Life Is But a Dream

by Brian James

  It almost works too.

  I’m so close to telling her about Alec but then I pause to think about what I would say. I listen to myself in my head and wonder if she would ever believe it if I told her something from my dreams is true and real and in this very hospital.

  She wouldn’t.

  Her job is to convince me that those things are less than what they seem. It’s better not to say anything.

  I can tell my newfound silence worries her. Afraid of losing me to the quiet, she drops the sister act. She straightens her posture and smoothes the hair away from her face, making herself suddenly look five or ten years older and smarter. —There’s no reason to be embarrassed. I think it’s a good thing— she says. —Showing interest in a boy means you’re making progress. It’s important for you to make connections with other people. It means that the medicine is working.—

  The link between the two puzzles me and makes me talkative again.

  —How so?—

  It pleases her that I ask—that I’m showing an interest in my own well-being. I know because her eyebrows normally stay in a straight line but now one of them arches curiously upward just before she speaks. —Well, the pills I’ve prescribed for you should help you communicate with others better by helping to clear your mind of all the clutter— she says.

  —What clutter?— I ask.

  —For example … the noise you’ve talked about.—

  During other sessions I’ve told her about the noise. The invisible noise that only I can hear—a noise that sounds like the mumbling of a million broken voices saying nothing at all or the hum of the wind through an open car window at seventy miles per hour. I can even see the noise sometimes. It circles above people like a clear vulture with sparks of electricity in its wings—hovering dangerously above their heads before swooping down. But that’s kind of separate from the noise and also part of it at the same time. The part I can see, I call static. The noise is only the roar of its footsteps.

  The static is dangerous. I don’t like to think about it.

  I’ve never told Dr. Richards about the static. She’d say I was making it up or that my mind was. She’s like my mom, she thinks I imagine things that aren’t there just because she can’t see them.

  —Do you still hear the noise?— Dr. Richards asks.

  —Not like before— I admit to her for the first time. It’s the truth. I haven’t heard it in days. Not the way I used to. It was so loud sometimes I had to cover my ears or put headphones on full blast to make it quiet. —Now when I do hear it, it’s like it’s not really there at all. Like I’m only remembering that I heard it once upon a time. Does that mean there was something wrong with me but now there’s not?—

  —It’s not a matter of right and wrong— Dr. Richards tells me. —Your brain just makes too much of one chemical and not enough of another. That’s what schizophrenia does.— I’m tired of hearing about how my brain produces the wrong amount of certain chemicals. How do they know what’s the right amount for me? Alec says as far as the hospital is concerned, a patient is well once her brain functions exactly like everybody else’s. —The fact that you don’t hear the noise like you did before means the medicine is starting to create a balance and getting it under control. The way you perceive things is improving.—

  —You mean changing— I correct her, and she seems surprised.

  —I suppose you could look at it that way— she says. —But changing for the better, certainly.—

  —But why is it so wrong for me to just perceive what I perceive?— I ask her. —Everyone’s always said I should believe in myself. Until I stopped believing what they wanted me to …—

  —You’re asking me why we don’t simply allow you to remain in these delusions?— Dr. Richards grins at me. Her expression remains steady. It’s as if she’s been waiting for me to ask this question.

  —Yeah. I guess that’s exactly what I’m asking— I say.

  —Don’t you think that would be difficult for you?— she asks without skipping a beat because that’s one of the things she does during our sessions. She answers my questions with questions of her own. I don’t like when she does that. Somehow it feels like she’s trying to confuse me by putting words in my mouth—making me say things I don’t want to or don’t mean.

  —Not really. Other people I know do the same thing— I say. Dr. Richards can tell I’m annoyed by the sound of my voice. But even when I get angry with her, she never gets angry back. Not like my parents.

  —Can you give me an example?— Dr. Richards asks.

  I tuck my hair behind my ears. —Well, how about video games? I know kids who spend hours in their fake worlds. There are games where you eat, sleep, and buy things just like in the real world. Why is that okay? Why don’t the kids who play those games have to be in a place like this too?—

  —Because there are healthy ways to spend time living in your own imagination and then there are unhealthy ways— she says, leaning back in her chair. —The trouble occurs when reality and your imagination blend together. Once that happens, you can’t tell which world is which and then there’s a good chance of you being harmed … either by others or by yourself— she explains.

  My eyes are squinting and skeptical. —That doesn’t make much sense. If you’re saying what I see isn’t real, how could it actually hurt me?—

  —It could cause you to be confused— she says.

  I sort of roll my eyes and give a small shake of my head. —I’ve been confused a million times in my life. It never hurt me.—

  Dr. Richards grins the way a teacher does when they don’t like the answer I give. But like all teachers, she already has a response waiting. —What’s bothering you, Sabrina?—

  I shrug.

  —I don’t know— I say, bringing one of my hands out from my pocket and placing it near my mouth—so near that I can smell the sour stain of my breath in the fabric. —I guess I just want to know why do we have to talk about all the stuff that happened before if the medicine is fixing things?—

  —The medicine does only part of the work— Dr. Richards explains. —Your condition is more complicated than taking a pill and being all better.— I remember her saying the same kind of thing to my parents the evening they brought me here. She told them sometimes it was hard to determine exactly what was causing symptoms like mine. That it could be any one of a whole range of social anxiety disorders. She told them it was best that I remained so they could observe and pinpoint and give me the best possible treatment. —Even if you’re doing better, it’s important that you and I still talk about things— she says to me.

  —But why?—

  I don’t want to take her word for things anymore. I want to know exactly who they think I’m supposed to be before I get any closer to becoming that person.

  —The more we discuss the circumstances of your previous episodes, the more you’ll fully understand the nature of your condition. It may help prevent other similar episodes in the future— she explains with the kind of calm my father never could manage whenever he and my mom spoke about my condition. I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen when they argued. I’d hear my dad shout and I could feel the fury in his voice directed at an invisible me who wasn’t supposed to be listening from the shadows.

  Some of the time I knew exactly what I’d done to upset them. Other times I wasn’t so sure—or I couldn’t quite remember. Well, that’s not right either, because I did remember, just not in the same way they did. So whenever that happened, my dad would lecture me endlessly about there being a time for making up stories and a time for telling the truth and that at fifteen years old, I should know the difference. But I wasn’t lying. They never understood that.

  Seeing things others don’t is what Dr. Richards calls my episodes. They are where her questions always lead and today is no different. I always know when Dr. Richards is going to ask a serious question. She telegraphs them by taking a deep breath through her nose just before each one. She d
oes that now, shifting her legs around as she leans forward. All her talk about me seeming better was just her way of getting there. —Sabrina? I would like to discuss what happened the day before you came here. Is that okay?—

  I bring my hand near my face again. This time I don’t just put my sleeve close to my mouth—I place it to my lips and place my tongue against the fabric.

  Dr. Richards knows my habits. She knows what they mean. —Do you not want to talk about it?—

  —Not really— I mumble through my sleeve.

  —Can I ask why not?—

  —Because— I say, but that’s not good enough. She wants to know why. She always wants to know why about everything. —When I think about that day, it doesn’t feel the same anymore. It all made sense then, but now … now it doesn’t. Almost like it was a different person there instead of me. It freaks me out a little bit.—

  —That’s okay. It’s part of the process— Dr. Richards says.

  —That doesn’t make sense— I argue.

  —Why not?—

  —Because you said things were going to get clearer. But when it comes to everything that took place before I came here, I only feel more confused.—

  —Don’t worry— she says. —I’m here to help you make sense of it.—

  When she smiles at me, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a strange feeling in my stomach. It’s like the first-day-of-school feeling of not knowing who to talk to or what to say. There is something about her that makes me think she’s one of the people I shouldn’t talk to. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t completely trust her. I guess I never have. I feel comfortable sharing with Alec in a way I would never feel with her. It’s because he listens to me while she’s always trying to change me.

  Dr. Richards is trying to take away the part of me that makes me special. That is what she wants. It’s what my parents want too. But it’s not what I want.

  I don’t want to see things their way.

  I don’t want to look at the sky and not see the changes that come with each breath or suddenly notice that all of the light has evaporated from every stone hiding just below the dirt. The thought of a world that plain frightens me.

  —I don’t really want to talk anymore.—

  —Okay— she says, but I can tell by the little sigh that escapes her that she doesn’t really mean it. Or at least that she’s disappointed. —Do you want to talk about something else?— she asks, sounding hopeful again. —Maybe about your friends? What about Kayliegh?—

  —Can’t I go now? I want to go— I say suddenly.

  Dr. Richards takes another deep breath. Looking at the clock on the wall, she says —I suppose that would be okay.— It’s what she has to say. During our first session she told me these meetings would last only as long as I wanted them to and no longer. That is our deal.

  As I’m getting up to leave, Dr. Richards tells me that she thinks we’re making real strides. —I know this is hard for you sometimes. But believe me, you’re doing well.—

  I don’t say anything. I turn away and stare at the smiling eyes sewn onto dozens of stuffed animals and wonder what exactly it means to be doing well.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  —Go on … it’s your turn— Alec says, pushing the bangs away from his forehead where they are sticky with sweat. Tucking them behind his ear makes his ears stick out like mine do. He’s wearing this crooked kind of smile too and I can’t help but laugh a little. He’s so gangly and goofy the way he’s standing. The pant legs of his jeans are rolled up above his calves and his arms stick out like skinny tree limbs. He waves them around, standing under the basket as I stand by the foul line. —What’s so funny?— he asks once he notices that I’m giggling at him.

  —Nothing …— I say playfully.

  —Oh, you’re laughing at something— he says. —And I know it’s me … so what is it, huh? What? I got something on my face or something?—

  He starts wiping frantically at his nose and I chuckle.

  —It’s nothing like that— I say sincerely. The wind catches his hair—blows it out in all directions until it stands on end like straw and I can’t keep a straight face anymore. —You look like a scarecrow— I tell him.

  Alec looks down and sees what I see. He grins to himself and then looks back at me, holding his arms out to his side. —It’s not how you look on the court— he jokes. —It’s all about the skills.—

  —You don’t have many of them either— I tease, covering my mouth as I laugh.

  —You’re one to talk— he teases back. —I at least hit the backboard.—

  —I guess you’re right. We both suck— I say, and it’s something neither of us can argue with.

  It’s my turn to shoot and I dribble the basketball twice. I like the feel of the orange rubber on my fingertips. Even when I’m not holding the ball, it almost feels like it’s still there. The smell stays behind—a mild odor of dirt, sweat, and sports equipment that I find nice in small doses, sort of romantic even, but terrifies me the moment it brings back memories of first-period gym class freshman year. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, it’s like I time-travel instantly back to that class—shivering in my shorts, pretending to participate in soccer or whatever as I stare at my sneakers and watch them get stained green by grass still wet from the morning dew. One stray scent can bring a memory back so completely that I actually feel an imaginary chill in the breeze.

  —Enough stalling already— Alec says, and I pull a face at him—sticking my tongue out so that he laughs. —Come on. Throw the ball up there and earn your next letter like a man … and by man, I mean like one of those tough girl-power kind of teen girls that are always in movies … you know, the kind who isn’t afraid to kick someone in the balls. Not me, of course. I’d rather not get kicked in the junk if it can be helped.—

  He’s trying to make me laugh so that I’ll miss the shot and earn the S in our game of H-O-R-S-E. He doesn’t need to though and he knows it. I’m going to miss the shot anyway. I’ve missed every one so far.

  —Silence— I say like a queen giving her commands. —I need to concentrate.— Alec obeys and I dribble twice more. I catch the ball for the last time and raise it to my chest. With both hands, I push it toward the hoop with all my strength.

  Alec watches the ball sail over the backboard and over the fence behind the court. I see his eyes arch in a rainbow of amazement and surprise and I fall over laughing. He quickly joins me, holding his side and shaking his head. I can tell by his expression that it’s been a long time for him, too, since he cracked up so spontaneously.

  —I guess that’s game— I say. —It’s a tie.—

  —A tie? What are you talking about? That’s S for you. I only had O. Clearly, I won.—

  —You can’t prove that— I say. —We didn’t finish.—

  —Oh yeah? We’ll see about that— he says. He bends down, getting on one knee, and starts to untie his shoelaces. In no time, he’s holding a sneaker in each hand and racing to the basket in his socks. He grunts as he swings his arms wildly, throwing both shoes up in the air.

  One falls through the net and the other falls toward his head.

  Alec covers his face and pretends to yell out in pain when the shoe hits him. Then he’s jumping up and down excitedly. —The left one went in— he shouts. —Your turn again. Now if you miss, that’s game and I win.—

  I’m sitting on the foul line, still laughing. When I don’t make a move to get up, Alec comes over and stands with his arms on his hips.

  —What’s the matter? Chicken?—

  —No— I say defiantly.

  —Well, go on. Shoe-toss time.—

  —Fine— and I slip off both of my shoes. I’m not wearing socks though and don’t want to run over the blacktop. I take careful steps until I’m standing under the hoop. I look back over my shoulder, asking Alec with a glance if I’m in the right spot and he nods. I flip both shoes at once. Miraculously, they both go in.

  My j
aw drops open in surprise.

  I start to jump around ecstatically, pointing at Alec as he sulks from the foul line. —That’s two for me— I say. —You don’t win.—

  —I’m still ahead by one letter— he says.

  —Nope. I declare it a tie.—

  Alec smiles, his expression telling me the game isn’t over yet. He picks up his shoes again and throws them up even before I’ve stepped away. I cover my head, expecting them to rain down on me. When they don’t, I look up and see his shoes have both gotten stuck in the net. I burst into a fit of laughter. For a split second I think he might be a little upset, but then he’s laughing too.

  —That’s it, you’ve clearly lost— I tease.

  Alec tries to claim that having both shoes in means he’s clearly won. When I refuse to give in to his logic, he resorts to a six-year-old boy’s tactic of persuasion—he chases me across the hospital lawn.

  I scream as I run and he growls.

  The nurse near the door takes a nervous step until she sees we are just playing around. I can’t blame her for being concerned though. Fun isn’t exactly a common sight among the patients. Hiding in corners and secret whispered conversations are all very common. Not laughter.

  When Alec catches up with me, we collapse onto the grass. My heart is pounding so fast I can hear it pulse in my eardrums. Part of it is just because I’m out of breath—I haven’t done anything physical like running in a while. Mostly, though, it’s because Alec is so close beside me—his body pressed against my side is what really makes my heart jump.

  Lying on our backs, looking up at the sky, the sun dances on Alec’s skin. —Back home on the beach, I throw a towel down and watch the sky for hours—he says.

  —I watch the sky all of the time— I tell him. Then I smile because that’s another thing we have in common. The sky is a place we both return to.

  —Do you ever just gaze up there and imagine you can fly?— he asks me. —I do. When I want to get away from everything, I just close my eyes and in a minute, it’s like I’m floating. Up there, I can look down on the city, see all the boredom and chaos, and it starts to seem laughable almost because it can’t touch me when I’m in the sky.—