If Souls Can Sleep (The Soul Sleep Cycle Book 1)

by David Michael Williams

  William’s dark eyes have softened. There’s no sign of the subtle smirk. “No hard feelings…”

  “No good will come of this, Will,” Milton declares. “Mark my words.”

  William stares at him, expression blank, for a moment. With a perfectly level tone, he asks, “Are you angry because I introduced dream drifting to the others or because, in doing so, they now believe William Marlowe was the one who discovered it, and not Milton Baerwald?”

  ***

  The distant grumble of a large vehicle made Milton jump up from the bench. He squinted through the curtain of thick flurries and saw pale, yellow headlights farther down the street. Muscles tensed, ready to spring into action, Milton watched the lights grow steadily larger.

  I fell asleep, and now they found me!

  Paralyzed with fear, Milton allowed himself a moment to consider the jumble of images and impressions swirling in his mind. A familiar place…lots of spoons…red roses…red wine…old friends…or were they foes? He tried to fight through the haze, but the dream slipped away.

  Freud theorized we forget our dreams to prevent conflict between the conscious and unconscious. We protect ourselves without even trying.

  As the headlights drew closer, he saw they belonged to a city bus. He sighed in relief. His enemies had not found him. On the contrary, providence had presented him with a chance to get warm. As he waited for the bus to arrive—by sheer luck he had fallen asleep at a bus stop—Milton wondered how long he slept and how narrowly he had escaped hypothermia. He stepped onto the bus, rubbed his cold, colorless hands together and surveyed the rows of seats.

  The bus was empty, except for a young man sitting way in the back.

  “Milton!” DJ called, smiling widely and waving him over. “How’s my favorite nut job?”

  Chapter 10

  Leah Chedid was exhausted, had been tired all day, but as she lay in bed, motionless and cocooned in absolute darkness, her brain showed no signs of relinquishing its hold on consciousness.

  Since she couldn’t slow—let alone stop—her racing thoughts, Leah tried to wear them out by focusing her mental energy on mundane memory exercises. Yet even after she had conjured up the names of all of her elementary school teachers and remembered nearly all of her third-grade classmates, she was not any closer to sleep.

  She wasn’t surprised. Such cognitive retraining techniques seldom worked for her.

  It’s like my mind knows I’m trying to trick it…like I’m too smart for my own damn good.

  The sleep mask kept her from checking the clock, so she didn’t knowing how long she had been lying there, wrestling with sleeplessness. However, Leah, an insomniac for almost all of her life, was confident more than two hours had passed since she had finally forced herself to go to bed at midnight.

  The strategy of staying up so late in hopes of outmaneuvering insomnia was a no-no. So was lying in bed awake for hours out of sheer stubbornness.

  With a sigh of defeat, she kicked off the blanket and began fiddling with her wrist restraints. There was always a moment of panic. In the second or two it took to activate the release, she imagined that, at last, the restraints malfunctioned. She would scream for help until her throat was raw. The neighbor from downstairs would break down the door and discover her, bound and blindfolded, and would mistakenly conclude she was the victim of a sex game gone wrong.

  Which was better than the alternative. If no one would hear her, and she would be trapped in a sensory-deprived state for days.

  Better to die of embarrassment than from thirst and starvation.

  Thankfully, whoever had designed the S&M restraints cared only about the appearance of helplessness. After the first satisfying click, she freed her right hand and then used it to assist the left with opening the other cuff. She pulled off the sleep mask and removed her earplugs. On principle, she triggered the release on restraints around her ankles before letting herself look at the clock.

  3:07 a.m.

  Damn…even worse than I thought.

  After twenty to thirty minutes, she should have left her bed to read more of that horrifically dry article from Sleep Research Online or turned on the television or engaged in any activity other than allowing her mind to run rampant for hours. But being an expert on sleep disorders didn’t mean she had mastered hers.

  Leah stood up and arched her back until it cracked. As she left her bedroom, she pointedly ignored the treadmill in the corner, which wasn’t difficult because it was covered with clothes. After a stop at the bathroom, she went to the kitchen. It was a routine she knew well: eat a small snack, watch some TV, and return to bed for another go at it.

  If I’m lucky I get, what, four hours of sleep before I have to get up for work?

  Something pressed against her leg, and Leah smiled in spite of herself.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” she said.

  The Persian cat tilted her flat face up at Leah and meowed.

  “You’re not getting any milk, Emira.”

  “Meow.”

  Leah was about to remind the cat that, like most felines, she was lactose intolerant, but there was no use repeating it. She was a cat, for one thing. And if by some miracle Emira did understand English, she was obviously willing to risk the consequences of indulging in her favorite treat.

  Speaking of indulging…

  Against her better judgment, Leah opened the freezer. A quart of double-fudge brownie ice cream greeted her.

  Sure, Leah, eat some sugar at three in the morning. Brilliant idea.

  “Meow.”

  She glanced down at Emira, whose big, coppery eyes bore straight into her heart.

  “You probably think I’m the biggest bitch. You know I have the power to give you what you want and can’t understand why I don’t.”

  “Meow.”

  Leah opened the refrigerator and took out the carton of skim milk.

  “You win, girl. One of us ought to have what she really wants.”

  As Emira contentedly lapped up her liquid treat, Leah opened the cupboard and grabbed the peanut butter. She reached for the bread but stopped. The magnesium in peanut butter had calming properties. The bread was just extra carbs.

  Peanut butter jar in one hand, spoon in the other, she headed for the living room. A quick search revealed the remote jammed between two cushions. She might as well have left the TV off, though, considering her choices. Law & Order, Sanford and Son, a show that looked like a video game, plenty of infomercials—television had no love for the nocturnally challenged.

  At last, she decided on a documentary about timber wolves. A specialist of some sort explained that while the wolf was often maligned in the European tradition, Native American myths portrayed it in a more positive light. On screen, a black wolf with blue eyes padded through snowy woodlands.

  Leah popped a heaping spoonful of Skippy into her mouth and wondered why she had been thinking about old teachers and classmates.

  It was the alumni magazine that got my mind on about the past. Aldrich made another breakthrough in his research, got another grant, and published his findings in yet another journal.

  I should be happy for him. He’s a good person, and he deserves it. I shouldn’t be jealous.

  Thinking of Aldrich Iwate, whom she had dated throughout grad school, had taken her mind down the avenue of what had become of her other college friends. Were they making names for themselves? Rich? Married?

  Not that Leah wasn’t doing well for herself. She had a good job and lived comfortably. One of these days she’d buy a condo, in spite of her father’s insistence that a house was better. She liked her job. She was making a difference, albeit on a smaller scale than Aldrich was.

  As for a family, well, it’s not like she wasn’t trying. Was it her fault that none of her recent boyfriends were marriage material—or even boyfriend material, for that matter? But she wasn’t desperate enough as to let her sisters play matchmaker, not when they used such dangerous descriptions as “respect
able” and “witty” to describe the ubiquitous friend-of-a-friend.

  Emira jumped up onto her lap and meowed. Leah scratched her behind the ears, evoking an immediate purr.

  Memories from UW–Madison had segued into thoughts about friends from farther back. I lost track of so many people after high school. Whatever happened to the friends who helped me survive adolescence…Jeanie, who wanted to play French horn in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra…Carrie, who lost her virginity at fourteen and instantly became the expert on all matters sexual…or Bella Stark? I wonder if any of them ever wonder about me?

  She laughed at herself. Emira’s ears perked up.

  Why am I worrying about any of this? Thirty is too young for a midlife crisis.

  On TV, a thin ribbon of clouds floated past a big, yellow moon. The scene was accompanied by wolf cries. Leah watched the documentary for a while longer, only half paying attention to the narrator’s explanation of why wolves howl. She felt her thoughts drifting, her eyelids drooping.

  It was dangerous to fall asleep on the couch, unrestrained, but she didn’t care. The short trek to her bedroom could jinx everything, and she needed to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before work. She couldn’t afford to burn another sick day.

  The last thing she heard before sleep’s sweet embrace was the narrator’s description of a condition that causes a person to believe he or she can transform into another animal, such as a wolf.

  ***

  By noon, Leah was ready to call it a day. She could barely keep her eyes open, and the left side of her face had been throbbing ever since she woke up to find herself on the floor in the hall, her alarm chirping insistently from the open bedroom door.

  Her drive to work was more a series of impressions than a memory. Her morning got a little better, thanks to the magic of Starbucks, but as the hours dragged on, concentrating on her patients’ problems became increasingly difficult. When yet another coworker asked about the colorful bruise on her cheek, she pretended not to hear the question.

  That was reckless of me. I was lucky all I got was a contusion.

  Alone in her office, she stared uncomprehendingly at her computer screen. After five yawns in as many minutes, she shut the computer down, grabbed her coat, and locked the office door behind her.

  Taking half of a sick day is better than a full one, I guess.

  Leah barely slowed as she walked past the receptionist. “I’m feeling unwell and will not be back this afternoon, Ellie. Please cancel my appointments.”

  “But, Dr. Chedid, there’s someone here to see you now.”

  “What?” Leah reluctantly returned to the front desk. It took all of her willpower not to glare at Ellie, a fresh college grad who alternately came off as confident or arrogant, depending on the amount of sleep Leah had under her belt. “There was nothing on my calendar.”

  “I was just about to call you,” Ellie said. “That man over there says he needs to see you right away. I told him we don’t do walk-ins, but he asked for you by name. He said he’s an old friend of yours.”

  Leah scanned the waiting room. There was only one male in the group, and he didn’t look familiar. She was on the verge of telling Ellie that he would have to make an appointment like everyone else, when the man looked up, and their eyes met. Leah cursed inwardly.

  So much for a stealthy escape.

  The man jumped up from his seat and hurried over. “Leah! Hi! Sorry to barge in like this, but I need your help.”

  He looked to be about her age. Dark stubble covered his cheeks, and he stank of sweat. But he looked sincere and wasn’t altogether unhandsome, despite his disheveled hair and red-rimmed eyes.

  A fellow insomniac?

  Her expression must have conveyed her confusion because he added, “Of course you don’t recognize me. It’s been, what, twelve years? I’m Vincent Cruz. We went to high school together.”

  Leah swallowed a gasp.

  I whiled away the wee hours of the morning pondering old classmates, and one of them happens to walk into the clinic today? Too weird.

  “Oh, right…Vincent. Yeah…it’s been a while,” she stammered. “Good to see you again, but to be honest, I was on my way out. I’m not feeling—”

  “Please, Leah…Doctor…I don’t know where else to go. I just lost my job, and if I can’t get control of this…this…” He took a breath. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

  She glanced at the door beyond Vincent, catching a glimpse of freedom through the glass panels. But instead of making a mad dash, she smiled at Vincent and led him back to her office.

  You get five minutes, buddy.

  Inside her office—which was neither big nor small and featured framed art that was colorful enough to break up the monotony of the monochrome walls without being too much of a distraction—Leah motioned for Vincent to take a seat in one of the empty chairs. She shut the door behind them and took her place on the other side of the desk.

  Typically, Leah began consultations by asking patients to describe their symptoms and followed by going through a list of stock questions about sleep environment, family history, and so forth. Under the circumstances, however, Leah felt she should say something to break the ice with the boy who sat behind her in U.S. history class.

  Before she could think of a suitable comment, Vincent said, “I found your name in the phonebook by dumb luck. I’d have thought you’d be living on the East Coast or something, not still in Milwaukee. You always seemed so smart back in high school.”

  Leah didn’t know what to make of the backhanded compliment, so she answered with the truth. “I suppose I haven’t found any reason to leave Wisconsin. My parents and sisters all live around here. What about you?”

  “Me?” Vincent gazed up at the ceiling. “I guess it’s like you said. I don’t have any reason to leave. Then again, I don’t really have any good reasons to stay either.”

  What is that supposed to mean?

  “So…are you married?” he asked.

  “No, are you?” she asked with a curtness that surprised her. She told herself that it was the lack of sleep and the throbbing bruise that made her feel so impatient.

  Vincent shifted in his chair. “Yes, technically I am. I married Bella Stark a few months after we graduated. But we’re separated now. The divorce papers will probably come any day now.”

  Leah felt her mouth pop open and quickly closed it.

  Bella Stark!

  The two of them had become best friends shortly after Bella’s family moved to Shorewood in third grade. Leah and Bella drifted apart during freshman year of high school, joining different cliques. Leah became a brainiac, while Bella spent her free time with her volleyball teammates. Leah remembered hearing a rumor senior year that Bella was pregnant, but it was hardly appropriate for her to ask Vincent about that.

  Does he even know I was good friends with his estranged wife, way back when?

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Vincent.” Clearing her throat, she added, “We should talk about why you’re here.”

  Vincent ran a hand through his oily hair and looked down at his knees. “It’s going to sound crazy, but I’ve been having these dreams…really messed up dreams.”

  “What makes them ‘messed up’?”

  Still not meeting her eyes, he said, “For starters, I’m always somebody else…but that’s not the strangest part. The Dream keeps going on. Not every night, but more and more lately, I find myself back in the same story, picking up where the last dream left off. And the last couple of times it happened, The Dream pulled me in.”

  “Pulled you in?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I got fired. I was at work, wide awake, and then I was in The Dream. My boss found me sleeping on the job, and that was that.”

  She asked him a series of questions about his symptoms, jotting down his answers and mentally ruling out night terrors, sleep paralysis, hypnogogic hallucinations, and a handful of other disorders.

  “Do you think it’s narcolepsy?
” he asked.

  She finished writing “psychological?” and said, “It’s possible. Are you tired now?”

  “A little, but I’m also hungover.”

  Leah nodded, wrote the word “alcohol.”

  That explains the red eyes…and the smell.

  “Do you often feel tired during the day?” she asked, maintaining the professional tone she had perfected in the four years she had been working at the clinic.

  “I worked third shift, so I’m used to sleeping whenever I have to.”

  Leah made a note about inconsistent sleep patterns. “Human beings are diurnal. Staying up all night can disrupt the body’s natural biorhythms. When was the last time you were ‘pulled’ into the dream?”

  “Last night.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “After you had been drinking.”

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, but I was stone-cold sober all the other times.”

  “Are you taking any prescriptions?”

  “No.”

  “Do you use street drugs?”

  “No.”

  “How often do you drink?”

  “I don’t drink…except for last night.” He rubbed his forehead. “Can’t you just hook me up to a machine to see if my brainwaves are scrambled or something?”

  Yeah, just let me take a catnap first, and then I’ll give you a tune up.

  Leah smiled politely. “That would be a bit premature.” She set the pen down and folded her hands. “Sleep science doesn’t extend into the makeup of dreams. The feeling you have of getting pulled into dreams is puzzling, but as for analyzing the dreams themselves, you might consider making an appointment with a psychotherapist—”

  Vincent stood up suddenly. “I don’t do shrinks. Thanks anyway, Leah. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  He turned to leave.

  Maybe it’s for the best.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” she said before she could stop herself.

  Vincent turned around.