November 5, 9:52 P.M.

What am I doing on this bridge?

Mood: Frazzled

I had a dream last night. My mind really liked this dream. It went through this dream like three or four times in the same night, and now I can't stop thinking about it. This is not normal for me. I never remember my dreams. I don't know if dreams really ever "mean" anything. I mean, it's just a bunch of random images the brain puts together and tries to make them make sense. But this one . . . man, I just don't know. Maybe my mind is trying to tell me something.

So it goes like this. I'm hiking in this redwood forest that I've known ever since I was a little girl. I recognized the trees, the layout, the landmarks. It's very foggy. I can barely see my hand in front of my face. I don't know where I'm going or why I'm going; I just know I have to get through the forest. Then suddenly the forest ended. There was a cliff there that wasn't there before, and the only thing there was a swinging bridge. I hate those kinds of bridges! They're so rickety and unstable. They creak, sway, and they just don't feel safe! Plus, every time they are shown on a TV show or a movie, they always break. Always! It doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. I couldn't see the other side, but I knew I had to get there, and this was the only way I could see.

So, I started crossing. I just took it one step at a time, very, very slowly. I tried not to make it rock. I held tightly onto the rope that served as a rail. I tried not to look down, only forward. And then, I heard a wail. I thought it was the wind at first. But as I continued to go, it got louder. It didn't sound like the wind. It sounded like a poor soul in pain. So I thought it was a wounded animal. And yet, as I continued, it got even louder. I started to realize it was a person, and he was crying. I pondered who it could be, and I felt a splash of water on my foot. I looked down and saw that water was right underneath me. I was confused. After all, these kinds of bridges are usually built way up high. Why would this bridge be right above the water?

As I got closer to the middle of the bridge, I saw him. He was dangling over the side, looking down into the water. But I couldn't see who it was. I came closer, and I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned to me. It was Mr. Monk! I said, "What's wrong?" He answered by throwing his head back and crying harder. His tears weren't particularly big, but I could see them fall into the sea. I understood. That's why the water was just underneath. He had been crying for so long, it had become that high, and he still hadn't finished crying. But what was wrong?

That didn't matter to me. If I just left him there, he might drown. I forgot about how afraid I was and I almost ran back to the other side. I ran through the forest until I found my home (which was strangely close). Dad opened the door and said, "Hurry! There's not much time!" Maybe I should have wondered how he could have known what was on the bridge, but all I did was nod.

I ran up to my room and started to grab all the stuffed animals off of my bed. I couldn't carry them all, and I knew they wouldn't be enough. There were still more in the closet. I had an idea, but someone beat me to it. I opened the door, and there was Natalie, trash bags in hand. "What are you doing here?" I said.

And she replied, "Well, I don't want him to die either. Now come on!" I put all of the toys in my arms in one of the bags, and she helped me fill up more. Then we ran back out to the bridge, and we tossed out stuffed animals as quickly as we could. Each one absorbed all that water like little sponges, and soon the water returned to its normal level. But we could both still hear Mr. Monk crying. "Here," Natalie said. She put something in my hand and closed it before I could see what it was. "Give this to him. Tell him I'll meet him on the other side."

She started going in the opposite direction, and I called after her, "Why don't you give it to him yourself?"

"I can't!" she replied and left.

So I crossed the bridge again, still rather slow, but maybe a little bolder this time. At least, I thought, if I fell, I'd be landing somewhere soft, soggy, but soft. And I came up to him again, and I held his shoulder again. I offered him the hand with the thing that Natalie gave me and opened it. It was a moist towlette! He took it, wiped his eyes, his nose, his face, and even his hands. I took hand sanitizer and wiped my own hands. Then I took his hand and helped him to his feet. We just looked at each other. His eyes looked so red. Finally, I just said, "Natalie said she'd meet you on the other side."

And he just replied in a very weak whisper, "Thank you."

And he turned, and I watched him cross the bridge. He was hugging the rail and taking it one step at a time, just like I did. The fog was lifting, and when it finally dissipated, I saw that there was another way across–the Golden Gate Bridge. It was to the right of this pathetic bridge that I chose. And I looked over, and I saw everyone I ever knew crossing that bridge–Dad, my peers, my professors, my Bible school teacher, my dentist, my doctor, my Dad's boss, and everybody else. Everybody Mr. Monk knew was there too. I saw Natalie and the police chief with the mustache and the other detectives and policemen. And they saw us too, and they smiled and waved. I was so angry with myself, I wanted to sit down and cry. Why didn't I know that there was another bridge, a safer bridge? What am I doing on this bridge? I looked back down, and I saw Mr. Monk leaning on the rope rail, and he looked just as shocked as I did. He turned to me and looked as if he was about to say something.

And that was it. I either went all the way back to the beginning, or I woke up. But when I was awake, which was unfortunately at 5:00 in the morning, I still mulled the questions over in my mind. Why am I on this bridge? Why is everybody on another bridge? Why is Mr. Monk with me? And why is he crying? I've only known him for a couple of weeks. I still don't know very much about him.

It's got me stumped. I searched on the internet for dream themes. Crossing a bridge is actually a rather common archetype. It usually means transition. I guess I am going through a transition, sort of. I mean, I'm about to graduate. But then again, I'm going right in to pursuing my Master's degree, so it's not much of a transition. I can't think of any other transitions. And I didn't see any difference in the kind of bridges that one crosses.

I want to tell Mr. Monk about, of course. He's a detective; maybe he can figure it out. I don't want to tell him about it on the phone, though. I asked him if he could join me tomorrow morning at the childhood haunt where this all takes place. It will make me feel a bit more comfortable, and maybe I could go through and see if I'm mistaken. Maybe there's a bridge there that I've chosen not to remember.

November 6, 10:15 A.M.

No Answers Yet

Mood: Curious

I wanted to write about this while it was still on my mind. I might forget it otherwise.

Dad and I got there about fifteen minutes early. Mr. Monk was right on time. Natalie was with him. That surprised me. I thought she was his assistant when he's doing a case. I asked her why she was there, and she said, "Well, somebody had to drive him here." (He doesn't drive either? And he's much older than I am. Maybe I shouldn't feel so ashamed.) I wish I knew she was coming. I got Mr. Monk some coffee, and I didn't have enough for everybody. She said it was ok; she's not a coffee drinker. I was kinda disappointed because I wanted to talk to Mr. Monk privately. But that happened to work out. I mentioned that this was personal, and she said that was ok too. She just wanted to take a walk, and she got her daughter's headphones to listen to music.

Mr. Monk was very worried. He first wanted to know how high we were going. I told him it was rather level. He asked me if there was an overlook. I told him not unless my memory had betrayed me. I guess he doesn't like heights. I told him we weren't going to climb any of these redwoods. He didn't think that was very funny. The whole way through, he looked very uncomfortable. He kept looking around. I tried to make some small talk, but he barely acknowledged me.

I came to the place where I saw the bridge in my dream, and it wasn't there. When I saw that, I started to tell him what was going on. I explained that I had a dream that I can't stop thinking about, and I was wondering if he could help me figure out what it meant. He said, "OK, here's the thing" (he says that a lot), "I'm not very good at abstract thought. I'm more concrete. You know, 'Just the facts, ma'am,' that sort of thing." I told him that was alright; I had trouble with abstract thinking too. He was surprised by this, since I'm an English major. Then I realized that I forgot to tell him that he was in this dream. He was a little more interested when I said that. "It was a nightmare, wasn't it?" he said. I said, "No, no, no. Well, it was frightening, but that wasn't your fault. At least not much."

I found a log and sat on it like a bench. My legs were getting tired. Mr. Monk looked like he didn't even want to go near it, so I let him stand. I told him what happened, and he just listened. He only reacted when I described the bridge. He shuddered and said God's name in fear. I guess he didn't like those bridges either.

After I was done, I asked him what he thought. He was quiet for a little while, but then he said, "I think I know. The bridge is grief. It's personal tragedy." He thought it was because I lost Joy. I told him I knew for a fact that wasn't it. I had to discuss my very atypical approach to death. I didn't find that comfortable at all, and he kept asking me questions about it! Well, I guess he had to; he's a detective after all. But he made me talk about my mother, a subject I do not like to discuss. He explained that he was rather sensitive toward death. He told me that his wife was murdered. That was so sad! I guess he did have a reason to cry.

He asked me what I thought, and I told him what I found out about transitions. He nodded. He paced a couple of times and finally told me that he couldn't figure it out. However, he knew someone who could help–his therapist. Mr. Monk has an appointment with him tomorrow morning. He offered for me to come, but I have an 8:00. But it sounds good. And when we were walking back, he told nobody since his wife told him that they had a dream about him, and he liked how vivid it was. He told me he could tell my imagination was very active. "Sometimes I wish I had more dreams like that," he said.

I couldn't help myself. I said, "What? You don't dream about dwarfs who talk backwards and give you obscure clues?" He didn't think that was funny either. He just told me most of his dreams were about his wife. That's sweet.

Video Tape AM036 (excerpt)

Dr. Charles Kroger

9:00 A.M. November 7, 20–

In this session, Adrian wished to discuss something unusual. His new friend Sue had a dream that involved Adrian. She asked him to figure out the meaning, but he could not. The dream involved crossing a suspended rope bridge. Sue found Adrian on the bridge, and he was causing the water to rise with his own tears. Sue responded by throwing stuffed animals into the water, causing it to recede. At the end of the dream, Adrian and Sue discover that they could have taken a safer bridge, in fact the Golden Gate Bridge, to get across.

"So, what do you make of it, Doc?"

"Well, it is quite vivid. Remarkable."

"I thought so too."

"Let me ask you a question, Adrian. Why are you asking me about this?"

"I told you. Trudy aside, nobody's had a dream about me before. Not Sharona, not Natalie, not Benjy, not Julie, not the Captain, not . . . you."

"Are you sure?"

After a pause, we both broke into laughter.

"Alright, if they did, they didn't tell me about it."

"I can understand that. It piques your curiosity, right?"

"Yeah."

"Are you bothered? I mean, does it vex you?"

"It . . . it does. It's a little bothering that I don't really have an answer for her. And I know she's bothered by this dream."

"OK. So, so what do you think it means?"

"Well, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Take a guess."

"I took a guess. I was wrong."

"So what was it?"

"I thought somehow she could sense how I felt about losing Trudy. I never mentioned her to Sue, but I thought she'd just know. And she just lost her roommate. But that wasn't it."

"Why?"

Adrian looked away, and a look of sadness crossed his face. "She . . . she said that she doesn't process death the way other people do. When she was young, she was oversensitive about it. She couldn't go into funeral parlors. She couldn't watch media that addressed death. But then in her adolescence, it hardly affected her at all. And she still doesn't know when or why that perception changed so suddenly. That put things a little more in perspective. One of the reasons the Captain really suspected Sue was that she did not have much of a reaction when she heard about what happened to Joy. Sue told me that when she heard what happened, she felt shocked and a little sad inside. But she didn't feel shocked or sad enough to really express it. And she was more concerned about being accused and turning in a paper on time than she was losing a roommate."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. Since Adrian had experienced such a traumatic loss, he clearly could not relate. "Now, I can tell, that bothers you."

"I just can't get my mind around it. They were friends and fellow students. Joy asked Sue to be her roommate. They weren't just put together at random. I can't understand why she wouldn't feel any sense of loss. She actually told me she felt good for Joy. Sue told me Joy's in a better place now, a place where she didn't have to put up with Sue. I guess that was supposed to be a joke. How could she make light of this?"

"Adrian, I know you went through a hard situation, but you can't expect everyone to look at death the way you do."

"But this isn't human."

"Natalie moved on after her husband died."

"No, she still hurts. I can tell. Sue is not hurt at all. It's almost antisocial, almost criminal-like."

"You don't grieve for every victim in all your cases. You wouldn't be able to function otherwise. Perhaps she wasn't particularly close to Joy."

"Yeah, I thought about that. I asked her if Joy was closer to her, like a sister, would she have reacted differently. Sue said she didn't know, but probably yes. Then I thought about our past conversations. She only talks about her father, never her mother. When I asked her why, she said her mother died in childbirth."

"Giving birth to Sue?"

"It must be. Sue is an only child. And she said, I can't believe this, she said that she never really registered in her mind that her mother actually existed."

"So, uh, did you tell Sue about Trudy?"

"Yes. She said, 'Oh, that's terrible! I'm so sorry. I had no idea.' She sounded genuine enough. And yet, at the same time, it still sounded a bit . . . forced."

It was time to change subjects. "Let's get back to the dream. We've established that it doesn't have to do with death. So, have you had any more thoughts about what it might be?"

Adrian looked rather thoughtful, then blurted out, "Do dreams really ever mean anything? I mean, all it is is the mind taking a bunch of random images and mixing them together."

"I guess I'd take that as a no."

"Yeah."

"What about Sue? Has she thought about what it might have meant?"

"She said she did a search on the internet. It said something about making a big transition. She couldn't think of any major transitions, though."

"Well, isn't she about to graduate?"

"Yes, but she's going for her Master's Degree, so she's not really leaving school."

"Well, I see a transition. She may not have even thought about this. Think about those stuffed animals. What did she do with them?"

"She threw them into the water, and they saved my life."

"What do you think about those?" Adrian didn't answer, so I continued to prod his thinking. "This isn't too hard. Think about stuffed animals and other toys. What are they usually associated with?"

"Children."

"Exactly. And she got rid of them."

"So, in doing that, she's . . . giving up her childhood."

"And that forest. She told you that she knew this forest since she was little. And when she was moving through it, she didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to get out. She had to move on."

"I see. It's all because she's becoming a responsible adult."

"Exactly."

"But I don't think she's ready for that. The more I talk to her, the more I can tell she wants to hang onto that naivete."

"Maybe that was part of the reason why this dream was so frightening. But there's something else that jumps out at me."

"What is that?"

"She had a definite purpose in her mind, and she abandoned it to help you. What do you think about that?"

"She must think I'm pathetic. I mean, I'm hanging over a dangerous bridge crying my eyes out, something I'd never do in real life."

"I don't think it's as bad as that. I think that she's glad that you are developing a friendship with her. She needs it. I think that she's thinking that it's too much taking and not enough giving. She's grateful for the help that you've given her, and now she wants to do something to help you."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe you can occasionally ask her for advice. You never know when you might need an English major's expertise."

"She did offer to give me any information on redwoods if I ever needed it."

"Well, there you go. That's a start."

"But what about the bridge?"

"What about the bridge?"

"That was probably the part that worried her the most. Why were we the only ones on that bridge? We both hated it. If we knew about it, we would have joined everybody else on the Golden Gate."

"Well, think about Adrian. What do you two have in common? What is it that she sees in you that she has not seen anywhere else, that she admires about you?"

"That I . . . stim."

"That you have a disorder. Do you still think that she has one?"

"Yeah. You're right. I didn't think about that."

"And it makes sense. Everybody 'normal' is on the normal bridge, and the two of you are on a bridge that's a little shakier, a little less stable. All these years she's been on it by herself, and she feels lonely. I guess she thinks you feel lonely too."

"She does. She told me how difficult it is for her to get along with everybody else because they are, as she puts it, NT."

"Neurotypical?"

"So you've heard of that?"

"Of course. It's my field after all. But that reminds me. I looked through some of my notes and checked with a few of my colleagues. 'Stim' is a term commonly used by people associated with, uh . . . the autism spectrum. And so, interestingly enough, is NT."

"So Sue is autistic?"

"It's possible. Maybe she knows someone who is, but judging from what you've told me about her behavior and her emotions, I think she probably has High Functioning Autism or Asperger's Syndrome."

"No wonder. What would that make her? Rain Woman?"

I chuckled, "Of course, without an official assessment, I couldn't say for sure. You know, 'Rain Man' was an atypical case of autism."

"I forget sometimes. Everybody says I'm Rain Man."

"Well, you're rather exceptional. Sue probably doesn't have the level of . . . mental skill that you do."

"Who does?"

"I wouldn't bring this subject up unless Sue chooses to."

"Of course."

(End Tape AM036)

November 7, 9:43 P.M.

I beat the detective this time!

Mood: Proud

Most of the day, I was still thinking about that dream. I had a new idea of what part of it could mean. Mr. Monk called me this evening, and he told me he talked to his therapist about it. I told Mr. Monk that I had a theory, but was it ok if I ask him a personal question first. He said, "How personal?" I said, "Rather personal. I got a couple of smaller questions first." He agreed. I said, "Do you know what autism is?" He almost gave me the whole spiel from the DSM-IV. I interrupted and said, "Whoa! Just answer yes or no." He said yes. Then I said, "Have you heard of Asperger's Syndrome?" He said he heard of it. Then I asked very carefully, "Do you have AS?"

There was a long pause, and he finally answered, "My diagnosis is obsessive compulsive disorder with numerous phobias. But sometimes I wonder if I might be a little autistic. I mean, I've been compared to Rain Man so much, it's not funny anymore."

I told him that I understood how that felt. I asked if he ever considered getting reevaluated. He said he was due for a psychological examination one of these days. And he said, "So I suppose that's your diagnosis, Asperger's?" I told him it was. That's why I thought I dreamed that we were both on the bridge. The bridge stood for AS, and that's why all the NT people weren't with us. They could see us, they could help us, they could encourage us, but they can never be with us on the bridge. Their minds are all normal, so they'll never know, no much how much they study and observe what we do, what it's really like. And unfortunately, vice versa is also true. And Mr. Monk told me that his therapist said about the same thing. He also told that most of the dream was about my apprehensions of giving up my childhood. I didn't think about that. It sounds about right. I'm not exactly sure I'm ready to live on my own and take care of myself. I guess I need help, and it's really good luck that I found someone who can cross the bridge with me.

I said, "You know, even if you are obsessive compulsive, that doesn't rule AS out. Obsessive compulsive behavior is an earmark of AS. And if you do have it, you'd be in good company. I have a theory that Auguste Dupin and Sherlock Holmes both have AS characteristics."

"Actually, I hope I don't have it," he answered. "See, here's the thing: I'm trying to beat this, whatever it is, to get back on the force one day, and . . . there's no cure for autism."

I said, "I know. That drives me nuts sometimes. But you got to remember it's got numerous benefits as well as down sides. It's a gift and a curse. The trick is learning how to manage it."

Then he asked me who my therapist was. I laughed and said Dad. He said, "Your father's a therapist?" I laughed harder and said no. I explained I didn't have a therapist and Mr. Monk was very lucky to have one. Not very many NT folks really understand what we're going through.

Then I laughed and said, "You know, even if you don't have AS, I guess if OCD is neurologically based, you're still not NT."

And he said, "Yeah, that's me, neurologically atypical."

"That's right! You're NAT!" I liked that, and it made him laugh.

Then he changed the subject. He asked me what I was studying today. I told that in Modern Poetry we were reading "The Waste Lands." Immediately, he started reciting "The Burial of the Dead." I was amazed! He got it exactly right! He even got the foreign language parts. I'm not sure if he pronounced them exactly right, but that was ok. I've never heard anybody go past the first line, "April is the cruelest month." After he was done, I applauded. "That was great! How did you memorize it?"

"It's no big deal," he said. "You memorized it too. I didn't hear paper rustling on your end. You weren't checking the poem to see if I was getting it right."

And I explained that I read the poem like five times last night. I was trying to force my brain to understand it. And Mr. Monk said, "Well, that's impossible. It's T.S. Eliot." It was great to hear that from a detective! Then I told him that I had to go, and we said goodbye and hung up. I'm glad we put that dream to bed. Maybe I'll sleep easier now.

A few notes to my reviewers:

Amanda-Krueger, Rach–Thank you for your support. I'm glad this format is working for you.

Kelly–Thank you so much for your encouragement. Just in case you were confused, the beginning thing was not my bio. It was my OC's bio. I do want to be a writer, but my first ambition is to be a professor. They have this motto, "Publish or Perish," so I'll get introduced to the publishing world somehow, someway. And I've been trying really hard to write a "Monk" mystery, but I haven't figured out how just yet. That's part of the reason that I'm doing this.

Unidentified Reviewer–Whoa! You nailed it! I'm glad to see somebody else believes this theory. How do you know so much about AS? And what test are you talking about? Please e-mail me, or visit my blog. I'd like to talk to you. And this was much more interesting than them meeting at lunch, wasn't it? I thought it was anyway.

zzilly14–I hope this answered your concerns about Sue's reaction to Joy's death. You're right; I should have addressed this in the last chapter. I sometimes forget that others are usually more sympathetic about this issue.