Remember Me
Chapter Five
Dreams
. . . . .
Esme Platt wears her red hair in a bun and a pair of black rimmed glasses on her long nose. She must like buttons; I count six of them on the hip of her pants, and lose interest after eight on her ruffled blouse. To complete her good little shrink's ensemble, her face is open and non-committal, and she's not holding anything. No pad of paper, no iPad, no phone.
Across from her in jeans and a t-shirt, I fight not to squirm. I want to appear as calm and peaceful as she looks.
After a few moments of silence, she nods slightly and smiles, and I have the feeling that she was hoping I'd speak first.
"Tell me why you're here, Isabella."
Inwardly, I cringe. She already knows that I prefer going by Bella, so why would she address me that way?
"I'm Bella," I remind her calmly. "And I'm here because my parents are worried about the dream I had last week."
"Are you worried about the dream you had?"
I take my time answering. One of the things I've learned as a teenager trying to instill confidence in adults is to take my time when answering questions; it shows I'm careful about considering options. "I don't remember the dream myself," I lie, "But I'm worried that it scared my parents."
"Do you often not remember your dreams?" she asks.
"Sometimes I remember what I dream, sometimes I don't," I shrug.
"Would you tell me one of your favorite dreams?"
I pause. I think refusing will only hurt myself at whatever she is trying to decide about me. But immediately giving her what she's asked for is also a sign of weakness. "I'm not sure I know you well enough to share something so personal yet," I say.
Her eyebrow twitches just the smallest bit. "I understand. Okay, I'll tell you one of mine that I used to have as a girl," she says and leans forward. "It helped me decide what I wanted to do with my life. Do you want to hear it?"
I smile a little, give her a little. "I would."
"I'm in a basement with a number of other people, and there are bombs going off all around us. The lights keep flickering, and everyone is afraid that the roof is just going to collapse and crush us. In the house is a siren and it's also screaming and screaming and screaming. I can't decide which is worse: the bombing or that endless screaming."
Here, she pauses to resettle herself in the chair. I catch a scent I can't name, but I know it's something only rich or entitled people can afford.
"There's a little girl at my side, she's been there all along. I don't know how I know it, but she's lost her parents and is alone. She's tugging at my arm and screaming at me, too. So I bend down, scoop her in my arms, and the screaming stops. All the screaming stops."
Then, Esme Platt looks at me as if she's waiting for me to say the next line. As the seconds stretch, I can't help feeling impatient. "What? That's it?" I ask.
"That's it," she nods. "I helped save a little girl. Something seemingly trite, and it doesn't seem remarkable at all when I tell it. Dreams usually come with a kaleidoscope of substance and feeling that is difficult to explicate. But it changed the direction of my life. Before that dream, I thought I wanted to be a videogame designer. After that, I just wanted to help people."
I study my thumb's nail bed. Try to look contemplative. When is this going to be over?
"Did you ever have a dream that changed your life, Bella?" she asks.
The sudden, pointed question takes me by surprise. We trade looks as I try to get my breathing under control.
"I'd say that's a yes," she says gently. "Won't you tell me about that dream?"
I shake my head. "No, sorry. It's private. Not… wholesome like yours."
Shit! Why did I say that?!
"What makes you most happy?"
I look at her like she's crazy.
"Name a few things," she says.
Edward. Dreaming about him. Kissing him. "Mashed potatoes with lumps. A new pair of socks. Lilacs in the Spring."
Esme tilts her head and adjusts the glasses on her nose. She's really pretty, just the kind of person who would instill trust and confidence in others. But not me. And not today.
"Keep going," she says. "Humor me."
"I'd rather name things that make me angry," I say without thinking.
She nods. "OK, if you'd rather that. I'm listening."
I take a breath, level an almost-glare at her. "Eggheads," I say and cross one ankle over the other in an exact pose of her's. "People who forget my name. Video games. Heavy perfume. Embellished clothing."
She's laughing before I finish. "Touche. I give in! I give."
And I'm angry because now she knows. Being angry usually means there's something to hide.
"Let's try our strengths," she says. "Tell me what you are really good at."
Another pitfall. "Let's not," I say. "We both know I'm not here because I'm good at things."
She gets this look at her face, and I see it before it's gone: something almost sad and knowing. "Oh, Bella. No one is always good at things. Everyone needs a little help from time-to-time."
"What an apt cliche," I tell her. "Considering it's your profession and all."
Her smile is self-deprecating. "Yes. But I'm not above kicking ass and taking names if the situation calls for it."
I press on. "I doubt this is one of them."
Esme pulls her glasses off, then cleans the lens with one of her frou-frou blouse's ruffles. "Dreams are important, Bella." Pushing the glasses back up her nose, she gives me a smile and stands.
"But everything important happens when we're awake."
I leave feeling confused about what Mom and Dad have told her, and what she might tell them in return. Everything feels so out of my control. I didn't mean to have the damn dream I can't even remember!
Lost. I feel lost and betrayed. And confused. Are my dreams real or not? Is Edward real or not?
. . . . .
It's been seven days, so I can take an Ambien again. I unscrew the bottle's lid, then pop the little white capsule on my tongue. Staring at the girl in the mirror, I balance it there until the taste of the drugs makes me have to bend my head under the faucet and chug water.
Dream me hasn't kissed Dream Edward in seven days because I haven't slept. Not deep enough, anyway. And taking the Ambien renders me incapable of dreaming–when I take the pill, I only get the barest sense of Edward in dreams before it's all darkness and nothing.
"Who's Edward?" Mom had asked. "You were calling for him like you were–like you were–dying."
Maybe I am.
. . . . .
I see his forbidding frown just before I fall into the void.
"You can't keep doing this," Edward says. "I need you. Please. Please, Bella."
"Who's Annabella," I slur and dissolve into gibberish. "Stay with me, I need you, too. And not in dreams. Not just in dreams. Not in just dreams. Not dreams. Dreams, dreams, dreams."
. . . . .
Stole a line from Dune's Duncan Idaho on this one.