“Okay. Walk me through it again.”
I hesitate. I want
to say all the words again, to form the sentences and remember every
bit for the millionth time, but I say, “No.”
“Come on. One
more time.”
I don't want to. Or
I really, really want to. I already know that once I head home, I'll
just make myself remember every detail and, even though I'm gonna
pretend I didn't like the dream, even though I'm gonna tell her it
disgusted me and could she give me some pills to just sleep like
the dead and not dream at all?,
I'll wish I'll see it tonight again. And tomorrow. And hopefully
for every single night for the rest of my life, which I know is
impossible, but I want it. That's what I want. I want that dream.
“I know you
didn't suddenly become shy,” she says.
“Because I
haven't objected you recording our sessions?”
She turns her palms
up defensively but she's smiling. “You haven't.”
“Listen to the
tape if you want to hear it again so badly.”
“This isn't about
me wanting to hear about your dreams. This is about you. You
disassociate with your emotions ever since the shooting.”
“On the contrary,
doctor, I'm very much in touch with my anger.”
“On our very
first sessions you talked about a different dream you had.”
“So?”
“So, what's so
different about this dream?”
“I don't know.”
“Okay, let's talk
similarities. She's in both dreams, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Same building,
her building, a taxi waiting in the rain. You're waiting in the
rain.”
“Okay.”
“You're waiting
for her?”
I don't answer. I
don't think she's expecting one either.
“You gave her
your umbrella again. You never take those nine steps to her front
door. She goes alone. The setting's the same in both dreams. Your
feelings are what's different. In the first dream you feel guilty.
You're sad because you hurt her even though you were trying to
protect her. You're angry at yourself. You're angry at her because
she isn't angry at you and she should be because you hurt her. If she
doesn't get angry at the man who killed her child, what else has she
forgiven? How many other people has she let hurt her and was not once
mad at them? You're also angry at the people who hurt her. You don't
know them but if you could find them, you'd kill them. Then you
remember you actually have killed someone, though
unintentionally, so you try not to think about it. She accepted your
umbrella but she wanted to tell you something before she did. What
was it?”
“How am I
supposed to know?”
“It was your
dream.”
“Dreams don't
always make sense.”
“Alright. In the
second dream, she almost told you something again but this time you
almost didn't let go of the umbrella. When she walks up the stairs
and pauses in front of her door, you want her to turn around and
invite you in. You're guilty you want that. You're guilty you don't
look at her and the first thing you remember is her holding a dead
boy in her arms. You're guilty you focus on her lips and not the
sting in your stomach that reminds you you've hurt her. You don't
want to remember that anymore.”
“I do though.”
I do.
“You should,”
she says. “Just don't let it define you.”
I don't mention the
rest of the dream, that bit later when I walk up the stairs after her
and follow her inside the house.
