What Dreams May Come (2 page)

Strange. I leaned in close to look at him. His face was just like mine. I shook my head. That was impossible. I looked down at his left hand. He wore a wedding band exactly like the one I wore. How could that be?

I began to feel an aching coldness in my stomach. I tried to draw the sheet back from his body but I couldn’t. Somehow, I had lost the sense of touch. I kept on trying until I saw my fingers going through the sheet, then pulled my hand back, sickened. No, it isn’t me, I told myself. How could it be when I was still alive? My body even hurt. Proof positive of life.

I whirled as a pair of doctors rushed into the room, stepping back to let them at the body.

One of them began to blow his breath into the man’s mouth. The other had a highp—spell. H-y-p-o-dermic; yes. I watched him shove the needle end into the man’s flesh. Then a nurse came running in, pushing some machine on wheels. One of the doctors pressed the ends of two thick, metal rods against the man’s bare chest and he twitched. Now I knew that there was no relationship between the man and me for I felt nothing.

Their efforts were in vain. The man was dead. Too bad, I thought. His family would be grieved. Which made me think of Ann and the children. I had to find and reassure them. Especially Ann; I knew how terrified she was. My poor, sweet Ann.

I turned and walked toward the doorway. On my right was a bathroom. Glancing in, I saw a toilet, light switch and a button with a red bulb next to it, the word Emergency printed beneath the bulb.

I walked into the hall and recognized it. Yes, of course. The card in my wallet said to take me there in case of accident. The Motion Picture Hospital in Woodland Hills.

I stopped and tried to work things out. There’d been an accident, they’d brought me here. Why wasn’t I in bed then? But I had been in bed. The same one the dead man was in. The man who looked like me. There had to be an explanation for all this. I couldn’t find it though. I couldn’t think with clarity.

The answer finally came. I wasn’t sure it was correct— but there was nothing else. I had to accept it; for the moment anyway.

I was under anesthetic, they were operating on me. Everything was happening inside my mind. That had to be the answer. Nothing else made sense.

Now what? I thought. Despite the distress of what was taking place, I had to smile. If everything was happening in my mind, then, being conscious of it, couldn’t I control it?

Right, I thought. I’d do exactly what I chose. And what I chose to do was find my Ann.

As I decided that, I saw another doctor running down the hall toward me. Deliberately, I tried to stop him as he hurried past but my outstretched hand passed through his shoulder. Never mind, I told myself. In essence, I was dreaming. Any foolish thing could happen in a dream.

I started walking down the hall. I passed a room and saw a green card with white lettering: NO SMOKING— OXYGEN IN USE. Unusual dream, I thought, I’d never been able to read in dreams; words always ran together when

I tried. This was completely legible despite the general blurring which continued.

It’s not exactly a dream, of course, I told myself, seeking to explain it. Being under anesthesia isn’t like being asleep. I nodded in agreement with the explanation, kept on walking. Ann would be in the waiting room. I set my mind on reaching her and comforting her. I felt her suffering as though it were my own.

I passed the nurses’ station and heard them talking. I made no attempt to speak to them. All of this was in my mind. I had to go along with that; accept the rules. All right, it’s not a dream persay—per s-e—but it was easier to think of it as one. A dream then; under anesthesia.

Wait, I thought, stopping. Dream or not, I can’t walk around in my patient’s gown. I glanced down at myself, startled to see the clothes I was wearing when the accident occurred. Where’s the blood? I wondered. I recalled an instant vision of myself unconscious in the wreckage. Blood had been spraying.

I felt a sense of eggs—no! Sorry for the impatience. E-x-u-1-t-a-t-i-o-n. Why? Because I’d reasoned something out despite the dullness of my mind. I couldn’t possibly be that man in the bed. He was in a patient’s gown, bandaged, fed by tubes. I was dressed, unbandaged, mobile. Total difference.

A man in street clothes was approaching me. I expected him to pass me. Instead, to my surprise, he put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I could feel the pressure of each separate finger on my flesh.

“Do you know what’s happened yet?” he asked.

“Happened?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “You’ve died.”

I looked at him in disgust. “That’s absurd,” I said.

“It’s true.”

“If I were dead, I wouldn’t have a brain,” I told him, “I couldn’t talk to you.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he persisted.

“The man in that room is dead, not me.” I said, “I’m under anesthesia, being operated on. In essence, I’m dreaming.” I was pleased by my analysis.

“No, Chris,” he said.

I felt a chill. How did he know my name? I peered at him closely. Did I know him? Was that why he’d appeared in my dream?

No; not at all. I felt distaste for him. Anyway, I thought (the idea made me smile despite my irritation) this was my dream and he had no claim to it. “Go find your own dream,” I said, gratified by the cleverness of my dismissal.

“If you don’t believe me, Chris,” he told me, “look in the waiting room. Your wife and children are there. They haven’t been told yet that you’ve died.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” I pointed my finger at him, jabbing at the air. “You’re the one who told me not to fight it, aren’t you?”

He started to reply but I was so incensed by that I wouldn’t let him speak. “I’m tired of you and tired of this stupid place,” I said. “I’m going home.”

Something pulled me from him instantaneously. It was as though my body was encased in metal with a distant magnet drawing me to itself. I hurtled through the air so fast I couldn’t see or hear a thing.

It ended as abruptly as it started. I was standing in fog. I looked around but saw nothing in any direction. I began to walk, moving slowly through the mist. Now and then, I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of people. When I tried to see them clearly, though, they faded off. I almost called to one, then chose not to. I was master of this dream. I wouldn’t let it dominate me.

I attempted to distract myself by making believe I was back in London. Remember how I traveled there in 1957 to write a film? It had been November and I’d walked in fogs like this more than once—“pea soup” is a good description. This was even thicker, though; like being underwater. It even felt wet.

Finally, through the fog, I saw our house. That sight relieved me in two ways. One, the very look of it. Two, the way I’d gotten there so quickly. That could only happen in a dream.

Suddenly, an inspiration came to me. I’ve told you how my body hurt. Even though it was a dream, I still felt pain. Accordingly, I told myself that, since the pain was dream-eng-e-n-dered, it wasn’t necessary that I feel it. Robert, with the thought, the pain was gone. Which caused another sense of pleasure and relief. What more vivid proof could one require that this was dream and not reality?

I remembered, then, how I had sat up on the hospital bed, laughing, because it had all been a dream. That’s exactly what it was. Period.

I was in the entry hall without transition. Dream, I thought and nodded, satisfied. I looked around, my vision still blurred. Wait, I thought. I’d been able to dispel the pain, why not the vision?

Nothing happened. Everything beyond ten feet was still obscured by what appeared to be a pall of smoke.

I whirled at the clicking noise of claws across the kitchen floor. Ginger was running into the front hall; you recall, our German Shepherd. She saw me and began her rocking, bouncing run of joy. I spoke her name, delighted by the sight of her. I bent to stroke her head and saw my hand sink deep into her skull. She recoiled with a yelp and scuttled back in terror, bumping hard against the kitchen door jamb, ears pressed tight to her head, hair erected on her back.

“Ginger,” I said. I fought away a sense of dread. “Come here.” She’s acting foolishly, I told myself. I moved after her and saw her slipping frantically on the kitchen floor, trying to run away. “Ginger!” I cried. I wanted to be irritated with her but she looked so frightened that I couldn’t be. She ran across the family room and lunged out through the flap of the dog door.

I was going to follow her, then decided not to. I would not be victimized by this dream no matter how insane it got. I turned and called Ann’s name.

No answer to my call. I looked around the kitchen, seeing that the coffee maker was on, its pair of red bulbs burning.

The glass pot on the heater plate was almost empty. I managed a smile. She’s done it again, I thought. In no time, the house would be per—p-e-r-me-at-ed with a reek of burning coffee. I reached out to pull the plug, forgetting. My hand went through the wire and I stiffened, then forced back amusement. You can’t do anything right in dreams, I reminded myself.

I searched the house. Our bedroom and the bathroom, lan’s and Marie’s rooms, their connecting bathroom. Richard’s room. I ignored the blurring of my vision. That was unimportant, I decided.

What I found myself unable to ignore was an increasing lethargy I felt. Dream or not, my body felt like stone. I went back inside our bedroom and sat on my side of the bed. I felt a twinge of uneasiness because it didn’t shift beneath me; it’s a water bed. Forget it, a dream’s a dream, I told myself. They’re insane, that’s all.

I looked at my clock-radio, leaning close to see the hands and numbers. It was six fifty-three. I looked out through the glass door. It wasn’t dark outside. Misty but not dark. Yet how could it be morning if the house was empty? At this time, they should all be in their beds.

“Never mind,” I said, struggling to get it all together in my mind. You’re being operated on. You’re dreaming this. Ann and the children are at the hospital waiting for—

A new confusion struck me. Was I really in the hospital? Or had that been part of the dream too? Was I actually asleep on this bed, dreaming everything? Maybe the accident had never occurred. There were so many possibilities, each one affecting the next. If only I could think more clearly. But my mind felt numb. As though I’d been drinking or taken sedation.

I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. It was the only thing to do; I knew that much. Presently, I’d wake up with the truth: a dream in the hospital while under anesthesia or a dream in my bed while asleep. I hoped it was the latter.

Because, in that case, I’d wake up to find Ann lying by my side and could tell her what a crazy dream I’d had. Hold her lovely warmth in my arms and kiss her tenderly and laugh as I told her how bizarre it is to dream of dreaming.

This black, unending nightmare

I WAS EXHAUSTED but I couldn’t rest, my sleep broken by Ann’s crying. I tried to rise, to comfort her. Instead, I hovered in a limbo between darkness and light. Don’t cry, I heard myself murmur. I’ll wake up soon and be with you. Just let me sleep a while. Please don’t cry; it’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.

Finally, I was forced to open my eyes. I wasn’t lying down but standing in a mist. I started walking slowly toward the sound of her crying. I was tired, Robert, groggy. But I couldn’t let her cry. I had to find out what was wrong and end it so she wouldn’t cry like that. I couldn’t bear to hear her cry like that.

I moved into a church I’d never seen before. All the pews were filled with people. Their forms were gray, I couldn’t see their features. I walked down the middle aisle, trying to understand why I was there. What church was this? And why was the sound of Ann’s crying coming from here?

I saw her sitting in the front pew, dressed in black, Richard on her right, Marie and Ian to her left. Next to Richard, I could see Louise and her husband. All of them were dressed in black. They were easier to see than the other people in the church yet even they looked faded, ghostlike. I could still hear the sobbing even though Ann was silent. It’s in her mind, it came to me; and our minds are so close I hear it. I hurried toward her to stop it.

I stopped in front of her. “I’m here,” I said.

She looked ahead as though I hadn’t spoken; as though I weren’t there at all. None of them looked toward me. Were they embarrassed by my presence and pretending not to see? I glanced down at myself. Perhaps it was my outfit. Hadn’t I been wearing it a long time now? It seemed as though I had although I wasn’t sure.

I looked back up. “All right,” I said. I had difficulty speaking; my tongue felt thick. “All right,” I repeated slowly. “I’m not dressed correctly. And I’m late. That doesn’t mean …” My voice trailed off because Ann kept looking straight ahead. I might have been invisible. “Ann, please,” I said.

She didn’t move or blink. I reached out to touch her shoulder.

She twitched sharply, looking up, her face gone blank.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

The crying in her mind abruptly surfaced and she jerked her left hand up to cover her eyes, trying to repress a sob. I felt a numbing pain inside my head. What’s wrong? I thought. “Ann, what’s wrong?” I pleaded.

She didn’t answer and I looked at Richard. His face was tight, tears running down his cheeks. “‘Richard, what is going on?” I asked. My words sounded slurred as though I were drunk.

He didn’t answer and I looked at Ian. “Will you please tell me?” I asked. I felt a stab of anguish looking at him.

He was sobbing quietly, rubbing shaky fingers at his cheeks, trying to brush away the tears that fell from his eyes. What in the name of God? I thought.

Then I knew. Of course. The dream; it still continued. I was in the hospital being operated on—no, I was asleep on my bed and dreaming—whatever! flared my mind. The dream was continuing and now it included my own funeral. I had to turn away from them; I couldn’t stand to watch them crying so. I hate this stupid dream! I thought. When was it going to end?!

It was torment to me to be turned away when, just behind me, I could hear Ann and the children sobbing. I felt a desperate need to turn and comfort them. To what avail though? In my dream, they mourned my death. What good would it do for me to speak if they believed me dead?