Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (80 page)

Ginger said, “Hang on, Allie. Don’t do that. You’ll trash yourself and the equipment. Stay put.”

“That rotten sonofabitch! Damn him to hell!” She sat on the bedside. “Get me out of here! I can’t handle this anymore!” She flailed her arms, yanked at electrodes.

“Allie, stop. I’ll get them. Come on! Settle down!” Ginger started removing electrodes. “Guess we’re done for tonight, huh?”

“Damn it!” she screamed. “Get this stuff off me!” She popped off two more electrodes, groped for others. “Need some air!”

Dressler walked into the room with a pill and a cup of water, approached Allie as she tried to push Ginger away. “Allie, stop! Settle down. Here. Take this. It’s a sedative. It’ll relax you, help you get through this. You’re really upset.”

Allie stopped flailing, looked into his eyes; she abruptly burst into tears, blubbered, “He raped her, Steve, just out of the blue. He raped her, said he’d kill Virginia if she didn’t let him do it.” She swallowed the sedative. “My God!” She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close, laid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed.

Dressler softly patted her back. “Hang on, Allie, you’ll be okay. We’ll get you through this. Now take it easy, try to relax.” When her sobs tapered
to random whimpers, he eased her back onto the bed, caressed her cheek as if she were a child who’d had a nightmare. “Let yourself unwind, go to sleep; hopefully, you’ll wake up before the first REM, shouldn’t dream anymore.”

Allie looked up at him with sad, basset-hound eyes, let them slowly close as her breathing relaxed to normal. A moment later she slept.

Dressler looked at Ginger. “Watch her closely, Gin. Buzz me immediately if anything happens.”

“I will, Doc. Wow, that was wild.”

“What happened?”

“She was really into it, moving her body all over the place, like . . . like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Like she was having an orgasm. Never seen that in the lab before, but . . .”

“Such things
do
happen in dreams . . . further evidence of her extraordinary tie to Emily. So while she’s out, how about checking the data against classic orgasm readings to validate it?”

“Sure, Doc . . . poor kid. Really hit her hard.”

Emily wore a clean smock, sat by the fire in her otherwise dark cottage, glanced at her sleeping father. Breathing fast, she thought. Strange gurgling, rattling sound . . . like he can’t breathe. She looked back into the fire. He must never know what’s happened to me. She still felt dirty, emotionally spent, morally barren, permanently fouled, damned to hell without hope because of the pleasure she’d felt. For the twentieth time in the two days since the rape, she mentally replayed its final moments: her dramatic release, Tayler on top of her, then rolling to her side.

He’d lain quietly beside her while she cried softly and both caught their breath. Finally, he’d turned toward her, reached over, caressed her cheek. “Emily . . . my Emily, I . . . I love you, and I’m deeply sorry this happened the way it did. I didn’t want it to be like that. I truly love you and need you . . . but at least you seemed to pleasure in it . . .”

Her eyes had flipped open; she’d looked toward him, spit at him.

He’d recoiled, stared at her in surprise.

She’d rolled away, again closed her eyes, whispered, “Leave me, Hugh Tayler. Never touch me again. I hate you, and I shall kill you.”

He’d hesitated, finally stood, buttoned his codpiece. “ ’Tis nearly dark. I should escort you back to the village.”

“Leave me. I shall find my own way.”

He’d stared at her for a long moment, finally turned away, then looked back at her. “Emily, you must tell no one what’s happened here. It cannot be disclosed, and I shall do what I promised if
anything
is said to
anyone
. I know you understand. Again, I’m very sorry about the manner of this.” He had turned, walked away toward the village.

After he’d left, Emily had climbed to her feet, tied her smock, buttoned her shirt; flipped the dried leaves and grass from her hair, smoothed it; for the first time, sensed pain between her legs. She’d fluffed her dress, started slowly toward the village, staggering the first several steps; cried, moaned, nearly fainted; then vomited when she thought of what had happened to her. Cringing with shame when she thought of her unwanted pleasure, Emily had shivered with guilt, despair, decided to kill herself. She’d tremored inside and out, decided to do it then. Yes, I can hang myself from a tree branch with my shirt. She had looked for a tree with a high, sturdy branch and low branches she could climb on, found one, removed her shirt, walked toward the tree, stopped, and looked up at the branch. No. ’Twould be a greater sin and the way of a coward. I am
not
a coward. I shall face my sin, suffer, do penance for the rest of my life, perchance save myself from hell . . . but how can I do penance if I’m a whore?

Before entering the cottage, she had again tidied herself, noticed Tayler’s dried blood on her shirt, decided to tell her father she’d cut herself and used the shirt to stop the bleeding. Taking a deep, quivering breath, she had opened the door, sighed her relief when she saw her father sleeping. She’d immediately stepped to the water bucket, quietly removed her clothes, washed her entire body, praying that the feeling of filth that racked her like a fever would rinse away. But it had not, so she’d washed herself again, then two more times before she’d donned a clean smock, walked to
the fire, thrown her clothes upon it, sat beside it, then stared numbly into its soul as the clothes flamed then quickly collapsed into ashes. Like my life, she thought.

What will become of me? What will I say to Ellie, to Isna . . . Father? My guilt, my unworthiness will show. My dear Virginia. What if someone discovers what he’s done, and he does what he said? What if he comes and takes me again . . . and yet again? Oh, Mother, what am I to do? She sobbed quietly, trembled, searched the flames for answers until almost imperceptibly, a new, diminutive seed of anxiety rooted in her mind like a sudden apparition; it quickly bloomed, chilled her as if she were standing naked in frigid night air. I could become pregnant, have his child. Oh, Lord, please forbid it. What would I do? Would have no choice but to be with him, be his wife . . . his whore. Dear God, save me. Please don’t let it be. She rose, walked to her bed, reached beneath it, and pulled out a small, thin stick with notches on it. She picked up her knife, cut two notches. That’s for the last two days. She then tallied a total of fourteen notches on the stick, stared at the wall with a dazed look. Heaven help me! If I’m early like I usually am, I should start in seven days. Please, Lord, let me bleed. Please. She replaced the stick, walked to her duffle bag, opened it to view her supply of neatly folded rags. Must keep these close and ready. Lord, I beseech you, please let me bleed.

Allie opened her eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment, then looked at Ginger with a weak smile. “Wow. Feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder . . . really whooped.” A guilty look supplanted her smile. “I was bad, wasn’t I? Like maybe a little wild and out of control?”

“You were upset . . .
really
upset. How do you feel now?”

“Better . . . calmer . . . still pissed . . . depressed. He raped her, Ginger, and it felt like I was being raped, too.” She looked back at the ceiling, focused on a small speck, wondered if it was a fly or a spider. “Things were way different in those days: no help, no support groups . . . just shunning
and a bad future for the girl who got it. Really sucks for Emily!” She looked back at Ginger. “I feel dirty. Can I go take my shower?”

“Absolutely. The doc will be in shortly, and we’ll get ready to debrief . . . if you’re up to it. If not, we can—”

“I can do it.”

“Okay. Today’s menu is coffee, juice, and Danish. Want anything?

“Sure. I’ll take some good, strong black coffee and a Danish. Thanks.” She smiled. “Ginger, you’re a very special, patient person, and I appreciate it.” Her look saddened. “This is getting really hard for me, and . . . and I don’t know where it’s going or how I’m going to react. So thanks for being the way you are . . . and I apologize in advance for any other crazy things I do.” She stood, walked toward the changing room.

“It’s easy, Allie. I like you a lot and want to help you in any way I can.”

Allie smiled again. “Thanks, Ginger.” She walked into the changing room, flicked on the light. Funny, but I feel dirty all over like Emily . . . felt everything she felt. This is so fricking weird. She leaned her forearm on the wall, laid her head against it, felt her eyes fill with tears. Where’s it gonna end? My poor, dear, sweet Emily. Feels so guilty, worthless . . . because she’s not a virgin any more . . . and had an orgasm while being raped . . . thinks she enjoyed it . . . and sinned. God, I feel for her. She rubbed her butterfly birthmark.

Forty-five minutes later, Allie emerged from the changing room looking fresher but still a bit haggard. She walked to the data table where Dressler and Ginger sat reviewing data, sat down, hoisted her coffee cup. “Cheers.”

Dressler smiled. “Cheers. How do you feel? We can do this later if you’re not up to it right now.”

“I’m okay. Let’s get it done.”

“Alright. So . . .” His cheeks flushed pink as he nodded at Ginger.

Ginger, also blushing, said, “Well, Allie, before we get going, it looks like you had . . . had an orgasm . . . at the same time Emily apparently did.” She pointed at the data traces then at another sheet of paper. “See, here. These are classic orgasm readings. And my real-time observations corroborate it, as well. Did . . . did you . . .”

“Yes,” she admitted. “I felt every bit of what Emily felt: her terror, her arousal, her guilt, her pain, her pleasure . . . her orgasm. All of it, as if it were happening to me.” She glanced sheepishly at Dressler then Ginger. “But we shouldn’t be surprised by that, should we?”

Dressler said, “No, not at all, but . . . but we were. Nevertheless, it conclusively validates the extraordinary tie you have with Emily—precisely what we’re out to prove in this phase. And while the event itself was awful and terrifying, it gave us demonstrable, unequivocal proof that you feel, see, and experience things in your dreams far beyond the norm. But having said that, I think we should continue doing what we’re doing for at least another five days to further build our case with additional valid data sets: dream events matched to substantiating data traces. Then we can move on to other types of tests that monitor the specific brain functions and inputs we think enable your dreams. We’ll also monitor additional heart functions and analyze your genetic composition, which we haven’t really talked about yet. So the bottom line, Allie, is that while last night was very painful for you, it was a huge, verifiable step in our process, and I’m very happy about it from that perspective.” He transitioned to a frown. “But I’m also quite concerned about it from another perspective.”

A faint alarm bell tingled in the back of Allie’s mind. “I know what you’re thinking, Doc. ‘Can she handle the emotional aspects of this?’ The answer is, who knows . . . but I can’t just turn off the dreams. They’re going to happen regardless of what I want or do, and I’m going to dream bad stuff whether I’m wired up or not. So we might as well keep going and try to understand what’s happening. I mean, just knowing we’re
trying
to figure it out gives me hope . . . something to hold on to in the bad times.”

He nodded, retained his frown and silence for a moment. “You’re a gritty gal, Allie O’Shay . . . but you also make a good point.”

She nodded. “Good. So let’s fire up the recorder and get going . . . before I cry about Emily again.”

Over the next two hours, Allie relayed the details of Taverner’s flogging, the waning discipline of the soldiers, Henry Harvie’s death, Emily and Elyoner’s grief, Lassie’s disappearance, Thomas Colman’s failing health, Isna and his conversations with Emily, her ever-deepening respect for his
Lakota values, Isna’s confrontation with the Panther and the Powhatans, his vision quest, her dream, its meaning, their kicking-ball game, their love, their uncertainty of the future, Emily’s commitment to chastity, the doeskin dress, the harvest dance, Tayler’s shocking disclosures . . . the rape. She cried as she described Emily’s thoughts and feelings, her guilt, her desolation, her fear of Tayler and becoming pregnant with his child, her utter despair over her future.