In Between Dreams (2 page)

Bailey remembered meeting him for the first time when she was seventeen. She thought he was so dreamy. Looking back, he wasn’t that great-looking of a guy. He was just an average fortysomething doctor who held a whole lot of hope in Bailey’s eyes. A year later, he turned out to be just as disappointing as every other physician she had seen. It was on that day she decided to live with her disease rather than going down any more rabbit holes.

The problem with the doctors diagnosing her with narcolepsy or “something like it” was that her condition was nothing like it. People with narcolepsy would suddenly fall asleep without much warning for thirty minutes or so. The cure for it didn’t exist, but it was completely manageable with eating a diet similar to a vegan’s and being sure not to operate motor vehicles. Bailey’s disease was much different. She would have long periods of normal sleeping patterns where she didn’t have any sleep attacks, sometimes for close to three months. And then, without a trigger, she would be out of commission for hours or days with no knowledge of when the sleep attack would end. One doctor attempted to call it chronic mono, without any scientific basing behind the thesis. He claimed to have seen one other person with chronic mono. Bailey’s mother stood firm against going back to that doctor.

The condition Bailey had was not life-threatening. It was not so debilitating it caused her to be in any real danger. It was a condition she could work around. She could go on with her life like anyone who had a chronic condition. It could be managed with a little organization and
medication to address the symptoms. She stopped going to doctors to hear their rounds of guesswork.

Bailey stripped out of her clothes to get in the shower; she felt greasy and sticky from tossing and turning during her most recent prolonged sleep session. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed at her appearance. Her once tanned skin was now a pasty gray. She lived in Seattle, under a cover of clouds and blankets. So what could she really expect? When she was younger, less busy, she had time to go to the tanning salon and keep her bronze glow. She didn’t have that kind of time anymore. Her normally hazel eyes were a sleep-induced bloodshot, and her hair was flat and tangled from thrashing about in her sleep.

She showered as quickly as she possibly could. She knew the sleep attack would plague her again very soon, and this conscious time was a gift. Once she was done scrubbing the sleep from her body, she lathered up her long, thick brown hair with as much shampoo as she could fit into her hand. As she massaged the soap into her scalp she thought of her vivid dreams she had during the most recent sleep attack, how these episodes had changed throughout the years.

That was the other strange thing about her disease: when she was sleeping, she was intensely aware of her dreams. She knew it wasn’t normal because when she wasn’t suffering from a sleep attack her dreams were scattered, sketchy and short. They were hard to remember and very blurry. They made sense when she was sleeping, but once she woke, they confused her and the memories of them faded. However, on nights like this one, her dreams were all-consuming, organized, and she never forgot a moment of them.

When speaking to a multitude of therapists about her condition, they were often got caught up on one constant. They would ask her again and again about the sequential aspect of the dreams. Time flowed in the dreams as time flowed in life. Which had never occurred to her as strange before it was mentioned to her in that way.

As she completed massaging the soap into her scalp, she looked up into the shower stream, closing her eyes and feeling the water on her grateful face. She began to muse about her dream life and the cast that
inhabited it. The dream cast consisted of people she had never met, people her subconscious made up over time. With each dream, there was a mission, and with each mission, there was a completion. Once the mission was complete, so was her slumber.

She turned the faucet off, and in the time it took for the water to stop flowing from the showerhead, a memory consumed her, a memory from one of her dreams.

“Bailey Regan,” the sound of Rodney’s voice rang in her ears. Once, when she was younger and rebellious, she sat in the corner sulking about how the mission was impossible, Rodney came over to her. Rodney was an older gentleman, he reminded her of Sean Connery meshed with a rough-and-tumble, street-smart guy from Brooklyn. He always wore a fedora, and his white hair popped out horizontally below the hat in the strangest way. He could solve the problem with a larger hat or better haircut. He would scoff at both suggestions. He used to be the leader of the group in the episodes; however, about a year ago, he abruptly left the dream scene.

“Come with me,” he growled, pulling her by her arm out of the diner. She pushed him off of her and crossed her arms in a huff. Rodney’s face softened as he tilted his head as he looked at her; she would never forget how his face softened in that moment. “Bailey,” he said softly. “I know, I
know
you’re upset.”

Bailey shook her head, “You have no idea, Rodney. No idea.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at him. “It feels like we’re always watching people who are in pain or hurting. It’s so hard to deal with, so difficult to watch unravel. I feel helpless, and I don’t understand why I’m here.”

Rodney nodded. Something in his light blue eyes comforted her. Bailey wondered if his eyes were the same color as her father’s. His gaze was sympathetic, and sympathy was not his strong suit. Rodney was a hard-ass, he was a take-no-prisoners type of guy. He didn’t believe in excuses or apologies.

“Bailey, listen to me,” he said. She nodded lightly, putting her attitude on hold for a moment as she listened to him. “I am sorry you’re
missing this dance. If I
could
send you back to school to dance with your date, I would. If I promise to get you back before your senior prom, will you help?” he asked softly. “You have a gift, Bailey. And I’m going to be honest with you…it could always be worse.”

Bailey stood there, completely astounded, a sliver of resignation appeared on her face as she nodded softly. She knew maybe things wouldn’t get figured out to her satisfaction, but this was her life. She knew that at least she had Rodney, at least she wasn’t alone in this adventure. It
could
be worse. Rodney was spot-on about that. “Okay.” she whispered.

Everything about that moment reminded her of her dad; she thought that maybe, just maybe, that was her dad’s way of being there for her. Coming to her in a dream, or maybe she had projected what she thought her father would have said to her in that moment. Either way, she was thankful for the moment, because it changed the relationship that she had with her disease. It was a moment of acceptance.

From that day forward, Rodney and Bailey were allies in her dreams, and she was able to give in to them. She thought of her dreams as a coping mechanism to her sleeping condition. She thought each person in them was something her subconscious had created to help her through each bout. She helped Rodney, because she now believed that if she finished her dream mission, she could get back to her life faster. She was efficient and pleasant, and she let go of all the teen drama and the anger and decided to learn from her dreams instead of fighting them.

Bailey got out of the shower and slipped into another pair of pajamas—some thick sweats that would be more comfortable. She walked to her tiny kitchen (she was in a studio after all) to make herself a couple peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to fill herself up before she crawled back into bed. Bailey grabbed her favorite DVD from the rack next to her television. She didn’t know how much longer it would be until the sleep took over, and she didn’t want to wait for sleep to come. She was right in the middle of her attack, and when she was given a chance to wake up, she wanted to take every minute of this time and use it to her advantage.

The Big W
was a movie from the late 1940s Bailey always watched. It was old, dark, and cheesy, but she used to watch it with her father when she was younger and something about it comforted her. Once she put the DVD in the player, she made herself comfortable in bed, sitting cross-legged, surrounded by pillows, and she continued to eat her sandwiches. Her dad would have scolded her for eating in bed. He would’ve hated to see her lie down while eating, the least she could do was sit up.

When Bailey was thirteen, long before she had a sleep disorder, her father died in a car accident and left her and her mother to press on without him. It was no secret that she and her mother never had gotten along, but his death really pulled them together. Bailey’s disease was another adhesive that pulled them closer. Now here they were, closer than ever because of all the shitty things that had happened to them. The irony was not lost on Bailey.

When she finished her sandwiches, she stretched across the bed and watched the movie, holding a pillow close to her chest. She hoped this dream sequence would be over soon. She needed to get back to work, get back to life, and get back to…everything.

Her job
. She remembered her boss, Sierra, for a moment; Bailey had promised she would keep her informed, and she hadn’t told her yet that she’d been in the middle of a sleep attack. She groaned and grabbed the remote to pause the movie. She grabbed her BlackBerry and searched for Sierra’s number and clicked “call.” She felt her eyes droop but fought the urge and stood up to walk over to the window.

“What?” Sierra answered the phone with her average “I’m busy” attitude. She had the slightest Latino accent that only came out fully when she was drinking. Or angry. She often yelled at her employees in Spanish if they were late on a deadline.

“Hey,” Bailey said. Her voice came out weakly because of her weariness. “I think I’ll be able to get that investigative report on the Chinese organized crime in Seattle to you next Friday. I didn’t realize I was going to go into a sleep attack so soon.”

“I figured,” Sierra said in a matter of fact way. “I really liked what you have so far, but I need a little more bulk. Give me some flesh to the
story. I’ll give you a couple little stories next week, reviews and shit, to make up for this week,” she promised Bailey.

Bailey pushed the blinds apart with her index and middle fingers to look at the wet streets of Seattle. She lived in Queen Anne Hill, which was in the northwest corner of the city. She could see the Space Needle from her roof, but from her window, all she could see were brick buildings and lush greenery. Bailey loved her city.
The thing about Seattle not everyone understands is even though it rains every day, it makes for one of the most beautiful places in the United States
, she thought warmly. “Thank you, S. I really appreciate it.”

Bailey looked at the used bookstore across the street and strained her eyes to see if she could see any new books in the window. She went there twice a week and the owner normally let her trade in books for new (
used
) ones. The rain was too thick on the windows, and she couldn’t tell the contents in the window. She sighed as a bus passed by, making the swooshing sound that occurs when motor vehicles speed in the rain. The bus screeched to a halt and let three people in before swooshing away.

“Oh, don’t get mushy on me. Give me
flesh
on this article. Did you hire a photographer yet or do you want me to get you one? Did you see James’s last story? He’s getting good. I want you to shadow him next week. So…the photographer?” Sierra often ran her sentences into each other. She wouldn’t wait for an answer to the first question before she asked the second.

Working at the
Seattle Times
had its perks. She was able to hire her friend for all of her photography. She could do her own thing, and she didn’t have to go into the office every day. She was one of the few people with the flexibility that Sierra gave her. Bailey got the job during a relatively slow year (slow when it came to her sleep attacks), and when they got worse, Sierra was great about it. She moved Bailey over to investigative reporting, which had a less of a structured schedule. She and James Mattson were the only two people in the company who had this ability. James used to be employed as a private investigator. Sierra would always dote on him. She was always beaming when she spoke about
him:
“You can take the job away from the investigator but you can never take the…whatever. James is great at what he does.”

“I’ll use my usual girl for photographer. I’ll take her out next week and tell her to bill you,” Bailey explained. “I’ll call James and set up a meeting next week.” She yawned involuntarily. “I gotta go, S.”

“Ciao, SB.” Bailey heard the phone click, signifying Sierra had hung up. SB stood for “Sleeping Beauty” or “Sleeping Bailey.” Sierra once referred to Bailey as if she had an alternate personality disorder, and Sleeping Bailey was Sierra’s least favorite of all the personalities that Bailey supposedly had.

Bailey yawned and let the blinds go back together; her favorite pastime was watching the city. On nice days, she would take a pitcher of lemonade and a couple of old books up to the roof and watch the city. On rainy days, the view from her window had to suffice. She got back in bed and pressed “play” on the movie, pulling the pillow close to her chest and focusing her eyes on her small television.

The handsome man on the screen wore a suit and looked out his window at the rain on the streets of New York. The man’s name was Walter Grimsley, and he always frowned, until the last scene of course.

“You said it yourself, George.” Walter spoke, and Bailey’s lips moved with the words, “This is an impossible crime to solve.”

The camera moved to a smiling, painfully handsome man with slicked-back hair in a similar suit to that of Walter’s, except his was wet from the rain. “How many times must I tell you, Walt? No crime is too much for us.” His smile was infectious, Bailey let out a tired giggle as she watched George grin at Walter. Her eyes drooped closed as she heard Walter’s words drifting into her subconscious.

“You need to take it easy on the giggle juice, you dope,” Walter teased George, barely a hint of a grin in his voice. Bailey knew he wasn’t smiling; he never smiled. But his voice gave away the actors feelings, his internal dialogue. Bailey knew that the actor who played Walter must have been infected by George’s contagious grin, at least a little bit.