by Bunn, Davis
That brought Sandra’s nerves closer to the surface. “I don’t know what I would do without Lawrence. Wither on the vine, no doubt.”
The words might have been plucked from Elena’s own shrunken heart. “Is your husband ill?”
“Lawrence is extremely healthy for his age. He has a regular checkup. There are a couple of minor issues, but nothing that could be considered threatening.”
Speaking those words caused Sandra’s eyes to well up. Which was hardly a surprise, given the nightmare she had related to Elena. That knowledge, and the hold Sandra kept on her hand, pressured Elena to say, “This week marks the point at which I have been a widow the same amount of time that I was married. My husband was eleven years older than me. He was a celebrated biochemist looking into rare blood types at Duke, where I did my clinical training. I followed him here. Jason loved everything about Oxford. After he died, I had every intention of returning home. But I never did. I suppose I hoped that by remaining here I might hold on to a bit of his passion. Jason was passionate about everything. Life, love, Oxford.” She took a breath that should have come far easier after all that time. “Me.”
Elena had told this new patient far too much of herself and did not care. The memories were a boisterous mob. She had half hoped that returning to Jason’s professional abode would not hurt quite so bad after five years. She should have known better. Yet the shared information served a purpose. Elena valued how Sandra Harwood had confessed her name. She reciprocated by sharing secrets of her own.
Their conversation was halted by the arrival of two of Jason’s former colleagues, who had obviously been alerted to Elena’s presence by the radiologist. Elena endured their warmth as she would a visit to the dentist. She did not need their recollections and their sorrow to miss Jason.
The radiologist arrived while the two biologists were still waxing on about the vacuum Jason had left behind. Robards shooed them away, then addressed his words to Elena. Evidently he was still very uncomfortable dealing with an unnamed patient. “The preliminary results indicate a complete all-clear. I’ve detected nothing that even raises the hint of trouble. Completely normal in all respects. A well-functioning and healthy brain.”
Sandra had remained seated throughout. “I am indeed grateful, Doctor.”
Elena added her own thanks, then ushered Sandra Harwood over to where the bodyguard waited. She made an appointment to see the woman after the weekend break and refused Sandra’s offer of a ride back to her office. Elena’s time with the woman had come to an end. The medical examination and Elena’s confession of personal details had established a rapport. Sandra Harwood now saw Elena as a source of clarity in a frightening time. Anything further ran the risk of establishing an emotional dependency.
Elena waved the woman and her limo into the Friday sunlight, hoping she would never need to learn what it meant to travel with four inches of bulletproof glass between herself and the world. She climbed into a waiting taxi and allowed herself a final glance back at the window that had once belonged to Jason’s office.
Clinical psychologists were not supposed to use terms such as soul mate. Nor were they permitted to ever suggest that emotional wounds were a permanent fixture. Or that a life would always remain hollowed by loss. Elena grimly hoped that perhaps one day she would stop waking up in the middle of the night, furious with Jason over how he had abandoned her.
The closer the taxi drew to Oxford city center and her office, the larger her other concern loomed.
Elena had no idea what the woman’s problem might be. Or how she should go about treating her. None whatsoever.
4
SATURDAY
Elena did not sleep well. This was hardly a surprise. Sleep had long been a reluctant friend, one who appeared and vanished with whimsical regularity. What was different about this night was that Elena did not care.
Saturday morning she took the train into London, and then the tube from Paddington Station to Notting Hill. Elena walked through the market, pausing to buy flowers and a jar of figs preserved in ginger and honey. Miriam’s house was a half mile farther on, a detached Victorian that crowned a steep side-street. Miriam had a photograph in her entryway taken a century before, when the lane had been shaded by elms so vast they formed a green tunnel. The few trees that remained were now surrounded by metal fences, placed there to keep vehicles from shouldering them aside in their desperate search for parking space. Yet the lane still held the charm of a bygone era. The sidewalks were empty save for the sunlight and a late-spring breeze. The market’s clamor swiftly faded. Elena climbed the stairs and shifted her purse and packages so she could pull the old-fashioned bell-knob.
Miriam Al-Quais opened the door, saying, “Ah. You’ve come. I hoped you might.”
“You knew I would.” Elena kissed the proffered cheek. The act brought back the fondest memories of her childhood. The cool skin, the fragrance of crushed rose petals. “How are you?”
“What a question to ask someone of my years. Come in, my dear. Such lovely flowers. And figs. Shame on you. You will make an old woman fat.”
Miriam Al-Quais led her back through a house of soft shadows, sunlit alcoves, and faint flavors drawn from Elena’s earliest recollections. Miriam was her mother’s dearest friend and Elena’s own godmother. Elena’s grandparents had sent their daughter off to England for a year of finishing school. The only bright spot to that dismal period, spent inside a drafty old monstrosity of a Jacobean manor, had been the school counselor. Miriam and Elena’s mother had remained friends ever since.
Miriam’s name, Al-Quais, was as famous as it was ancient. Al-Quais was one of the few Christian lineages that had survived the birth of Islam. Her family had once been residents of Tyre, the most famous port within the Phoenician trading empire. According to family lore, they had been converted to Christianity during the apostle Paul’s first missionary journey. Miriam had populated Elena’s childhood with such marvelous tales, always related as irrefutable fact.
Miriam Al-Quais carried herself with severe gravity. She was a smallish woman with hennaed hair bundled tightly against the back of her head. At eighty-one, her features remained even and remarkably unlined. Her eyes were her most astonishing feature, two dark and burning coals. They probed deeply and invited an intimacy that Miriam seldom returned.
Miriam had always maintained a certain aloof distance from Elena. Her affection for the younger woman had rarely been stated. Yet Miriam’s imprint upon her life ran deep. Miriam had been a clinical psychologist for over forty years. Miriam had been the reason why Elena became a clinician. When Elena had accompanied her husband to England, Miriam had come out of retirement to sponsor Elena’s passage through the British examination and licensing process. Miriam had been a very strict supervisor and treated their sessions as training times. She discussed at length potential differences between the British and American psyches. She lectured more than she listened. And Elena counted herself among the most fortunate of students.
Elena entered the kitchen and performed the ritual begun during her earliest training sessions. She made tea and served it in the sterling silver service and the Wedgwood china. They sat on Miriam’s rear sunporch. The furniture was wicker with quilted padding.
Elena asked, “How much do you know of my new patient?”
“Nothing whatsoever. I was called by a trusted friend, a Harley Street physician. The friend asked for a referral. I do not even know the patient’s name.”
“Why did you phone the appointment through yourself?” Normally the patient, or the patient’s primary-care physician, would make the initial connection.
Miriam sipped her tea. The china was so fragile that Elena could see the arthritic curl to Miriam’s fingers through the cup. “My friend stressed the urgency. I thought my initiating contact would accelerate the process.”
“So you have no idea who my patient is.”
“I just said that.”
There was no insult in repeating the ques
tion, and both women knew this. Elena was formally establishing the confidence required to consult with another clinician about a patient. “In that case, I need to ask your advice. The patient is female, in apparently excellent health, aged in her early fifties. Well educated, poised, intelligent. Accompanied by two bodyguards who certainly appeared to know their business.”
Sunlight dappled the room. The house sat on a hillside overlooking the London sprawl. In the distance, Hyde Park spread out like an oval green carpet. Miriam sat opposite her. She had not so much aged as moved beyond the reach of time.
“The patient has been suffering from nightmares for twenty-six days. Actually, that is incorrect. She has experienced a repetition of one single nightmare. And as the dream has recurred every night since it began, I can only assume it is now twenty-seven days and counting.”
Elena told her everything she knew of the dream.
Sandra Harwood had not called it a dream at all. She had called it an experience, as vivid as any waking moment. Which only made the event all the more grueling.
The dream had remained constant over the nights and the weeks. The only alteration had been its frequency. Some nights it only attacked her once. Other nights it came as many as six times. Every assault, except the night she had been held down by a sleeping pill, ended with her standing or kneeling beside her bed, screaming with terror.
Each time, the dream began with the sound of cheering.
Sandra Harwood stared out over huge crowds. Enormous. She stood upon a stage and waved to a throng one degree off berserk.
There were television cameras everywhere. Blank glass eyes that followed her every move. And balloons. And bunting. And signs. And colors and hats and horns.
The indoor stadium was packed. Sandra Harwood shared the stage with a half dozen others.
She was the center of attention, and yet she was not. She waved to people she couldn’t really see. She smiled, exhilarated with the energy and the power that pulsated through the auditorium.
She was more excited than she had ever been in her entire life. The streamers and the confetti fell like multicolored snow. The auditorium appeared filled with a billion fractured rainbows.
At the center of the stage, a man stood behind the podium. He spoke into the microphones. She could not clearly see the man at the podium because of the confetti, but she knew him. In fact, Sandra considered him a very dear friend. The man at the podium gestured toward her. Only then did Sandra realize she stood beside her husband. Lawrence Harwood had one arm around her waist. With the other he waved to the crowd. She did not need to look at him to know he was as excited as she.
Then she felt the eyes.
This other man stood behind the curtains at the stage’s far side. He was not really visible. But he was there. He was partly shadow and partly human. He was a living wraith.
She knew the wraith was watching her. He smiled at her, and instantly her exhilaration vanished. She became flooded with a cold and helpless dread.
The man at the podium, her dear friend, called out her husband’s name.
The crowd screamed louder still.
Sandra realized it was all wrong. She tried to tell them to stop. She begged her friend not to name her husband. She shrieked for her husband not to step forward. But the noise was too great. And her husband was blind to the risk and danger that now consumed her.
The streamers and the bunting and the confetti all turned to ash. The crowd’s clamor became ghoulish. The lights went dark. All but one.
The light is focused upon the podium.
Her husband is there.
In his coffin.
Elena finished relating Sandra’s experience with “It is not just that the dream itself or its exact repetitive nature defies standard analysis. The patient does not show any of the expected symptoms. She is well adjusted. Emotionally stable. She claims to have experienced no extraordinary trauma. She appears to love her husband very much. She states that their marriage is sound. They have two children. Both are in their late twenties. Married. One grandchild, an infant. There have been no recent arguments or unusual stresses. She describes her childhood as normal, and the relationship with her parents remains good.”
Miriam said, “And you believe her.”
“I have no reason not to. She appears too desperate to mask a possible causal factor with lies. She is frantic with worry. And yet, beneath the quite evident fatigue and fear, she appears to be exactly what she claims. A well-adjusted mature woman with a highly fulfilling life.”
“And you like her.”
Elena set down her cup. It was not an unfair question. A clinical distance was important in arriving at valid analysis. Some patients, especially those with psychopathic tendencies, used emotional affection as a means of domination. “She is utterly terrified. She has lost control of her life. These experiences have wounded her. I feel for her. Yes. Very deeply.”
“And yet, here you are, a world authority on dream interpretation. Facing a patient whose dilemma defies your analytical abilities.”
Elena studied the older woman. “Are you suggesting I pass this patient on to another clinician?”
“My dear young friend, perish the thought. I am simply seeking to clarify for you the facts surrounding your situation. You, the expert, are baffled by a patient whose symptoms are unexplainable.”
“Completely.” But it was not merely the patient who was confused. Miriam’s observations did not make sense. “You’re saying I am too reliant upon my training and studies?”
Miriam smiled in a very curious manner. Her lips did not move. But her eyes tightened in genuine pleasure. “There comes a point where we must risk everything, our heritage and our training and our future direction, upon a course for which there is no standard definition.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow—”
“We have come very far, you and I. From a young child whose questing mind and open heart called to an old woman and lit her days. Even then, I wondered if perhaps you were the one.”
Elena no longer recognized the woman seated opposite her. “We were discussing a patient.”
“No, my dear. I’m sorry. But you are incorrect. We are speaking about the future. And the distant past. And how they might indeed be intertwined.” Miriam rose from her chair. “Wait here, please.”
Miriam was gone for perhaps half an hour. Elena heard the occasional sound from the upper floors. She did not mind the solitude. Miriam’s home was one of the few places where Elena felt utterly able to release her deepest tensions and relax. The home invited the inspection of secrets, particularly on such rare spring days. The sunlight created a gleaming patina over the city. Even the distant towers held a mystic quality. London became a haven where the divide between past and present was dissolved. Here was a sanctuary where a woman might permit her inner child to emerge and dream safely once again. Where knights on shining steeds appeared at the moment of direst need, to protect the defenseless from dark forces. Where pennants waved gaily from the king’s tower, and peace was a force in the land. Where hearts could heal, and hope was a constant friend.
When Miriam returned, her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Elena had the sudden impression that her friend had been weeping.
5
Elena asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine.” Miriam seated herself and placed a case upon the table between them. “I have carried this for seventy-two years. It was given to me by my great-grandmother. She died the following year. I was nine.”
A lance of genuine fear pierced Elena’s heart. “Are you unwell?”
“My health is not the issue.” Miriam traced a finger across the case’s surface. “Take careful note of what I just said. I have carried this. As in, bearing a burden. It was entrusted to me, and now I am offering it to you. It does not mean that you will be able to use it. I have never known any benefit. Only the responsibility.”
“What is it?”
M
iriam had become the immutable, timeless wise woman. “This is yours to accept or reject. My great-grandmother did not offer me any such choice. She commanded, and I obeyed. But times change. So I am making this request of you.”
“How could I refuse you anything?”
Miriam did not so much smile as offer an enigma. “If you agree to take it, your responsibility will remain until you select another individual and pass it along.”
Elena studied the woman with her seamless features and ancient’s gaze. For some reason, her voice shook slightly as she replied, “My answer stays the same. I could not possibly say anything but yes to you.”
Miriam rose and walked around the table. She placed a hand upon Elena’s cheek. Such displays of affection were rare between them. Elena’s graduation. Her wedding day. Jason’s funeral. Miriam’s hand traced downward and settled upon Elena’s shoulder. “Open it.”
The packet was silk velvet, about the size of a briefcase, and not quite square. The cover was held in place with three cords. Elena fingered them and decided the cords were in fact woven gold. The ties were green gemstones, each the size of Elena’s thumbnail.
“Emeralds,” Miriam explained. “The coverlet was a gift from a grateful recipient to my great-grandmother.”
“Recipient of what?”
“An excellent question. Perhaps one day you will know the answer for yourself.”
Elena opened the flap and withdrew a book of sorts. The front and back covers were two intricately carved planks of petrified olive wood. The hinges appeared to be white jade. Elena set the book in her lap and ran a hand over the cover. The wood was smooth as glass. She wondered how many hands had done just what she was doing now.
She opened the cover, revealing a page containing just four letters, woven together like the cords that sealed the packet.
“The script is Aramaic,” Miriam said.
Elena discovered her own voice had become as unsteady as her hands. “What does it say?”
