Evil Dreams (7 page)

Forgetting the locked garage door, Trina came to an abrupt stop, opening her handbag for her keys. She found the ring with the tiny yarn ball attached, pulling them out only to drop them. Quickly retrieving the ring, she inserted the key.

Jon shrank back from the people grabbing at him with emaciated fingers, their sallow faces deformed with loathing.

Turning the lock, Trina opened the door wide. The wash of fresh air made her immediately feel more comfortable. Closing the garage, she inhaled the glorious day’s clean, fresh air. Leaves on the trees in the back yard were almost full size and the rich, green foliage hid chirping birds. She made her way toward the walk leading past the side of the house. In minutes she would be with Jon.

The fog parted and Jon saw the figure of the blond woman motioning for him to join her. Knowing the people pressing about him would not impede his course, he began approaching the indistinct form.

Trina loved this time of year—the reawakening of nature, the comforting thoughts of school being dismissed soon, a new routine for her and Jon during the next three months. Both enjoyed summer since they could be together that much more. Feeling impulsively satisfied with her love for him, she broke into an ecstatic smile.

The blond woman now lay at his feet. He tried vainly to repel the cajoling pantomime of the pressing crowd. He shook his head furiously but knew he could not resist. He would obey.

Trina turned the corner and bounced up the eight steps to the portico.

Slowly he raised the dream gun to his temple, at the same time squeezing the trigger.

The tumblers quietly flipped over in the outer door.

Jon felt the burning headache begin …

Trina inserted the key in the lock of their apartment. She turned the knob as Jon screamed.

Throwing the door open, she saw him fall from his chair at the desk. The sight of blood flowing from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth transfixed her in the entryway, unable to move.

Her breath came in short gasps as her own cry of terror built. “Oh, my God!” she screamed, running to the still form of her husband. Lifting his head, she cradled it as she sat on the floor. “Oh, my good God,” she wailed, tears dropping from her face to mix with the blood covering her husband’s face. “What happened? What happened? Oh, God! Oh, God! What happened?”

An almost audible moan snapped her back to reality and she stared at her husband. Alive? Could he be alive? She fumbled for his pulse, finding a strong, steady beat. Relief intermingled wildly with her terror.

Gently laying his head back on the floor, she stood. What should she do? Had he shot himself? They didn’t own a gun of any sort. What had happened? She should call someone, but who? Paramedics? A hospital? A doctor? But which one? Who could be of the most help? Then, like a blazing neon sign, Samuel Dayton’s number flashed in her mind, the same number she had dialed that morning. Dashing to the phone, she juggled it for a long second before getting a firm grip on the instrument. She spun the dial three times and then slowed, to avoid a mistake. Somehow, her composure reluctantly inched its way back into place. She wanted to scream. But she couldn’t. She had to help Jon.

The buzz sounded only once before the receiver was lifted on the other end. “Doctor Dayton
‘s
office,” Tory Worthington announced.

“Please, I
must
speak with Doctor Dayton. Now! Immediately!” she managed.

“I’m sorry,” Tory said. “Doctor Dayton is with a patient. Who’s calling?”

“Trina Ward. Jon Ward’s wife.”

“Are you a patient of Doctor Dayton’s?”

“No. I’m not, but my husband is.”

“Would you like to make an appointment, Mrs. Ward?”

“Listen to me. This is an emergency. My husband is in deep trouble. I must speak with the doctor this instant. If my husband dies, it will be your fault!”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Ward.”

The line went dead. Trina suddenly found herself questioning the wisdom of calling the psychiatrist. If anything, Jon needed someone who could tend his wound. What had happened? Why was he bleeding? If he hadn’t shot himself, and she wasn’t positive he hadn’t, what had caused so much blood? Perhaps she should hang up, break the connection, call the emergency number. But what was that number? There were only three digits to remember and she couldn’t recall a single one. How had she remembered the psychiatrist’s number?

She reached for the bar to cancel the call when Tory broke into her wild thoughts. “One moment, Mrs. Ward. Doctor Dayton will speak with you.”

Again, the line went dead. She waited.

“Mrs. Ward? What seems to be the problem?” Sam asked.

“It’s my husband,” she choked, feeling immediate relief at the sound of his voice. She quickly related everything that had happened since she opened the door to their apartment.

When she finished he didn’t speak immediately, but cleared his throat instead.

“I’ll call an ambulance and we’ll get him to Presbyterian Medical Center. I’ll contact the emergency room there. Are you all right, Mrs. Ward?”

Tears of relief gushed down Trina’s cheeks. Nodding her head, she managed, “I’m fine, Doctor. Tell them to hurry.”

“Do whatever you can to help him until they get there.” The doctor’s voice was gone with the click.

Trina looked dumbly at the receiver in her hand before slowly replacing it in its cradle. Wiping her eyes, she turned when her husband moaned again.

Sitting up, close to the spot where she found him, Jon rubbed his head. She screamed, her bewildered expression distorting into one of confusion.

She could not see a trace of blood—anywhere.

His legs trembling, Jon moved to the mirror in the living room’s short hallway. He could not recall when the dream had left him so exhausted, so weak. Then, too, he could not remember having the dream at any time other than when he was in bed, asleep. He ran one hand over his face before pressing gently on his eyes with his finger tips. Other than the headache and severe nausea, he felt weakened but unharmed. Turning, he found his wife sitting in the antique rocker, her face drained of color, her eyes red from crying.

“I still don’t believe it,” he said shakily. “There isn’t a trace of blood anywhere—not on my face, or neck, or on my shirt. There’s no sign of any stains on you. I simply don’t believe it, hon!”

“I—I know—what—I—saw,” she sobbed. Could she be losing her mind? She tugged on the handkerchief Jon had given her. She felt devastated. Blood! She had seen blood gushing from every opening in his head. It had covered his face and neck. His shirt had been soaked with it. After talking with the doctor, she turned to confront the gory scene and Jon had been sitting up, holding his head. The blood had vanished.

Crossing the room, Jon breathed deeply and crouched next to her. “I’ll admit this much,” he began, “that’s the first time I’ve ever had the dream during the daytime. And, for what it’s worth, this is the worst I can ever recall my head hurting. But I just can’t believe this stuff about blood.”

“It was there,” she timidly insisted. Standing, she left Jon, hunched next to the empty chair, which bobbed gently back and forth. “It was there! I saw it! You were unconscious, how would you know?”

“I don’t see any signs of blood anywhere. Do you?” He stood, recrossing the room to be closer to her. The sick feeling was passing, but his head continued to throb.

“Do you want anything before the ambulance gets here?” she asked. “Some aspirin might—”

“Ambulance? What ambulance?”

“I called Doctor Dayton and when I told him how you were bleeding, he wanted to get you to the hospital immediately.”

Jon moaned. “Oh, for chrissakes! Do you realize how foolish we’re going to look? Now I wish to hell I hadn’t let you talk me into going to see any doctors in the first place. None of this would be happening now. I’m not going back to the hospital.”

Trina put her hands firmly on her husband’s shoulders, anger sparking in her eyes. “Now, listen to me, Jon Ward! I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of your dream, nightmare, hallucination, whatever you want to call it. I want you to be healthy and normal. Not—”

“Normal?” Jon broke in. “You mean to tell me you think I’m abnormal or something?”

“You know what I mean. There must be something wrong someplace.”

He shook his head for a second, felt dizzy from the sudden motion. Cradling his head in both hands for a moment to allow the pain to subside, he said softly, “All right, darling. You’re probably right. I’ll go.” He didn’t want to argue. That wasn’t his nature. His recalcitrance Gsually acted as an asset but now the dream seemed ready to drive a wedge between Trina and himself. He knew that neither of them wanted that. Aside from the nightmare, his health was good—even robust. Get rid of his nightmare phantasms, then everything would be perfect. He gently rubbed his right temple.

“Your head’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”

“More than ever.”

“We’re doing the right thing.”

“I know,” he agreed.

The doorbell rang.

Opening the front entrance, Trina admitted two white uniformed men who jockeyed a stretcher into the living room. The taller of the two stopped short when he saw Jon standing next to the couch.

“Where’s the patient?” he asked.

“My husband is the patient,” she said, motioning toward Jon.

“What’s the problem?”

“The crisis is past,” Jon said. “But we decided I should go to the hospital anyway.”

“We were told there was a man bleeding to death in this apartment. You playing a game or something?” the attendant gruffly asked, eyeing the couple.

“There must be some mistake about that,” Trina said quickly before Jon could answer. “My husband passed out just as I got home and his head is hurting him terribly.”

“What about the blood?” the man persisted.

“Well,” Jon said, taking Trina’s cue, “there isn’t any I can see.”

The spokesman for the ambulance team glanced cautiously at his partner before redirecting his attention to Jon. “Do you think you can walk to the ambulance?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said, before turning to his wife. “What about a bag? I’ll need some things in the hospital.”

“I’ll bring whatever you need later, hon.”

“Okay, then,” Jon said, sounding relaxed and calm, “let’s go.” He followed the attendants, Trina walking at his side.

Within minutes they were out of the quiet neighborhood and in heavy traffic. Smiling ruefully, Jon said. “You know, I’m disappointed. No siren! No drama!”

Trina nodded but said nothing.

The attendant who rode with them remained silent, continuing his observation of Jon.

Looking out the side window, Jon watched the blurring traffic move against the maze of store fronts slipping past without being identified. Suddenly, pain hammered again at his skull, stretching to a frenzied threshold he had never before experienced, not even while regaining his sensibilities on the floor of their living room. Opening his mouth to speak, he slipped into unconsciousness, slumping forward.

“Jon!” Trina gasped.

“Better hit the horn, Jake,” the attendant snapped through the intercom.

“Okay, Tim.” The raspy answer punctuated the rising scream of the siren.

With Trina’s help, Tim eased Jon onto the empty stretcher. After checking the heart with a stethoscope, he rolled one of Jon’s shirt sleeves up to record his blood pressure.

Trina sat close to her husband, holding one limp hand while the attendant held the other arm.

Several long minutes later, the ambulance’s siren ended its wailing when the vehicle pulled into the emergency entrance at the medical center. Throwing the back door open, Tim helped the two male nurses waiting at the entrance. Strong hands grasped the stretcher bearing Jon, withdrawing it hurriedly but gently, and rushed him into the hospital.

The window blinds remained drawn, as they had been since he was placed in bed shortly after his arrival at Presbyterian Medical Center. The soft night light, barely illuminating the room, managed only to create heavy shadows everywhere except on the wall behind Jon’s head.

Trina, sitting near her husband, studied the visible contours of Jon’s face. He looked peaceful, appearing to be sound asleep: Reaching out, she delicately caressed his hand. She had no idea what she would do if the doctor discovered something drastically wrong with him. She would survive, but she felt it would be an empty existence without Jon. Their life together had been more than the love story for which she had hoped. It had been an adventure in living, loving and learning about each other—and about life. In time, in the near future she had hoped, they would begin thinking about having a child— another person to share their life odyssey. An irrepressible sob shook a tear loose from her wet lashes. The future. Did they have a future? Would they have all the tomorrows they had planned together?

“What’s wrong with you, Jon?” she asked quietly. “Why is this happening to us? Why? Why us? You’ve got to be all right! You just have to be.”

She stood, tiptoeing to the window. Pulling back one side of the shade, she gazed out at the glow of the traffic streaming by many stories below. The horizon glimmered mockingly with its halo created from street lights, signs, marquees and the endless flow of cars. She dropped the shade, returning to stand at the foot of the bed. Jon moved his legs. Reaching out, she patted his feet. Could something be wrong with his legs as well? Or was it part of this schismatical nightmare?

She recalled Friday, when she had first noticed Jon’s limp. During the next two days, she had observed him favoring one of his legs several times. It was slight but nevertheless a distinct, halting gait. He hadn’t mentioned anything about his legs when she first perceived it and she wondered if he might not be aware of it. The lame pace seemed to be replacing his normal walk.

Sunday afternoon, she had finally mentioned it.

“Now, I ask you, Mrs. Ward, am I a cripple?” he had asked, decisively striding about the living room.