You'll Never Know Dear: A Novel of Suspense Page 3

  The woman in room 105 was fifty-three, five one, and a hundred seventy-five pounds. The video feed showed her lying on her back, too. Awake. She stirred. Adjusted the belt around her chest, itched at the adhesive under her nose, and flopped back down. Her intake sheet listed persistent shortness of breath, chest pains, and headaches. Typical symptoms of sleep apnea, along with dozens of other medical conditions, the most common of which her doctor would have ruled out before referring her to the Institute.

  In 109, a male patient was bedded down apparently sound asleep, but the readouts were blank.

  “Gary, the guy in 109? He’s either dead—” Vanessa turned up the speaker for 109. Snoring. “—or unplugged.”

  “Aw, shit.” Gary shrugged on a rumpled lab coat and left the room. Moments later, in the patient’s video feed, the light from the hallway went on and Gary’s backside filled the screen as he fiddled with the wires. The readouts came to life and waves began tracing across the screen, the deep regular spikes characteristic of deep sleep. Even Gary’s presence hadn’t jarred the man awake.

  Vanessa glanced through the remaining records and checked out the patients. None of them were in REM sleep, the state that Vanessa studied. During REM, vivid dreams hovered so close to consciousness that dreamers could, theoretically at least, pluck their strings. Vanessa was getting close to mastering complete control.

  Feeling a tremor of excitement, she unlocked one of the drawers of her desk and took out the small box that contained the prototype sleep mask she’d been testing.

  Gary came back into the office. “Want me to hook you up?”

  “No. I’m good. I can manage,” Vanessa replied, as she always did.

  Gary took a step closer. “What is that, anyway?”

  “Something I’ve been trying out.”

  “Really? What?” He touched the box. “Is that what your research is about?”

  Vanessa hesitated. She didn’t want to share what she was up to. But hiding it would only make him more curious. She opened the box.

  He looked in, then up at her. “So what’s the big deal?”

  “Big deal?”

  “Well, you obviously haven’t wanted me to see this.”

  “Here.” She took the mask from the box and handed it to him. “It’s something I’m trying out.”

  Gary turned the mask over. “Isn’t this just like what we used all the time in the old days?”

  This prototype looked like a same-old because she’d cannibalized one of their mothballed masks to create it. Embedded in the eye pads were wires and LEDs that not only monitored brain waves but also triggered a signal designed to induce semiconsciousness during REM sleep. She’d tried embedding the mask with a tiny flashing light, but that failed to catch her attention. She’d tried a sound but couldn’t find one that didn’t simply wake her up. Vibrations—two short and one long—were promising, the perfect balance, creating an entryway through which her conscious mind could seep into her dream and take control.

  “You’re right,” she said. “Same old, same old with a few tweaks. I’m trying it out. As a favor. Someone asked me to see if it was comfortable and accurate and”—she was overexplaining—“well, you know.”

  He gave her a narrow look.

  “Come on, give it back.” She held out her hand. “I need to get some sleep before I pass out on my feet.”

  He held the mask under the desk light, turned it over. Rubbed his fingers over the eye pad. Turned it over again. Finally, he handed it back to her. “Sweet dreams.”

  4

  Before climbing into the bed, Vanessa stuck a Post-it over the camera lens that fed images to the office computer. She also muted the sound feed. She wouldn’t be able to fall asleep at all, no matter how tired she was, if she thought anyone was watching her or listening in. It was the same feeling she had whenever she went back to Grandma Sorrel’s house and tried to fall asleep under the vacant gazes of the dolls perched on shelves in her bedroom, perfuming the air with decomposing plastic.

  She put a pen and yellow highlighter and her dream diary, a bound book with half its lined pages filled, on the bedside table so all she’d need to do was reach for it when she woke up. Then she’d record her dream and flag the parts she’d been able to control.

  The principle was simple. If you could control a dream, bend it to your will, then you could rob nightmares and the memories that sparked them of their power to terrorize you. It was more than an issue of interrupted sleep. People who suffered nightmares frequently were three times more likely to commit suicide, and that was regardless of whether they were clinically depressed or suffering from PTSD.

  The technique had to be one that most people could master on their own, in their own homes, with the help of minimal equipment. Without a lucrative return from a new drug or high-tech gadget, private companies with deep pockets wouldn’t be interested. But with PTSD endemic among veterans returning from war zones, the Veterans Health Administration was. Anything that held the promise of treating PTSD, especially a low-cost way of doing it, was in their sweet spot.

  Vanessa had presented her prototype and some preliminary data to the research committee of an agency within the VA. They were encouraging but asked her to resubmit with a stronger literature review and more data to back up her proposal. More research. More data gathering. The deadline for resubmitting was weeks away, and she desperately needed that infusion of soft money or her postdoc at the college wouldn’t be renewed for next fall’s semester.

  Her nightmare was that she’d have to crawl home, as her mother had done when she was about Vanessa’s age, parachuting directly from a toxic marriage to a safe haven that was also a dead end. Twenty years later Lis Strenger was still living in the house where she’d grown up, managing the charter fishing business that Vanessa’s grandfather had started. Vanessa would be damned if she’d let the same thing happen to her.

  She got in bed and attached wires from the mask’s eye pads to a modified smartphone she’d brought with her, then Velcroed a strap around her upper arm and tucked the phone into it. Once she had herself wired up, she turned up the audio and listened for the three distinct sets of sine waves that were continuously collected, each bleeping at a different pitch. Then she muted the feedback sounds, lay back, and closed her eyes. She was anxious about completing her research proposal. What if she didn’t have enough research supporting her thesis to convince the committee? Or enough preliminary data? What if she didn’t get it in on time? What if Gary ratted her out and she lost her access to the sleep center?

  The mask felt heavy and hot. NOTE TO SELF: need lighter weight, more breathable fabric.

  She adjusted the strap, turned over, and bunched the cool side of the pillow under her face. She could feel her heart beat. She should have skipped coffee that afternoon, but she’d needed it to keep from falling asleep.

  She let her mind drift. Up came her bank statement and MasterCard bill. That glorious leather jacket she couldn’t afford but had charged anyway. The stove in her apartment that smelled like it had a dead mouse in it. Make that a family of dead mice. And her mother who’d been after her to plan a visit to South Carolina.

  Vanessa sat up. These were not thoughts that were going to put her to sleep. Forget grants. Forget dead rodents. Forget Mom. Bonsecours would still be there in the morning. Right now Vanessa needed to send herself somewhere peaceful, free of any guilt- or anxiety-driven narrative.

  Closing her eyes and turning over onto her back, Vanessa took a few slow, deep breaths. Quiet. Blue sky. Water. Warm breezes. Luquillo Beach.

  Vanessa had been to Puerto Rico twice, and both times spent an afternoon at the beach that was easy driving distance from San Juan. She imagined herself driving out of the city, through the suburbs with their pink and turquoise cinder-block houses with metal grilles across the windows, farther on through allées of palm trees and past stands selling icy, fresh green whole coconuts with the tops hacked off and a straw stuck in. She envisioned herself
parking in the beach’s massive lot and walking to sand so white and water so blue it felt more like a Disney island than a public beach. Along the curved edge of the shore, a few palm trees arched gracefully out over the water, their trunks nearly kissing the gentle waves.

  In her mind’s eye the beach was empty, which it probably never was in real life. She dropped her towel on the sand, took off her shift, and walked into the water. It felt silky, and she imagined herself floating in it, rocking gently, the water tepid against her body and the sun warming her face. She heard the rush of water, a toilet flushing somewhere in the inn. Caught a whiff of Pine-Sol. Her breathing slowed. She sank deeper into the warmth, a sure sign that she was drifting from consciousness into sleep. She imagined her body floating. She knew better than to try to sense the moment of letting go.

  She was standing on the deserted beach, the air warm and still, a towel wrapped around her. The sun was low in the sky, the air cooling. She realized that she had to get back to the hotel. She had to be at the airport soon and she hadn’t started to pack. She gathered up her sandals and hat and purse and shoved them into her woven Mexican beach tote. Realized she didn’t have her watch. She rooted through the tote. Sifted through the sand. Knocked over the tote bag, causing everything inside to spill out.

  Just then, a distant Klaxon sounded. Vanessa looked out toward the ocean but saw only sand, glistening wet sand almost to the horizon where a line of brilliant blue marked the boundary between the earth and darkening sky. As she watched, the band of blue grew wider. Closer, as if the horizon itself were closing in on her.

  Tsunami. The word echoed the alarm that had to be telling her to leave the beach . . . now.

  Terror gathered in Vanessa’s chest like a cold fist. She had to get out of there. She tried to move, to run, but her feet felt rooted. The sand had turned to clay.

  The alarm sounded again, muted now, barely audible. The air around her seemed to vibrate. The wave was coming for her.

  The alarm continued, two short pulses and one long, repeated and repeated again. Louder now. More like a cow mooing or a very loud bee. . . . And in that instant Vanessa realized she was dreaming. That the sound was really a vibration, alerting her that she was in REM sleep.

  If she was dreaming, then all she had to do to unstick her feet was will it to happen. She looked down at her dream feet. Pictured water pooling around them, and it did. She reached down and, cupping her hands, scooped up a handful of sand and water.

  She laughed. Lifted one foot, took a step. Then lifted the other. A moment later she was racing out to meet the wave. Closer and closer, hearing the wet smack as her feet hit hard-packed sand.

  She kept running until water lapped around her knees and the wave loomed overhead. She spread her arms and welcomed it. That’s when she realized a lone figure had emerged from the wall of water.

  Vanessa recognized the old woman in a flowered cotton bathrobe: Grandma Sorrel, her face as smooth and carefully painted as the faces of the porcelain dolls she’d once made, her long wet hair hanging loose around her face. She offered Vanessa the blanket-wrapped bundle that she was carrying.

  Vanessa peeled back the blanket. A blast of mildew hit her. Inside the blanket was a baby, just its face visible, bright blue eyes wide open, a single blond curl spiraling over its forehead. Her forehead. Vanessa didn’t know why, but she was sure that the baby was a girl.

  As Vanessa backed away, she felt hollowed out, empty, and unspeakably sad. Why would she dream this? She didn’t want a child. Really, she didn’t. Please God, she couldn’t be pregnant. The guy she’d met on Tinder? The one and only guy she’d met on Tinder? She couldn’t even remember what he looked like.

  “ ’Nessa.” Curiously, the whispery male voice seemed to come from the baby girl.

  5

  “Vanessa?” The voice that still felt as if it were coming from inside the dream continued, a bass note against the background buzzing vibration. “You need to take this.”

  No, I do not. Take her away. Take it away . . .

  “It’s a dream. You can control it.” Vanessa wasn’t sure if she’d spoken those words aloud or if that was her dream voice.

  “You really need to take this call.” Clearly a man’s voice, its heavy presence felt as if it were pressing on her chest.

  The vibration stopped, and for what was just a few moments but seemed like an eternity, Vanessa couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. Couldn’t feel her arms or legs. Her only sensation was of that leaden weight pressing the air from her lungs.

  At last she managed to open her eyes. Impenetrable dark surrounded her. Her heart galloped even as she realized why. The mask. All she had to do was take it off. But she couldn’t move.

  In the rational corner of her brain, she knew why that was, too. Sleep paralysis. She tried to relax into it. It would abate, she told herself, releasing its hold from her center out. Meanwhile, it was pretty cool. Sleep paralysis was notoriously difficult to study because you couldn’t make it happen or predict when it would. Modern researchers didn’t fully understand its physiology, though historians were convinced that the hallucinations it triggered had inspired the age-old myth of the succubus.

  Finally, Vanessa was able to raise her hand and lift the mask from her eyes. In the dim light she could see Gary standing at the foot of the bed. He was holding something out to her. Her cell phone.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been ringing and ringing.”

  Vanessa took the phone. As if on cue, it chimed with a new voice mail. She expected the readout to say mom, but it didn’t. The number seemed vaguely familiar, and she recognized the area code, 843. That was Bonsecours. And it was the fifth call from that number. The first at 4:06 a.m., an hour ago. And there were four voice messages.

  Vanessa flashed back to the dream, Grandma Sorrel emerging from a wall of advancing water and offering her a blanket-wrapped child. She knew a dream was just a dream, but still. Heart in her throat, she played the first message.

  “I’m sorry to be callin’ you like this in the middle of the night, out of the blue.” A woman’s voice, the southern accent even stronger than Grandma Sorrel’s. “This is Evelyn. From next door to your grandma?”

  Vanessa sat up. Of course she knew Evelyn Dumont, Grandma Sorrel’s oldest friend. She’d never phoned Vanessa. Ever. It had to be bad news.

  “There’s been an accident. Your . . .” During the long pause, a siren wailed in the background. There were muffled sounds, like Evelyn was talking with her hand over the phone. “I’m sorry. Can’t talk now. Call me back just as soon as you can.”

  If something had happened to Grandma Sorrel, why wasn’t Vanessa’s mother calling? Vanessa fumbled with the phone and called back.

  “Hello?” Evelyn picked up right away.

  “Evelyn? It’s Vanessa. I just saw your messages. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Oh, thank goodness it’s you.” She sounded breathless, agitated. “Well, I’m not sure exactly what happened. For heaven’s sake, it sounded like a bomb goin’ off. Your momma and your grandma, they took them to the hospital.” The words came out in a rush.

  Bomb? Hospital? “Are they okay?”

  “Got them out of the house just in time. That’s what one of the medics said. Carbon monoxide.”

  “Carbon . . . Are they okay?” Vanessa felt as if she were floating, dimly aware that she’d already asked that. “What hospital?”

  “Coastal Memorial. I called just now but they couldn’t give me their status. They must still be in emergency.” Vanessa remembered that Evelyn was a semiretired hospital nurse who’d worked at Coastal, the one and only big hospital in Bonsecours. “Don’t worry about Binty. I’ve got her.”

  Binty? Vanessa had completely forgotten about the dog. “How bad is the house?”

  “They’ve got it blocked off so I can’t see around back.”

  Vanessa thanked Evelyn and said she’d ring her back once she’d figured out what she was going to do. E
velyn signed off with her usual, “Have a blessed day.”

  Vanessa called her mother’s cell but there was no answer. Texted: are you OK? Stared at the phone, willing a text to pop up the way it usually did, like clockwork, ten seconds after she texted her mom. The question she knew she shouldn’t even have to ask hung in front of her. What should I do? The obvious answer: catch the first flight to Savannah and drive to Bonsecours. Stay until . . . as long as they needed her. Possibly until it was too late to complete the research she needed to revise her grant proposal. Maybe she’d have to forget about qualifying for this round of funding and hope that the university would find the resources to keep her on for another semester. Pray that in six months, the questions she sought to answer would still be hers to investigate.

  Vanessa booked a late-morning flight to Savannah and called Evelyn to let her know when she’d be getting to the house. Then she called the hospital, only to be told that her mother was in “fair” condition and her grandmother “serious,” and, no, they could not be reached by phone.

  She packed, shoving underwear and jeans and T-shirts into her suitcase. Deliberately not packing a black dress. Evelyn’s words—Sounded like a bomb—ran around and around her mind. Vanessa tried to imagine Bonsecours—bucolic historic Bonsecours with its bounty of pecan trees and magnolias, its live oaks festooned with Spanish moss—shaken awake by an explosion. Evelyn said it had come from the back of the house. That was where a pair of house-that-Jack-built additions had been tacked onto the main house: a kitchen and Grandma Sorrel’s workroom. Vanessa had spent innumerable hours in the latter watching Grandma Sorrel and Evelyn Dumont bring damaged dolls back to life.

  Vanessa picked up the one and only doll she had. Years ago her mother had slipped it into her suitcase, and Vanessa discovered it when she unpacked in her dorm room at Brown. It had been her mother’s, the first portrait doll that Grandma Sorrel had made. A little girl doll, she wore a blue-and-white gingham dress and white hand-embroidered pinafore. If you took off her patent-leather Mary Janes and frilly socks, you’d find a tiny sorrel leaf embossed in the sole of her foot. The doll’s lifelike face was a portrait of Lis, Vanessa’s mother, and Vanessa hated the way the doll’s gaze seemed to follow her as she moved about the room. Unsentimental to a fault, Vanessa never saved letters or photos or keepsakes of any kind, really, but she knew that Grandma Sorrel’s spirit would haunt her to the end of her days if she didn’t keep that doll. She tossed it on her bed and its brown paperweight-glass eyes clicked shut.