Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (22 page)

Nancy O’Shay was fifty-one; but at five-four and one hundred twenty-five pounds, she had the well-proportioned body of a much younger woman and was remarkably limber for someone who’d had three children and spent so many grueling years working beside her husband on a ranch. Though a few thin crow’s-feet had recently appeared beside her eyes, serious wrinkles and sags were several years down the road; and aided by her dark, shoulder-length hair, she consistently drew glances from men of all ages, which considerably enhanced her self-esteem. A year ago, however, Allie had discovered her mother’s first gray hair, taken the indiscrete liberty of pointing it out to her. She hadn’t noticed another since and concluded her mother had discovered rinse.

A McDermott by birth, Nancy had been raised on a ranch in southwest Montana, and at twenty-two, fresh out of school, obtained a teaching job at the one-room schoolhouse near her husband-to-be’s ranch, in a county adjacent to the one her family’s ranch was in. She’d been there barely six months before Michael O’Shay, captivated by her beauty, her bubbly, unpresumptuous personality, and her common sense, proposed. She’d accepted, and after two more years of teaching, been asked by her parents if she and Mike would take over
her
family’s ranch, as well. She’d excitedly accepted, and she and Mike had combined their ranches and immersed themselves in the more-than-full-time task of running them and raising their growing family.

Allie embraced her mother with a warm, lingering hug that renewed the security and comfort she’d always drawn from her—like Emily, she thought. “How was the drive?”

“Uneventful and beautiful as always. Three and a half hours of head-bending scenery. And how’s my favorite girl?”

“Hanging in. Having some great ideas for the dissertation.” An image of Emily drifted through her mind, followed by a chilly gust of foreboding.

“Great. Let’s talk about it at dinner. How about Finley’s? My treat.”

“You’re on, Mom. You know I’m a sucker for that place. Can’t afford it unless you or Dad are here . . . so, uh, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back from my knee appointment in about an hour. I put clean sheets on the
bed in Andrea’s old room. So put your stuff in there. Help yourself to a beer or a snack. See you in a bit.”

“How’s the knee? Looks like you’re walking well.” She had a slightly husky voice that surprised people, most expecting a higher-pitched voice from a woman with her slight build.

“The wonders of arthroscopic surgery. Hurts a little, but barely. Can’t hardly see the scar.” Allie pointed at her bare knee. She was wearing cutoff jeans, a loose t-shirt with no bra, and a pair of thongs.

“You’re right. Looks really good.” She sized up Allie’s outfit, gave her a
didn’t-I-teach-you-better
look. “Aren’t you dressed a little casual for the doc’s office? I mean, it’s not exactly a picnic at the lake.”

“Come on, Mom! Give me a break.” Allie flashed her most acute bored look. “This is Montana, twenty-first century.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t let me hold you up. I’ll hang out and read my book ’til you get back. See you later.”

Allie’s doctor visit reminded her that the surgeon had given her a week’s supply of sleeping pills, which were still stashed in her bathroom drawer. She hadn’t needed them, hadn’t wanted the grogginess and dizziness that came with them, but decided they were available if she needed them. Really don’t want to dream anymore . . . but I’ve got to know what happens to Emily. And when the time comes . . .

While Allie drove home, Nancy sat at Allie’s computer reading the paragraph on Chesapeake. Her concern for her daughter’s well-being had overcome the repugnance of searching her desk. She had read all of the dream notes and individual dream summaries, skimmed the titles of the books stacked on the desk, then read Allie’s dissertation statement, her dream-stress connection, and now the Chesapeake blurb on the computer screen. It all fit together, hit her like a high-voltage shock; awakened childhood memories in the flash of a second; resurrected long-forgotten images: a young girl, eyes full of anticipation, an old woman’s gripping tale; the girl and old woman, perhaps ten years later, the girl’s eyes shadowed by fear and
anxiety, then disappointment; the now-very-feeble old woman’s eyes full of pain, the pain yielding to a strange, knowing contentment and a smile as she laid her hand on the girl’s head for a picture.

Nancy and Allie sat in Allie’s living room sipping the single malt scotch Nancy had brought with her to the apartment. Several cocktails at Finley’s had relaxed both to a gentle but lively buzz, helped Allie hide from her dreams and her mother, from her fears. They laughed spontaneously as they told stories about Michael O’Shay.

A little thick-tongued and philosophical, Allie said, “That’s true, Mom. Dad was always the disciplinarian, the problem solver; you were always the listener and the consoler. I always felt safe and secure in your arms.” She smiled at her mother with misty eyes.

“Well, that’s not unusual, Allie. Men tend to be disciplinarians and problem solvers, but your dad’s really got a great sense of humor . . . just has a tough time finding it sometimes . . . and you
were
a shock to his system. He didn’t have a clue what to think or do when you hit middle school and started changing, heading for the wild side. I mean, really, Allie, you
were
a bit of a struggle . . . for me, too.”

“Oh, come on, Mom. Not me.” Allie thought of Emily’s relationship with
her
father; the similarities startled her, made her swallow.

“Oh yeah! It’s true. You
were
a wild one, always spoke your mind, still do; but Allie, Dad’s a loving, caring father, and he loves you dearly.”

Allie felt the remorse that always seemed to swell inside her when she thought of her father: her deep hurt that she could never show or tell him how much she truly loved and respected him, much more so than any man in her life. “I know he does; I feel it . . . and I also know I didn’t appreciate
him
enough before I left, and it bothers me, Mom.”

“Well, he feels the same and also has trouble expressing his feelings about it, but you’ll get closer with time.”

Allie longed for that day, wished it were now, remembered Emily’s similar thoughts of
her
father.

“But honest to God, Al, Dad and I used to really rip it up together. Seemed like we were always laughing about something. Remember the griz’ story I told you?”

“Kind of, but it was a long time ago. Tell me again.” She smiled expectantly.

“Well, it was a year or so after your brother Mike was born. I’ve never seen your dad laugh so hard. Granddad had gotten dumped by a renegade he was trying to break, cracked his pelvis, was fading in and out of consciousness. It was almost dark, and we had a hell of a lightning storm going on. He shouldn’t’ve been working a rough horse in those conditions, but you know how he was. So Dad and his sister and mother got him onto a board and loaded him in the back of the pickup—lucky the topper was on—and hauled him off to the hospital, him bitching and moaning all the way. Well, the night before, we’d all been sitting around talking about what we’d do if a griz’ tried to tear its way into the house, and I was scared to death when they all drove off to town and the hospital and left me all alone with the kids. Well, they got back from the hospital about two a.m., except Granddad, of course; and there I was sitting in the living room with a .44 mag’ in my lap, a 30.06 leaning on the chair, and a bottle of scotch beside me, reading aloud to the dog. I mean, they just stood there and gawked at me for a minute while I smiled at them with this big, dumb, shit-eatin’ grin on my face. Then all of a sudden, they all started howling like wolves and laughing their butts off. It was a scene and a half, and your dad laughed the hardest and longest. Grandma and Aunt Jenny kind of pitied me after a while, but Dad just howled on.”

Allie laughed. “Oh my God, I can see it happening. You always told me you guys had lots of fun together, especially before we kids arrived on the scene.”

Nancy flashed a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Yes, we did. And it’s, indeed, a fact that things change when kids arrive.”

In the subsequent silence, Allie’s look grew suddenly sad; she thought of Erik, remembered their uproarious times together, and wished she could see him now, realized she missed him more than the day before.

Nancy’s smile quickly faded to concern. “What’s the matter, Hon?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just thinking about Erik. You know how sentimental I get after a couple drinks.” She shook her head. “Actually, I haven’t partied, other than a beer or two with Andrea, for a couple weeks. Too much on my mind. Too many strange—” She caught herself, held back. Her insides churned with instant anxiety, a longing to tell her mother about the dreams: how they’d insidiously crept into her mind, taken her thoughts, dominated her existence. But no, not now, not yet, not until she learned more . . . but oh, how she burned to tell it all.

Too many strange
what
? Nancy wondered. What was she about to say? “Aw, I’m sorry, Allie. Hang in there. It’ll come together . . . or it’ll pass. Just hang tough.” The alcohol had softened Nancy’s wits enough that she decided to ask Allie about her dreams. She immediately visualized the little girl and the old woman again, felt a twinge in her heart, a sudden warmth from her shoulders to her breasts, but instinctively cautioned herself.

“I will, Mom.” Allie wondered what she’d dream about that night, saw Emily, again felt the foreboding, shuddered inside, then wondered what her mother had been going to ask her on the phone that day. She knows something, something about dreams, not telling.

“Allie, are you still having those dreams? Are they upsetting you?”

Lips agape, Allie stared at her mother with a frightened, desperate look. Her eyes filled with tears as she stood, walked to the couch, then sat down beside her mother, wrapped her arms around her, and sobbed.

Nancy felt herself unraveling, held Allie close, rubbed her neck, comforted her for nearly ten minutes while her mind raced aimlessly. When she regained her composure, she whispered, “Allie, girl. What’s wrong? Tell me, Hon.” Long pause. “It’s the dreams, isn’t it?”

Allie nodded, her head against her mother’s chest.

“Want to tell me about them, tell me what’s happening?”

Allie sniffled. “I can’t, Mom. Not now.” She wished she could talk to Dressler that very moment, knew he was her only hope for understanding the dreams. Dear God, let him help me. Going crazy . . . or already there. How’d I get this way?

“All right. Tell me when you’re ready.” But her urge to help Allie dwarfed her caution; she couldn’t sit idly by while something so deeply
tormented her daughter. “Allie, do you remember me telling you about my great-grandmother?”

Still heaving every few seconds, Allie said, “No, Mom, I don’t.”

“Well, when I was a very little girl, she used to tell me really cool stories; and she told me they all came to her in dreams—very unusual and real dreams. So when you mentioned that
you
were having dreams, I thought of her.”

“What did she dream about, Mom? What kind of dreams?”

Suddenly cautious, Nancy hesitated, scoured her mind for the right response. She desperately wanted to tell Allie all she knew but dared not; so as her liquid courage fled her conflicted mind, she decided to lie. “That’s all I can remember, Hon; but hey, it’s getting late, and we’ve both had a long day and a good bit to drink. What say we get some sleep.”

“Come on, Mom, you’ve got me goin’ again. Tell me what you know. I can handle it.”

“No, that’s really it . . . all I had to say. Just wanted to mention it. I’m really beat.”

“This sucks, Mom. You know a helluva lot more, and you’re holding it back. That’s a rotten thing to do—
again
—and I don’t appreciate it. I’m pissed.” Allie got up from the couch.

“Allie, come on now, don’t be pissy. We’ll talk more in the morning. You can tell me about the dreams.” She knew Allie didn’t want to talk, hoped her counter suggestion would get her off the hook for the moment.

Feminine sparring, thought Allie. But I just can’t tell her yet . . . so ignore it. “Okay, Mom. I’m pissed, but thanks for dinner and the good scotch—rare treats for me.” She bent over and kissed her mother goodnight. “See you in the morning. Love you.”