The Cure for Dreaming (23 page)

His eyes locked on to mine. The force of his skills shattered all my barriers. “Close your eyes. Think of nothing but sleep.”

I did exactly that, for sleep swept its numbing, dark cloak
over my face and chest and legs—down to the smallest of my toes.

“Relax. Melt down, melt down, until all you hear is the sound of my voice. Calm your breathing.”

My lungs relaxed, along with the rest of me.

“Yes . . . that's good. Very good. Let your breathing grow slower. And slower. And slower. Melt all the way down until you feel the utter bliss of deep relaxation.”

I collapsed into a heap at the bottom of a cozy black box.

“Now,” he said near my ear, “imagine a lamp switching on and finding the two of us seated in the safest room you can imagine.”

Gaslight whispered to life, and Henry and I were sitting together at Frannie's kitchen table. A vegetable soup bubbled on the stove, and the Harrisons' bright yellow wallpaper, as well as the children's pinned-up drawings and poetry, surrounded us. Henry reached across Mrs. Harrison's home-embroidered tablecloth and took my hand.

“You no longer need to say that all is well when you are angry.” He bent his face toward mine. “You are free to speak your mind, but you will do so with caution around your father. For now, in front of him, you will limit your volatile words only to moments when someone is about to get hurt. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

“Good. You will keep seeing the world the way it truly is so that you may remain alert for danger, but I will give your
mind entirely back to you after the election-night show. For it will be just a show, Olivia. This is all merely a temporary spectacle to make your father happy.” He squeezed my hand and lifted his head. “Now, I will count to ten, and you will awaken and return to your home, where I will see you in less than an hour—
ma partenaire
.” He squeezed again. “My partner.”

he hour before Henry's arrival at our house moved with the excruciating slowness of twelve hours. I passed the minutes on the bench in front of my late grandmother's high-backed Beckwith parlor organ. My song of choice: “Evening Prayer” from
Hansel and Gretel
. My fingers lacked Genevieve's skill, but, oh, what a glorious relief when I thrust my troubles into the black and white keys and pumped my anxieties into the foot pedals.

I must have played the song at least five times in a row; I lost track after the second or third round. Halfway through
the fifth or sixth go, someone knocked on the front door. My fingers slipped, and the lowest keys belched a deep grumble.

Gerda passed the parlor's entryway on her way to the front door.

“I'll get that, Gerda,” said Father from down the hall.

Gerda stopped and tightened her apron strings. “Are you certain, sir?”

“Yes.” Father walked into view. “Return to the kitchen. Immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Gerda's shoulders slumped, and for a hiccup of a moment, before she bustled back to the kitchen, the poor woman faded before my eyes. Our brown wallpaper behind her bled through her wavering wisp of a body. Her footsteps retreated to the back of the house.

I rose up from the organ bench and approached the hall, my pulse ticking in the side of my neck. Father opened the door, revealing Henry on our front porch, his short black hat in hand.

“Come in, Mr. Reverie.” Father pulled the door farther open and clapped the hypnotist on the back as he made his way across the threshold. “Thank you for coming out to my house this afternoon. I know you must be a busy lad.”

Henry shrugged. “It is no trouble, Monsieur Mead. I am happy to help if you feel the cure is not to your satisfaction.” The French accent was back in place.

Father shut the door and puffed up his chest. “As I said when I telephoned, I require more results.” He took Henry's
hat from his hand and plunked it on one of our brass wall hooks. “Come to my office for a moment and—”

“Father, I've learned something tragic about Mr. Reverie,” I said, and I clasped my hands behind my back to hide the terrible trembling that results when one deviates from the plans of a tyrant.

Father lifted an eyebrow. “‘Tragic'? That's an awfully dramatic word, Olivia.”

“H-h-his sister . . .” I swallowed and averted my gaze from Henry's startled eyes and gaping mouth. “She requires a surgeon to remove a tumor. It's cancerous. Perhaps you know a local physician who could help her as soon as possible.”

Father cocked his head at Henry. “Is this true?”

“I really wish it weren't, sir, but . . . she is sick.”

“I'm terribly sorry to hear that.” Father tugged at his beard and seemed to search his brain for the name of someone who could help. His eyes softened. The quest for Genevieve's well-being nudged aside his urgency to fix me. I held my breath and prayed this version of Father would remain with us.

“Well,” he said, “I don't believe I know any cancer surgeons, unless you're discussing an oral tumor . . .”

“No, it's not that,” said Henry. “I appreciate you even considering the matter, but you don't need to—”

“Wait a moment.” Father turned abruptly toward me. “How do you know this about his sister?” He placed his hand on Henry's shoulder—not in a firm way, but enough to make my neck sweat beneath my collar.

“I b-b-beg your pardon?” I asked.

“I said, how did you suddenly find out he has a sick sister?” Father squeezed down on Henry, who seemed to shrink an inch. “Mr. Reverie didn't once mention her during your treatment in my office. I doubt he'd announce something so private at his Halloween performance.”

“There was a . . .”
Oh, hell
. I hadn't concocted an excuse for that particular detail.
Damn! Damn, damn, damn!

Father's eyes narrowed. “Have you two spoken with each other since the hypnotism on Thursday?”

“No, sir,” said Henry.

“N-n-no, sir,” I agreed. “I just—”

“How did you become privy to his family troubles, then, Olivia? Why on earth do you have the intimate details of this stranger's personal life?”

“Father . . . please, don't get upset. The point is, his sister needs help, and I thought—”

Father grabbed Henry's wrist. “Come with me. Do not say a word— No!” He raised a finger with a nail sharp and black. His eyes burned scarlet, and his cheeks sank into the skull of his graying face. “Don't even open your mouth and think of hypnotizing me into giving you extra money.”

“I'm not asking for extra money, sir.” Henry pulled back and tried to wrench his arm out of Father's grip. “I didn't ask her to say anything about my sister—I swear to God!”

“That's true!” I said. “He didn't ask that at all.”

“Quiet! Both of you!”

An awful buzzing rang in my ears. I pushed my hands over them and let out a cry of shock as Father paled even further and sprouted fur on the backs of his hands—part wolf, part corpse, part red-eyed demon.

“If you want me to pay you for your services, boy”—he yanked Henry down the hallway, toward his home office, which he used for drinking and for nighttime emergency treatments—“then shut your damned mouth.”

Henry's feet skidded and tripped across the rugs and the floorboards.

“Don't hurt him!” I chased after them. “Please—I didn't mean any harm. I just thought you should know in case you could help . . .” I followed them into the office and braced my hands on the door frame. “His sister isn't even yet sixteen. What would you do if I were the one dying of cancer?”

“You're not dying of cancer, Olivia. Don't be so melodramatic,” said Father, but he was no longer anything like my actual father. A clawed devil with spiked teeth and a sharp, hairy chin slapped Henry down into the office's wooden dental chair and buckled his left wrist to an armrest.

“Let me go!” Henry pushed at the creature with his free hand, but Father managed to pin down and shackle his other wrist, too.

“Stop!” I rubbed my eyes, but Father refused to look normal. “Are you really forcing him into that chair? Am I really seeing this?”

“I've offered you a large sum of money, Mr. Reverie.” With
one hand planted on Henry's chest, not far from his throat, the horrific version of the man with whom I lived squeaked open a cabinet door. On the shelves gleamed his home collection of dental tools—forceps, clockwork drills, pelicans, chisels, tooth keys. He pulled out a Whitehead gag, a beastly contraption that resembled a bear trap with leather straps. “If you truly do have a sick sister, then I assume more than anything that you'd like me to pay you that money.”

“Father! Let him out of that chair!”

“Yes, sir, b-b-but . . .” Henry bent his legs and hovered over the seat, not quite landing his posterior on it. His knees wobbled everywhere, while his wrists stayed strapped to the wood.

“Relax.” Father pushed on his knees. “Sit back.” He shoved him down by his collarbone, which made Henry's feet pop up on the footrest. “There's no need to panic. I'm just going to fit this gag into your mouth”—he shoved the metal trap between Henry's lips with terrible scraping sounds—“to make sure you aren't verbally manipulating my mind while I give my instructions to you.” He yanked the straps around Henry's head, stretching his jaw both vertically and horizontally until Henry groaned in wide-eyed terror.

“Stop it!” I pulled on Father's shoulder and arm. “This is terrible. What type of monster have you become? Just look at yourself.”

Father elbowed me away. “Get out of here, Olivia. You're not supposed to be able to argue with me.”

“But—”

“Silence!” He pushed me so hard, I banged my lower back against his desk. “Tell me the God's honest truth,” he said over Henry, “have you and my daughter spoken since Thursday's hypnosis?”

Henry panted and glanced my way. I nodded, so Henry did the same. He managed a “Yes” that sounded like gargling.