Remarkably, Charlie wasn’t tired after her days in the Dream — just sore and bewildered. Shocked and alone, she switched into pragmatic mode, running through practicalities and setting about achieving them.
Dehydrated: make a bottle of Hydralite from the medicine cabinet and add an extra tablet of dissolvable magnesium and other vitamins I have for use after anaphylactic attacks.
Stiff and sore: take some ibuprofen and slowly stretch out and rub my muscles.
Hungry: warm up a tin of vegetable soup and toast some bread. Take it slow.
Bewildered: check my phone for news to ground myself back in reality and write everything down in my notebook.
Leaning against her kitchen bench, Charlie felt slightly better with the beginnings of her plan enacted. Her muscles felt better too, the ibuprofen kicking in. She carried her soup and drink bottle to the dining table, where her notebook and phone waited for her, and started checking back in mentally. A message from Trent read, Dot tells me she’s found an excellent nut-free cake recipe. Let me know when you’re popping into town next, and we’ll grab a slice.
There was one missed phone call from Tess, as well as a text that read, Sorry I missed you, darling. Just checking in. There was also a message from her brother, Robert: I’ve just popped in to see Mum. She’s not doing too well, Lottie. Give me a call when you can — we should talk next steps. Like Charlie, Robert was ever the realist and pragmatist. Still not quite 4:00 a.m., and none of the messages needing an urgent reply, Charlie placed the phone aside and set to work recounting everything she could remember from the Dream in her notebook.
Charlie’s phone alarm pinged at 9:15 a.m., rousing her. Even though she’d felt quite alert at 3:00 a.m., by the time she’d finished her soup and her notes, the reality of the past couple of days had fallen on her heavily, and she’d collapsed into her bed. She stretched, reaching for her phone. The message from her brother was still open when she unlocked it, so she went about replying to messages. She promised Robert she’d call him that afternoon. She assured Tess she was fine, just “lost track of time” (she laughed at her own pun). She paused over Trent’s message, which she took a bit more time with.
Cake sounds great. Maybe even this weekend. I think I’ve got a lead for your research too. I’m pretty sure the Grey is either Kapiri, Jacob Smith, or one of the two stockmen Bill would have had working for him in March 1936.
Charlie had researched the date of the Sydney Harbour Bridge opening on her phone at three thirty that morning. Anything you can find on a swagman called Thomas who might have passed through town around then would be useful too. I’ll explain over cake!
After running to the bathroom — feeling relieved the dehydration was passing — and having a quick shower, Charlie sat at her computer, waiting for Maryanne. Unlike last time, when she’d written too many disjointed questions, this time Charlie only had three. She hoped by narrowing her list she’d be able to pin Maryanne down on the answers she needed.
How do I get more control over the Dream, especially time?
Why am I finding it harder to enter the Dream?
Who is the white man?
Charlie felt in control. She’d prepared as best she could. She’d taken charge in a weird, startling situation. She was ready.
She answered the phone call as the notification pinged on her screen. Maryanne’s familiar face popped onto the computer. “Hello, Charlotte. How are you today?”
The simple question overwhelmed Charlie. A torrent of emotions burst through her control like floodwater through a dam. She erupted into tears, holding her face and sobbing. “Charlotte? Charlotte?” She was aware Maryanne was trying to break through, but could barely hear her over her sobs. Her chest hurt as it heaved, snot dripped from her nose, and every time she tried to open her mouth to speak, she wept instead.
After a few minutes, her hands gripping the edge of the desk, Charlie found enough composure to raise her eyes and look at the screen. She half expected the crazy psych to have disconnected rather than sit through her emotional outburst, especially once she had gone silent.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I always do this. I pent everything up and then it just explodes out of me!”
Maryanne hadn’t left the call. In fact, she was looking at Charlie with concern, and the most genuine sympathy she’d seen from Maryanne since they’d met. “It’s okay, Charlotte,” she said. “Tell me what’s been happening.”
“My brother messaged and I think my Mum is dying. Actually dying this time. Robert never messages me. And I got trapped in the Dream for almost two days — what if I’d been trapped in there longer? Would I die from dehydration without even realising it? I’m starting to try to settle into life in town, but I’m still so scared. Dot from the café says the cake is nut free, but is it really? I can’t stand living every day so terrified of a peanut. So afraid that any moment I could spontaneously combust. Do you know how terrifying that is? Can you even imagine? I know when it’s going to happen now. It’s not the smell. It’s not the tingle. It’s literally a sixth sense. Can you explain what it’s like to see to a blind person? Or what it’s like to hear to a deaf person? I can’t explain it. But I know, and by the time I know, it’s too late. Every time I hope it won’t progress to full blown anaphylaxis, but it does. Every. Single. Time. Fighting just to breathe. Fighting just to stay awake. So afraid that if I lose consciousness, I’ll never wake up again… And then wouldn’t it be easier to not wake up? To stop fighting… But every time it happens, I have no choice, I just fight. And I am so tired of fighting.”
Maryanne didn’t interject this time, didn’t tell Charlie that’s not what she wanted to focus on this session. Instead she let Charlie talk — rant really. She asked prodding questions at random intervals and gave assurances at others. Maryanne ended with an informative, comprehensible discussion on how the human brain processes trauma — that “fighting” and stress were all completely normal responses. As were the emotional reactions that came afterwards. Her “paranoia,” as Charlie had described, was actually a rational response from the brain trying to understand what the danger was and to keep her alive. Something that was programmed into the human body and not a conscious response.
As the clock ticked past 11:00 a.m., Charlie sighed, looking at her unanswered questions. “You probably have to go…”
“No, Charlotte, I have some time,” Maryanne answered. “It’ll come as no surprise to you that I know what I’d like to focus on this session, but…” She sighed, her mask cracking and slipping again. “What do you want to focus on today? I know you have questions prepared.”
Charlie looked again at her questions, then back to the screen. “It’s okay…” Her outburst had washed some of the frustration and anger away. “You start…” she said. “I’m sure there’s a reason you’re doing it the way you are.”
Maryanne nodded and smiled. “Thank you, Charlotte. What I want to discuss is what I know about the types of spirits you’ve been seeing.” Charlie perked up, grateful for the distraction and eager to hear what Maryanne had to say. The tarot reading popped back into her head. The Hierophant. The mentor. Someone coming into her life when she’d learnt all she could on her own and needed someone to help her the rest of the way. The message that had come with the reading also repeated in her mind: Be ready. Had she been? Was she now?
“That would be great,” Charlie said. “Please.”
“We’ve already talked about the Greys. Last time I told you they aren’t the only type of spirit in the Dream. I don’t have experience with every type of spirit — there are dozens. But I can tell you about some of the more common ones. The Greys, as you know, are those who’ve experienced significant pain and terror. There are also Blues, who are generally youthful spirits, cheeky, and like to play games. The Purples are generally described as alluring, eminently attractive and sexual. Temptresses or sirens. Of course, these are accounts from men…”
“Wait…” Charlie interjected, trying to take notes while also comprehending what Maryanne was telling her. “Spirits have colours?”
“That’s how people who’ve entered the Dream have perceived them in the past,” Maryanne said patiently. “I’ve never seen them myself, at least not in colour. Most spirits who dip in and out of our world aren’t perceived in colour, the same way someone like you can see them. Some, however, like the Greys, certainly can be. You’ve heard of Black Widows? Or the Lady in Black?” Charlie nodded, thinking back to the various horror movies that had focussed on this trope. “The Blacks are spirits who have endured great betrayal or abuse. Not all female, but certainly a high proportion are. And unfortunately they’re as common as the Greys.”
“So the man in white…” Charlie started, trailing off and looking at Maryanne expectantly. “The Whites?”
“Yes, you can call them that,” Maryanne nodded. “The other term I use to describe them is Keepers. I told you about the balance to the Dream, to the Waiting Place. Each spirit who lingers has something they need to do — or process — to find their own balance before they can move on. It’s also important that no single type of spirit has dominion over another. If the Greys had their way, everything would be pain and fear. If the Blues had their way, everything would be fun and games. And the spirits who don’t want to move on…sometimes need a nudge. As I understand it, the role of the Keepers is to keep this balance. To maintain it.”
“And the top hat?” Charlie asked. “Why?” Maryanne burst into delightful laughter. A genuine sound that lit up her entire face and made Charlie smile back unwittingly.
“It happens sometimes,” said Maryanne. “Some Blues have objects that defined them in life. Especially children. A ball, a doll, cute ringlets for hair. Some Greys bear the physical scars of what happened to them in life. I’m sure you’ve heard of Blacks wearing veils. I suppose for this particular Keeper you’re seeing, there’s a connection to that hat from its human days.” The rational description was a relief to Charlie — humanising something that had been too fantastic to process before now.
“We spoke about spiritual leaders last time,” Charlie said. “Like Lam…”
“Yes,” Maryanne answered. “With the balance to the Dream also comes a hierarchy. I don’t pretend to fully understand it, but I’ll describe it as best I can. I’ve always understood Lam to be the spiritual guide, or leader, of the Greys. I believe there’s more than one Lam — there would have to be with the sheer number of them — but they each have the same purpose. To keep the Greys in check. Each other spirit has their own leader or guide as well. The Blues, the Purples, the Blacks… As I’ve told you before, I’m a Seeker. It’s my job, my purpose, to seek out these guides in this life and help them come to terms with that purpose, set them on their way. And there are a lot of them. Population control, I suppose. The irony is that when we start the process, I’m the teacher. But when we finish, they know far more than I could ever begin to comprehend.”
“Do the Whites have a guide?” Charlie asked.
Maryanne nodded. “Yes, I believe they do. But I’ve never met one. In fact, I rarely meet a Keeper.”
“What about Marie?” Charlie asked. “Is she one of these guides?” She remembered how Marie had helped her in and out of the Dream.
“No, dear. She’s a lost spirit. Whether she’s a Blue, or something else, I can’t say. But that’s why I think you’re connected to her. You need to help her find her balance before she can move on.”
“Something else?” Charlie asked. “Like what?”
Maryanne paused for a moment. “Like a Grey, Charlotte. Perhaps that’s why it pursues her.”
Charlie felt her blood turning to heavy ice in her veins. “No, not Marie,” she whispered. “Not her.”
“Charlotte, I’m afraid I do have to go. I have another client waiting for me.”
“Wait!” Charlie said, thinking how all her conversations with Maryanne ended the same way. “One more question…” Maryanne nodded. “If these spirits are so common, why don’t more people know about this? Why don’t more people talk about this?”
“That question requires a much longer answer than I have time for, I’m afraid. Next appointment, Charlotte, let’s discuss this. Tuesday, 10:00 a.m. See you then. Goodbye.”
Charlie stood, pacing the floor, all the new information running through her head. She grabbed her notebook, determined to make as many notes as possible. Before she could find her pen, her landline phone rang. She stared at it dumbly for a moment; it had been so long since that phone had rung. Before she’d gotten satellite internet, it was usually only Tess who’d called that number.
She walked to the phone and answered it. “Hello?” she answered.
“Charlie, it’s Pat, from St Dymphna Nursing Home. I’m calling about your mum, Elsa.” Charlie recognised her as the nurse she’d spoken with when she visited her mother with Tess. Immediately she felt lightheaded, a large fist clenching her chest.
“Oh my God…” she breathed. “Is she…?”
“She’s alive, Charlie. But she’s very distressed. I think it’s best you come as soon as you can.”
“Of course, of course,” Charlie said, already making a mental list of what to grab before racing to her car. “Distressed how?”
“She was having morning tea, and then she just started yelling. She’s been talking about a glowing white man. We can’t get her to calm down. We’ve got her into bed, and she’s not shouting anymore, but she’s still muttering about him. I do fear it’s a sign —”
Charlie’s heart pounded. “I’m on my way right now.”