. She was, in a way. Just wasn’t going to ever wake up, not from this nap. She looked so peaceful, I hated to disturb her.

  Who said I was? Maybe nothing would happen.

  My hand trembled as I took hers. Her hand was dry, the skin wrinkled along the back of it, tendons tough like gristle against my fingers. Nothing. No sounds except the whistle of the oxygen through the mask on her face.

  If I did hear Mrs. Kowacz’s voice, then what? I had some newfound psychic gift? Bullshit. It just meant my delusions were organized—didn’t make them any less delusional.

  This was a mistake. So typical of me, curiosity outweighing commonsense.

  Every fiber of my being screamed at me to drop her hand, walk away before something did happen, before I found out something about myself that I really, really did not want to know.

  I couldn’t move.

  I was frozen again, unable to blink, unable to do anything as the world around me shimmered with color and sounds. That damn angelic chorus again, this time humming a melody that was both spritely and haunting. Liszt, maybe?

  With the music, images blossomed in my mind, bright lights and hypersaturated, blinding color. Sights and sounds and smells that were foreign, that didn’t belong to me. As if I’d been catapulted into some bizarre 3-D movie with smell-o-vision. Hurtling through time and space, leaping from the pain of a skinned knee of a girl in pigtails to a gold wedding band slid on my finger back to a knuckle-rapping piano teacher then to a cotillion, crinolines rustling, silk swirling, feeling all jittery inside yet at the same time calm, certain. All because of him.

  Then he was in a casket, decades older, worn and frayed by time, but superimposed over the old man, I saw the nervous young man who’d been pushed forward by his friends to dance with me at the cotillion so long ago. Harpsichords whirled us around in a waltz while the entire universe held its breath in anticipation. First love, true love.

  Nine decades’ worth of living kaleidoscoping around me, moments falling away like an aria’s final notes dying. But it wasn’t my life. I felt nauseated, seasick, unable to defend myself from the cacophony of emotions, sights, and sounds bombarding me.

  Finally, that same sensation of heat seared through me, announcing my release. The music in my head faded to empty silence, a void cupping its hands, wanting to be filled.

  I blinked, staggered back a step. My knees shook, my stomach quivered, threatening to rebel. I sagged against the countertop, then glanced up at the clock. Four minutes I’d been standing there, all awareness of the real world banished.

  I shivered even though my skin was hot and sweaty. Four minutes lost. Anything could have happened.

  In four minutes I’d plummeted through ninety-three years of living. Remnants of Mrs. Kowacz’s memories crowded my thoughts. One stood out. The gold ring. Her wedding band. I glan
ced at her left hand, taking care not to come close enough to touch her again. No ring.

  “You want it back, don’t you?” I whispered, fully aware that what I was suggesting was crazy. Insane. Career-ending. Very probably symptomatic of something much, much worse going on inside my head.

  But I couldn’t help myself. For the first time in decades, I believed. In what, I had no idea. But I believed.

  “Aw, fuck,” I muttered, turning away from the almost-dead woman.

  Of course Mrs. Kowacz’s son took that moment to pull the curtain back. “Dr. Rossi?” he said, frowning in disapproval at my language. “Everything okay?”

  No! my brain shouted. How had I done that? Touch, that seemed to have been the trigger the first time with Sister Patrice and again now. But then what had I done to make it happen the second time when Sister Patrice had been across the room and I’d been able to dissect that first episode?

  “Just fine. Take care now.” I started to leave, more confused than ever. Right. Because that’s what delusions were—illogical.

  And yet… I stopped, memories that weren’t mine flooding my mind. I swayed, caught in both realities. “Um. This may sound funny, but did she have a wedding ring?”

  He nodded. “Since she got sick, it’s too big for her, kept falling off.”

  “This might be a good time to bring it.” The words sounded awkward and weird. As they should, coming from a madwoman. “She’ll want it. For the end.”

  His mouth opened and closed again. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Anything you say.”

  Not me. I didn’t say it. She did.

  I stood there, trying to decide what to do next. Spend the night with my family? Playing the fiddle, making love to Jacob after, trying to ignore the possibility that I was losing my mind?

  Somehow the prospect didn’t fill me with excitement.

  Find the girl. Yeah, right. How the hell was I supposed to find a girl when I had no idea who she was and I couldn’t tell the cops how I knew she was lost?

  Save the girl.

  Sister Patrice wasn’t going to stop nagging. As stubborn as I am, it seemed. I tugged on my parka. Looked like I was headed back to church—two decades too late.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The crisp night air and the softly falling rain cleared my head as I drove the three blocks between Good Sam and St. Timothy’s. Those three blocks pretty much tell you everything you need to know about Cambria.

  They’re the difference between a kind-of-bad neighborhood and a don’t-go-out-at-night, never-walk-alone, triple-deadbolt ’hood. Especially the block St. Tim’s is on. Bounded by Empire, State, Union, and Broad, that one square block accounts for the majority of the city’s blood and tears.

  All because of a failed housing project, Kingston Tower. Home to a thousand souls, give or take—Census workers tend to avoid the Tower. As do social services, truant officers, immigration agents, code inspectors, and the police.

  For the women and children who live there and have nowhere else to go, it’s like living on the wrong side of prison razor wire. Life as a constant negotiation. Neutral clothing, avoiding any gang colors. Stray dollar bills tucked into places a casual street thief wouldn’t find easily: a baby’s bottle hugger, the hem of a skirt. Schooling children in the art of dodging bullets. Bunker mentality.

  For the men who ruled, especially the members of Tyree Willard’s Royales, the Tower is opportunity. I’ve lost count of how many gangbangers I’ve patched up who, when I ask them why they do what they do, say it’s their ticket “out.”

  “Out” to where, they have no idea. They all just want out.

  St. Timothy’s itself isn’t exactly a bright spot. Built of sandstone charred black by almost two centuries of coal dust and smog, it’s as menacing in its own way as the Tower. Walls thick enough to shrug off cannon balls. Gothic spirals stabbing up into the night, gargoyle sentries perched at every corner, smirking and deriding the futile antics of the humans living in the shadows below. Doors bound by iron, so massive that allowing anyone entrance would take an act of God.

  A fortress of blackened stone cemented by the souls of the faithful.

  I sat inside my Subaru parked across from St. Tim’s, unable to take my eyes off the gaping maw of the front doors, shadowed by an overhang that arched up to a razor-sharp point. On either side of the point were twin stained-glass windows depicting some saintly action. Barely lit from lights within, they looked like demon eyes reddened by flames. The entire building snarled, daring me to draw near.

  I hadn’t been inside St. Tim’s or any church in twenty-two years. Not since my dad died.

  Looking at the looming edifice, I couldn’t swallow, scared spitless. I’d rather walk alone through all seven floors of the Tower, facing gangbangers and crackheads, than step inside St. Timothy’s. That’s how powerful childhood suggestion can be. The monster under the bed, it grows and swells with time as you cower in fear, hiding under the covers, too terrified to fall asleep. Until you defy the stomach-wrenching panic that makes your pulse pound in your fingertips and you pull back the covers and, holding your breath, dare to look.

  My phone rang, cutting through the noise of my breathing. Startled, I banged my knee against the dash. Jacob. I didn’t really want to talk to him, but answered anyway—delaying tactics.

  “I’m guessing you’re not coming.” His voice radiated disappointment and disapproval. In the background I heard the sound of bagpipes and a bodhrán. “You know you have a family—a real family, not just anonymous patients revolving through the ER.”

  Every now and then, Jacob appoints himself the voice of my conscience. Which brings out the bitch in me. One of the reasons we split up. “I’m sure my family is enjoying your company more than they would mine.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “I’ve got to go.” Facing the dark and looming church was more appealing than talking to a man I’d once loved—still love.

  “What’s so important—”

  “A little girl. She’s missing. And I think I’m the only one who can find her.” I hung up.

  Pushing the car door open, I left my sanctuary and stood in the night, sleet slipping down my collar and clinging to my still-wet hair. My lips trembled, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Icy water splashed into my shoes as I crossed the street, my gaze never leaving my destination. I knew if I looked away, I’d run.

  One soggy, heavy foot after the other, I climbed the steps to the church, feeling as if I should have been crawling on my hands and knees. Finally at the front door, I reached out a hand. The frozen iron burnt my flesh.

  I jerked away. My breath came so fast and hard I thought I would vomit. Pressure squeezed my head and heart in a vise-grip of pain, ready to explode.

  Panic attack. A stray fragment of rational thought made its way front and center. I clung to the idea—so much better than a new symptom I couldn’t explain—as I turned my back on the door and ran.

  I made it all the way down the steps, slamming against the Subaru, out of breath. My chest tight, I gasped but couldn’t get any air. Breathe. Just breathe. So simple, did it every minute of every day, but right now I had to remind myself how to. Breathe. In. Out. In again.

  Oxygen pierced my brain fog as frigid air shattered against my lungs. Tiny sparks of cold that thawed my fear. I spun to face my enemy.

  Only a musty, old church. I didn’t believe anyway, not anymore. There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. These words and other nonsense repeated in my head as I hauled in one breath after another, my vision hazy.

  Besides, Patrice hadn’t led me to a church with her thoughts, but to an alley.

  Idiot. I straightened, my vision clear once more. Wanted to smack myself in the forehead, but settled for taking off at a jog, circling to the far side of the church, finally back in control.

  The Tower sat on the corner of Empire and State while St. Tim’s sprawled across the corner of Empire and Broad. Hidden behind both buildings were sev
eral smaller buildings, a courtyard, a “play” area—mainly used for drug deals—and several narrow alleys that ran the gauntlet between them.

  Patrice had been shot in one of those alleys. I just had to find the right one.

  I rounded the corner and had gone a few steps into the dark before I realized a flashlight would have been a good idea, except I hadn’t thought to grab one from my car. The church was totally dark on this side. The only light came from the Tower.

  Still, the alley felt familiar. I’d never been here before… but I remembered the graffiti’s neon colors, visible even in the dim light. And the dumpster splashed with paint and mud. The door had been just past it.

  A blinding light seared my vision. “Can I help you?” came a woman’s voice.

  Instinctively, I raised my hands—in surrender or defense, either way I was ready. The light lowered enough for me to make out the woman’s form. She stood several feet away, one hand near her hip. Cap on her head, parka, dark uniform, shiny badge.

  “What are you doing here, ma’am?” Her voice was polite but edged with suspicion.

  I suck at lying, so I tried the truth. “Looking for a little girl.”

  That seemed to take her aback. She paused, the light dancing over me, assessing my intentions. “What girl?”

  “She’s around ten. Dark skin, dark hair done in cornrows. I was told she ran away somewhere around here.” I didn’t tell her who told me. How could I? “I thought maybe she found a side door into the Tower.”

  “There’s an exit there at the sidewalk.” She jerked her chin behind me to Empire Street.

  I looked over my shoulder. Shook my head. The fire exit was up a flight of stairs, had a red-lit sign. The door Patrice had shoved the girl through had been down several steps and had no signs. Maybe an entrance to the basement? “Is there another way in?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Angela Rossi. I’m an ER doc over at Good Sam’s.”