And they hung up.
30
It was the following day. Jack and Rachel carefully made their way down Jack’s rickety apartment steps, sidestepping around the ice patterns that had formed over the last thirty minutes. It had finally begun to snow. A full two inches had now staked its claim on the ground below. It crunched softly under their feet as they walked to Jack’s car. He scraped off the ice on the door handle and let Rachel in.
“Quick. It’s cold in here!” she yelled through chattering teeth. A rush of frosty wind blew through the front seat as Jack closed the door.
“I’ll get the heat on.” He hustled around the front of the car taking short choppy steps to avoid slipping in the snow. He finally got the key in and the car burst to life.
“Turn the heater way up,” she said, her cheeks and nose reddening from the chill. “I think my ears are gonna fall off.”
“The heater in this thing is incredible,” he said. “A few minutes and you won’t even need that coat.” Jack stopped and stared back at the steps.
“What’s wrong?”
“My bag,” he said, “I left it on the landing. And where’s yours?”
“Uh, I left it on the ground by the trunk.”
“You stay here. I’ll be right back.”
# # #
Three hours later, they were riding on the interstate, about ten minutes west of Charlotte. The conversation getting here was still mostly filling in each other’s blanks. Jack had shared a few highlights about his early years at Culpepper after getting out of the Air Force. Rachel talked about the one congressional campaign she had worked on as an intern, mostly all the disillusionment she felt between the public persona and the behind-the-scenes political games.
As they started seeing more signs for Charlotte, Jack started to feel nervous. For a few awkward moments, neither of them talked. “This is the exit we’re supposed to turn on, right?” Rachel nodded. What was left of the snow glistened on either side of the highway, except by the road, where it turned into an ugly slush.
“What are you thinking about,” she asked.
When Jack realized what it was, he didn’t want to say. “Not much. Different things.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure I should say.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” He paused.
“Just say what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking.”
“Ok. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to a shrink, and that you helping me get in to see one might not be the healthiest thing for our relationship.” Did he just say that? Were they in a relationship?
Rachel reached over and put her hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Waters is not a shrink, Jack. He’s a neurologist. My mom said he is wonderful. You’re having some difficult dreams, and he’s a sleep specialist. That’s all that’s going on here. I think we’re doing the right thing. To me, it’s no different than finding out you’ve got allergies. You better get in the right lane, here’s the turnoff for Dr. Waters’ office.”
Jack slowed the car as they exited the ramp, a complete loop that wrapped around the interstate then dumped them abruptly onto a busy road below. “Well, thanks for saying that.” Feeling her hand on his shoulder wasn’t too bad either.
“I can’t wait for my parents to meet you,” she said excitedly.
Jack sighed quietly. “Did you tell either one of them about me…my dreams?”
“Are you crazy? You think I want them to know I’m getting mixed up with some kind of nut?”
Jack laughed. “So you didn’t tell them what the appointment was about?”
“I just told them Jack travels back in time when he sleeps to famous World War II battles, and he’d like it to stop.” A long pause. Rachel smiled. Jack laughed again. “They didn’t ask why and I didn’t volunteer.”
He was liking Rachel more every minute.
31
“Please, have a seat,” Dr. Waters said, pausing briefly to look down at his folder. “Before I examine first-time patients I like to have a little get-acquainted visit. Sort of break the ice, take the edge off.” Jack and Rachel sat down in two comfortably tailored chairs in Waters’ personal office. Jack had asked if Rachel could join them, since he’d pretty much told her everything already.
Waters was a tall man in his late forties. He had a slender build except for a potbelly peeking out from behind his white lab coat. He had a kind face and an even kinder smile. Jack couldn’t help but stare briefly at a small tuft of brown hair perched just above the forehead on his scalp, like a small island sitting alone in the Pacific. The rest of his hair had balded cleanly down the back and sides, except for this lone brown wad.
“It is a beautiful day outside, don’t you think?” Waters asked. “I kind of hate to see the snow leave us so quickly. It always does here.”
Jack smiled nervously.
“So, tell me, Jack. You are having some difficulty sleeping, mainly your dreams. Is that right?”
Jack nodded.
“Have you ever been to a sleep disorder specialist before?”
“No, sir. I haven’t. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Sleep has never been a noticeable factor in my life.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it,” Waters said. “I guess that would best sum up my goal for most of my patients. But please Jack, don’t feel bad about coming here. This is a very normal branch of modern medicine. A surprisingly high number of people from all walks of life have difficulty sleeping from time to time, some studies say as high as twenty-five percent. Not all of them come to a clinic like this. But we help lots of people every day. If you think about it, sleep occupies a third of our life. If we’re not getting the sleep we need, it can really throw a stick in the spokes of the other two-thirds. Do you follow?”
Jack nodded again.
“So tell me, when did you first experience this difficulty?”
“Just in the last two weeks. It’s only happened twice.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Employed?”
“Well, yes. I’m an author and college lecturer. Military history mostly.”
“I see.” Waters scribbled down some notes. “Would you describe these dreams as nightmares?”
“I guess you would call them that. But not like the standard nightmares I’m aware of.”
“In what ways were yours different? Or maybe I should ask, what do you consider standard nightmares?”
“These dreams were like real life. I haven’t had many nightmares in my life. The ones I can remember were bizarre distortions of reality. Things flashing in and out. Scary things that make no sense.”
“And these weren’t like that?”
“Not at all.”
“Were you afraid in these dreams?”
“At times, but only when appropriate.”
The doctor looked puzzled. “I think it might be best, Jack, if you try to remember one of these dreams and play it back for me. Do you remember either one well enough to do that?”
“Doctor, I remember every single detail. From both dreams. Just like you’d remember anything you’ve gone through in real life, even more. I can forget what I had for breakfast. This was like—” Jack struggled for words. “Have you ever been through something extraordinary, like almost being killed? You remember every little detail. This was like that.”
“Okay,” Waters said. “So, pick one of the dreams, and tell me what you recall. Let’s see where that takes us.”
# # #
Jack unraveled the details of his latest dream with Doolittle’s Raiders. Waters nodded and mumbled, “uh-huh,” at what appeared to Rachel to be methodical, insincere intervals. She got an uneasy feeling from his eyes and the expression on his face. The dots weren’t connecting. At several points in the tale, Waters looked more like a child being read a ghost story than a doctor forming a diagnosis.
When Jack concluded, Waters simp
ly said, “That’s…quite amazing.” After a long pause, he added, “Was this the first or second dream?”
“Second,” Jack said.
“Do you remember the details of the first as vividly?”
“Like it happened yesterday.”
“And how long ago was the first?”
“Just over a week ago.”
“Did you write the details of the dreams down when you woke up?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sometimes,” Waters said, “we remember the details of extraordinary dreams for an extended time if we capture them in a journal or diary soon after they occur. I’m wondering if you wrote yours down. Is that why you have such vivid recall?”
“I didn’t write anything down.”
“Doctor,” Rachel interjected, “have you ever heard of anything like this?”
Waters seemed to regret letting his bewilderment show. He tried to repair the look on his face. She could tell, though, he’d never experienced anything like Jack’s dreams before.
“Well, not exactly like this,” Waters said. “But it’s not uncommon for people to vividly recall certain details of a nightmare months, or even years later. This is what we call a parasomnia, abnormal events that occur during sleep. But I must admit your level of detail, Jack, is quite astonishing. And you are right—most nightmares are not as structured and well-ordered as what you’ve just described. You sounded like you were relating historical events. Almost like an eyewitness.”
“That is how I felt, Doctor. I was living it.”
“Well, in any case,” Waters said, “I think I need to get some more data before we start drawing any firm conclusions.” He sat back in his chair, resting Jack’s folder in his lap. “Tell me what you were doing immediately prior to going to sleep, on both occasions.”
“That’s something I was thinking about, Doctor,” Rachel said. “On both times we had been studying the subjects Jack dreamed about in great detail. Jack gave lectures on them, and we watched videos.”
“Yes,” Jack said. “And on both occasions I did some extensive reading about these things before going to bed.”
“That certainly could be a factor,” Waters noted. “Nightmares are commonly dislodged by things we imbibe extensively just before bed.”
“But Doctor, I’ve been studying extensively about these things for years. And before college, I probably read just as much. I always read before bed. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. Why? Why now?”
Waters jotted this down. His puzzled expression involuntarily returned. “I’m not sure, Jack. It definitely sounds like you are experiencing some significant irregularity in your last stage of REM sleep.”
“What’s that?” Rachel asked.
“REM stands for Rapid Eye Movement,” Waters said. “When we sleep each night our bodies go through several sleep cycles. REM is the dream phase. As the night progresses, each cycle contains some amount of REM sleep. Our first dream phase could be as little as five minutes in length. But the last phase could be as long as thirty to sixty minutes.”
“But these dreams seemed like they went on for hours,” Jack said.
“They could have. But that would be abnormal. It might have just seemed like hours. It’s pretty hard to judge something like that when you’re asleep. But there is one way to verify some of these things.”
“What is that?” Rachel asked.
“Well, it would involve you, Jack, coming back to one of our sleeping quarters. We would try to simulate the conditions you’ve had prior to these dreams, hook you up to an EEG, monitor your brain activity during sleep, and—”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Jack interrupted. “But that won’t work. For one thing, I don’t live in Charlotte, and I’d practically have to live here to do that. These dreams were separated by several days. Most of the days in between were spent in extensive study with no dream episodes. I didn’t have one last night, and I can’t tell you what’s made the difference in the nights I had the dreams. I’ve been racking my brain for an answer, believe me.”
“I see.” Waters jotted down some more notes. “Well, we’ll get to the bottom of this, Jack. I’m very thorough. In a few minutes, I’ll do a quick physical exam. Then I’d like to get you to do a little homework for me.” He handed Jack a small notebook.
“What kind of homework?”
“It’s sort of a diary, a journal, outlining all your activities: what you did, what you ate, if you took any medication—are you on any now?”
“No.”
“Well, this journal will hopefully capture any potential connections between your lifestyle and these dreams. If there are any.”
“So, you don’t have anything you can give him now?” Rachel asked. “Any medication to help stop these dreams?”
# # #
Jack looked at Rachel. Her question seemed a little tense. It made him uncomfortable.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have any drugs to counteract dreams. Most of the medications we prescribe are for people with varying forms of insomnia.” He looked at Jack. “You seem to have no problem falling asleep. But there’s no cause for alarm. Let’s see if the physical exam tells us something. I’ll also order some bloodwork. Perhaps some imbalance in your system might surface. It may be something as simple as a vitamin deficiency. Maybe we’ll see something in the journal you’re going to keep. If you have any more dreams like these, I’ll examine your journal for possible links. But you’re going to have to be faithful jotting everything down, Jack, if the journal’s going to do any good.”
“I will.”
Waters looked clearly stumped. They both knew it. He got up, shook their hands warmly, then escorted Jack to an examination room. Rachel smiled and headed down the hall toward the waiting room. Jack tried to discern the look in her eyes.
# # #
Jack knew the examination would prove inconclusive. He was in superb physical health. But his mental condition had taken a giant step backwards. As he and Rachel made their way out into the parking lot and then down the road, both tried for several minutes to inject some encouraging, optimistic thoughts into the discouraging mood that had set in at the doctor’s office.
It was a pointless exercise.
At a red light, Rachel said, “Listen Jack, I don’t care what this is. You’ve got to know I don’t blame you or think less of you because of this. I know Dr. Waters didn’t offer us much hope, but there are other doctors in this field.”
“Do you really think another doctor is going to say anything different?”
Rachel paused. “No, not really.”
“Neither do I.”
“But Jack, we don’t even know if you’re going to have another dream.”
“I know. But what if I do?”
“Then we’ll deal with that when it comes. If it comes.”
They drove in silence for a few minutes. Rachel leaned over and kissed Jack softly on the cheek. “You all right?” she asked.
“That helps,” he said.
“Hey,” Rachel said. “Up ahead, at the next light we need to turn right to get to my parents’ house.”
32
The doorbell rang, a pleasant set of English chimes. It was completely dark now. The snow had stopped some time ago.
Jack pulled his shoulders back and stood up straight. They were standing in front of a solid paneled door with two narrow side windows. White sheers partially veiled the view inside. The front of the two-story brick home was covered in ivy. Three dormers pushed out from a high-pitched copper roof, covered with a fine layer of patina and snow. Deep green hedges, trimmed to precision, bordered the curved driveway leading up from the street.
He couldn’t be more nervous.
He heard what sounded like footsteps coming down the stairway. From the other side of the door, a woman’s muffled voice said, “It’s Rachel, Bill. C’mon.” Jack stared at the doorknob. His mind rehearsed several ways to greet them. Hello Mrs. Cook, nice to meet you. Hello, I�
�m Jack; nice to finally meet you Mrs. Cook. General Cook, what a pleasure. General, sir, Jack Turner, so nice to see you again.
“Rachel! I’m so glad you’re here!” A woman in her late fifties burst through the threshold and embraced Rachel firmly. Mrs. William Cook, or Anna, had kept herself well through the years. Jack thought she looked very classy; her face beamed with warmth and hospitality. He liked her instantly.
“Hi, Mom,” Rachel said through a tight hug. “Hope we didn’t ruin your plans.”
“Nonsense. What do we ever do on a Friday night anymore? Come in, come in. And you must be Jack.”
“That’s me,” Jack said extending his hand. That’s me? Was that all he could say? That’s me?
She took his hand in both of hers and shook it tenderly. “I have to say you look very different from the young man I remember in Germany. But you look just like Rachel described you. Come in, come in.” Still holding his hand, she led him through the doorway.
“Dad!” exclaimed Rachel running past her mom to give a big bear hug to the General as he came into view.
He was much smaller than Jack had remembered. Except for a thickened waistline he appeared in excellent shape. He’d kept most of his hair, now a salt-and-pepper gray, still parted on the left side. He dressed like Fred MacMurray from the old sitcom My Three Sons: button down sweater, loafers, pleated slacks. “Hey, Puddin,” he said, as he disappeared into Rachel’s thick furry coat.
Hello General…Hello, Mr. Cook…Good evening, sir…Jack rehearsed his options. Suddenly, he was aware of his hair, much too long for a General.
“Daddy, you remember Jack,” Rachel said, walking her father toward him.
“Jack. Great to see you again,” the General said in a deep but friendly voice. He held out his hand.
“Nice to see you too, sir. I mean…General…sir.”
“Call me Bill, Jack,” the General said as they shook hands.
“I think I’m going to have a hard time calling you Bill, sir.”
“Bill sir,” repeated the General. “Okay. Call me Bill Sir if you like.”
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