Chapter 5

Meredith unlocked the front door and stepped inside just as the sky let loose the first torrent of the storm. It cast a curtain behind her as she swung the door shut and locked it.

Driving from Westwood, she had fled dark clouds, yet they seemed to follow. Now the living room lay in half darkness. She flicked on a table lamp and hurried into the kitchen.

If she was going to do dream therapy, there was no sense in putting it off. She did not want to spend another night with that stranger. Besides, it was clear from what happened at Westwood that these dreams must be affecting her waking life as well. If she were fully rested and alert, she told herself, she never would have bought that hideous dress. She put on a pot of water, tossed the dress bag into the pantry, then waited for the kettle to whistle before mixing a cup of cocoa. As an afterthought, she mixed a second cup. That would be for the stranger. If she was going to act out this drama, there was no sense going halfway.

She carried both mugs to the living room and set one on the end table before settling onto the sofa.

“Okay, mister,” she said aloud, “you and I are going to have a talk.”

The words echoed in the empty air. They sounded as ridiculous as she had feared. Even worse, the approach was all wrong and she knew it. The essence of unfolding a dream was playing all the parts, being patient and sensitive to the unconscious material. “Pretend you are each person in the dream,” she always instructed her clients. “Get to know how everyone feels.”

She set her mug on the coffee table and watched steam climb into the air. The setting was too bright. She switched off the light, and gray-green storm light fell over the room.

“I apologize.” She addressed the empty armchair again. “I suppose we can have a quiet chat.” She paused, fighting her discomfort. Though alone, she felt embarrassed. Above her, she heard rain drum on the roof of the second floor. It beat a tattoo on the patio’s metal awning. She tried her voice again, and this time, at least, it sounded more sensible.

“You come to me in dreams. I know you from somewhere. I understand that you care for me. You want to help. You are part of my mind.” Meredith paused, forcing the necessary words. “I feel afraid of you. Why should I be afraid of you?”

There. It was out. She stood and walked to the armchair. Now she must take the stranger’s role, reach into her thoughts, and discover how he felt. If she could acknowledge and express the need behind the dreams, they would pass.

Meredith sat and tried to imagine that she was the man. Her mind had created him, he was part of her. She should be able to imagine him as herself, if only the very thought did not feel utterly terrifying. Meredith felt a wave of panic rising up, like a hand at her throat, but she pushed the sensation down. She simply had to try, that was all. Both her mind and the power of those dreams demanded it.

It would not work. She sensed that the man would not sit in the armchair in this spot. It had to be closer to the couch.

Meredith stood and pushed the heavy chair. It slid easily over the carpet, and she stepped back to look at it. She had pushed it too far. She leaned against it again, moving a few inches. That felt better. She congratulated herself. The man’s presence, as chilling as it was to imagine, had begun to feel natural.

She settled back on the sofa to try again. “I said you frighten me. That’s not completely true.” She paused, seeking the words. “I am afraid, but I also feel pulled toward you, whoever you are. It’s like an attraction, but darker. More dangerous. I may have seen you somewhere, but now you’re part of me. I feel . . .” She let the words trail off.

She did feel, suddenly and spontaneously, that she was tied to the stranger. A powerful, invisible bond held her to him. And he was also bound to her. It should be a strong bond, but somehow it felt filled with tears. His sorrow swirled around her as if they were living separately in the silent air.

Meredith stood and took a step toward the chair. She would take his place now to get in touch with those feelings. Then she stopped.

The man was sitting in the armchair.

He wasn’t doing anything to threaten her, but the sight of his face sent terror through her veins. Shadows seemed to sway on the walls, like echoes of pain.

Meredith drew back and sat abruptly on the sofa. It was not, she tried to persuade herself, that she actually saw him. With the chair turned away from the windows, it was enfolded in shadows. The man’s profile seemed a bit nebulous, like a shadow whose outlines cut it off too sharply from the surrounding air. She thought of turning on the light, but the dream enactment had begun to work. If she broke it now she would destroy the illusion. And, she told herself defiantly, it definitely was an illusion.

It was not so much the apparition in the gauzy light that held her back. What stopped her was the absolute certainty that she was no longer alone in the room. She was stunned. She felt physical fear, but not fear of death. It was the fear of attack, of physical assault; the fear of hands tearing at her clothes. Hands that would bruise, and a harsh voice that would grunt like a beast.

But it was not his hands that she feared. She almost wanted to touch his hands. Yet if she did, if he were truly there to touch, she would cross a boundary she might not be able to get back across. There was terror in the knowledge of his unreality, but if he became real it would be far worse.

She listened. Gusts of wind tried the seals of the windows. Rain tapped at the window, like fingernails scratching the glass. She was not yet terrified, but feared that soon she would be.

“Won’t you please come to me,” he said gently. He lifted his arm in the space that separated them. A shadow moved on the wall, but it was not her shadow, and it could not be his.

Meredith stared. The voice seemed to come from the direction of the armchair, but from no spot she could pinpoint. It insinuated itself into the air, like a faint perfume. It was like the fruitlike fragrance that now hung in the air.

“I smell that,” she said aloud. “I smell after-shave.”

“I put it on for you.”

Meredith rose slowly and edged away from the sofa. She fought her panic, struggling to recall if dream therapy should be allowed to go on like this. She knew the answer, but the knowledge felt far away, locked in a secret closet of her mind. She should stop. This was going too fast. Every ounce of good sense inside her knew it, and every muscle, every inch of flesh, every cell knew that she wanted to continue.

“Where are you going?” He was disappointed. The smell of after-shave hung in the air, heavy and sensuous. She wanted to run from it, wanted to push open the front door and run into the rain. But the front door was locked, and a part of her also wanted to stay. A peculiar lethargy gripped her, a heavy weight of helplessness that hardly allowed her to move. She felt drugged by a dream that would not pass even when the dreamer woke.

“I’ll turn on the heat,” she said. She reached the far living room wall and her shoulder nudged the thermostat. “I feel cold.”

It was true. Chill air surrounded her and seemed to penetrate to her marrow. It ran like ice water. Cold seemed to lie like a sheen on gray walls. She fought for courage, then turned. She lifted her fingers to the thermostat.

At once she felt better. The metal dial was real and cold to the touch. The first fall storm had arrived, she remembered. The weather report had predicted a drop in temperatures. That was why it was cold in the house.

These ordinary thoughts offered reassuring hope. It was only a storm, after all, as predictable as the seasons. She was Meredith Morgan, and she lived here with her husband. This was only a game she was playing, and it had become too real. She had frightened herself. Meredith leaned her forehead against the cool wall and felt the race of her pulse slow. The man’s presence was only pretending. She did not have to be afraid.

Beneath the mutter of the storm, she heard a reassuring click from the basement as the furnace kicked on. She was behaving ridiculously. The dim light, the storm, the sleepless night had her spooked. She had only spoken the man’s words, not heard them.

Heat from the vent began to eddy around her ankles. May as well get on with it, she decided. She had come this far.

Meredith turned slowly, watching the chair in spite of herself. Shadows hung over it. From where she stood, they seemed to change shapes, as if the man had leaned forward. She tried to tell herself she was alone in the room, but once again the certainty gripped her. It was an awareness deeper than all her reasoning, a conviction she needed no proof to trust. Are you there? she wanted to say. She could not speak. Warm air moved against her legs, but her skin prickled with cold. She shivered.

“Come and sit down.” The shadow seemed to shift backward in the chair. “You’ll feel warmer on the couch.”

Meredith did not want to move, but she watched in wonder as, involuntarily, her body obeyed. She felt drawn by invisible cords, her arms heavy, her body a weight to be dragged toward the void of darkness that only he inhabited. The stranger’s voice spoke on, calm and sure. He knows what I need, Meredith thought. He has always looked after me. She tried to question her thoughts, but resisting them felt as impossible as resisting the cords that pulled her forward. At last she reached the couch and the cords let go. She had entered the darkness, but he was there. His presence was frightening, yet without him she would be utterly alone in this freezing void of emptiness.

The man waited until she was seated before he spoke.

“You said you were afraid. We could talk it over. It might pass.”

“I’ll try,” Meredith said, her voice shaking.

“Do you still love me?”

Meredith wanted to feel amazed. She could not. The words sounded natural, as if they had spoken them to each other every day for years.

She searched her feelings. She found, deep beneath the frozen silence and the lethargy it carried, a circle of warmth for him. It was like the warmth from someone else’s memory. It was not from her memory, but it was real. It lay like a calm pool hidden deep in the caverns of a mountain.

“I think so.”

Disappointment eddied toward her across the dark air.

“I do,” she said, speaking again. The words felt true. “I do love you. I just can’t show it.”

“That’s good. I worry sometimes.”

Meredith struggled to form an image of the man. The shadows surrounding the chair were formless, but if he was there, if he was truly present in her mind, she ought to be able to see him. She closed her eyes and searched for a picture of how he looked, seated not five steps away in the yellow armchair.

But the chair was not yellow. Not now.

Gradually the vision took shape. The man’s face remained blurry, but she sensed his position against the pale gray fabric of the chair. His hands lay folded in his lap. He wore a bright blue shirt and brown trousers. His legs were extended and the pant cuffs trailed along the charcoal carpet.

Meredith’s eyelids fluttered open. In the vision, the room seemed changed. Now it gradually became familiar; gray fading away, colors emerging exactly as she had planned them. Only the position of the chair was different.

Her heart pounding, she tried to recall what it was that looked different. The vision eluded her, like a shadow scurrying ahead of a searchlight. She glanced at the chair. The eerie gray-green light, filtering through the window behind it, made a figure seem to sit there. Reassured, she closed her eyes.

Her sense of the room returned slowly. The walls felt close and somehow menacing. Furniture was not in the right places. The windows looked as if black paint had been sprayed over them, and only gradually did she realize that it was not paint but the inky darkness dimming their surfaces. The dark corner beside the stairwell contained something she could not bear to see. She told herself that no power must force her to look there. She looked at the man instead. Suddenly time seemed to spin dizzyingly. This was no longer the home she had meant to come to. It was no longer late afternoon, or today at all. It was late at night. She and the man were sitting up talking far into the night.

“If only you could cry,” the voice said.

Meredith wanted to open her eyes. She wanted to check one last time to see that no one was there. She wanted to return to the home, to the life she had known. She could not move. A terrible laziness filled her, and she slowly came to know that it would not matter if she looked. The stranger was there and he was not there. He would wait for her until she went to him. He would wait. He would always be waiting and she could not escape anything he intended to do.

“I can’t cry.” Her voice sounded weak and uncertain. It was not her own voice speaking, but a voice speaking through her lips.

The man took a deep breath. “It’s what you need to do—cry. I only want to hold you. I won’t hurt you. Can’t you trust me?”

With cold shock, Meredith realized that to cry would be dangerous. If she cried, if one sliver of ice broke from the glacier, it would all tumble. If she cried he would come over to her. He would crouch behind the sofa and touch her, place his hands on her flesh and lean his head near to hers. He would hurt her. It would happen again, all over again. But it must not. She could not bear to be touched like that again.

The sofa stood by the wall, she reminded herself. He could not move behind it. Yet the vision said that he could, even if it was impossible.

“No!” The word came as a shout. “I’m not going to cry. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Then you would feel . . .” She stopped in horror. Searing emotional pain engulfed her. She had struck out at him. She did not want to hurt him. It was not his fault. Waves of shame and self-hatred washed over her.

A tremble began in her chest, but then, in the instant before it seemed the pain would pick her up and shake her in the air like a rag doll, it subsided. She felt as if she had escaped a furnace only to be plunged into a cold pool. Everything inside her grew still.

Exhausted, Meredith fell back against the sofa. She looked at the man. He had pushed himself abruptly from the chair, and now in three rapid strides, he reached the fireplace. He was farther away there and it felt safer. He turned on his heel and strode back, closer and more terrifying. As he walked, he moved through places where furniture ought to stand. The familiar library table and love seat were not there. He reached the armchair again—much too close—spun, and paced back toward the fireplace. She could see his face. Gray drapes were illuminated from outside as lightning crackled.

His brow was furrowed and the scar over his eyebrow had gone scarlet with anger. His hands, clenched in fists, swung like heavy steel weights at the ends of his arms. He can hurt me, Meredith thought. She tried to move, but the drowsy weight of helplessness held her down.

At last he came again to the chair and threw his weight into it. One hand shoved a wave of brown hair from his eyes. Tormented eyes glared at her. They were deep and penetrating. In their gray-blue recesses lay every emotion she knew—pain and anger, impatience and a desperate longing. He glared for a long moment before his chin fell in resignation. He stared at the dark carpet. He had not touched her, she realized. She was safe for now, yet she had no certainty of how long it would last.

“No one will hurt you while I’m here. You know that.”

It was true. She felt grateful. He would protect her. He would keep violence away from her, would allow no one to tear at her clothes. He would hold her gently as he always had, and there would be no screams or fear, no blows or weight pressing her down. There would be only him. She could stand that if only he did not touch her.

“What about the child?” he said slowly. “You said you wanted a child. I want one, too, but we can’t go on like this. We can’t keep waiting. I need you. I want to touch you and hold you. I’m a man, can you understand that?” His head jerked up and that bright gaze pierced her again.

The depth of what he said dawned in Meredith’s thoughts only slowly. She did want a child, she remembered. If only a baby were growing in her, if another life depended on her, this huge blanket of exhaustion would lift. The ice would melt. She would live again. She would be able to love.

“I want a baby,” she said, and the effort of speaking made her throat ache. “I want that more than anything. I do.”

“Then let me touch you.”

He sounded too near. Meredith raised her eyes and saw that he had risen and taken a step, his right arm lifting. His hand drifted toward her, the fingers wide and sturdy, spreading as they moved through the air. Soon his hand would reach her. Its crushing weight would fall on her hair.

Meredith tried to speak, to cry out, but the words would not come. She opened her lips, willing her throat to scream, straining like a swimmer who could not quite reach the surface.

“No!”

The word burst out and Meredith’s eyelids snapped open. She stared around, amazed at what she saw.

The room was dark, and yet she knew she could see it. Her hands felt rough wads of fabric, and her fingers ached. They gripped the edge of the sofa for what seemed an eternity after she willed them to let go. Then she lifted her hands toward her face, her fingers aching from the struggle to unlock. From the dark corner by the stairwell came muted echoes of struggle. Her own hands, the skin of her fingers, felt the pushing and tearing of that struggle. Something hideous lived beside that stairwell or was dying there.

Then she heard a sound. Two beams of light penetrated the darkness and swept through the room. They showed gray walls, and glanced over pale furniture and a shining row of books that should not have been on the mantel. The lights were headlights. A car turned into the drive. Richard.

Moments later, as she clung to the sink shaking, Meredith heard Richard’s key enter the lock. She stood in the kitchen, unable to remember how she got here. She only knew she had run, stumbling and bumping into the doorway, struggling to get out of that awful gray room.

She glanced at the clock. It was quarter to six. Where had the afternoon gone?

She could remember parts of it, voices, a few words, a roaring torrent of emotion. She wondered how much of it could have been real. It had been like living someone else’s life, a very bad life that tumbled over and over itself in helplessness.

“Hello, darling.” Richard’s familiar greeting coincided with the solid closing of the front door. “Dark in here. Anybody home?”

Meredith turned and forced herself to call back. Her hands still ached with the memory of fighting against whatever had held her, but she forced them open. She commanded them to slowly, calmly unwrap the steak she had set out earlier to defrost. “What smells so good?” Richard called, coming closer. “I smell fruit. Are you baking something?”

Meredith turned in time to see him enter the kitchen. He smiled and stepped close to brush her cheek with a kiss. “What’s cooking, fruit dessert?”

Meredith looked away. She pretended to be absorbed in slicing fat from the ragged edges of the steak. “Nothing. Actually, dinner’s not, well, quite ready,” she stammered. She tried to think how to go on, but he had stepped back to survey her figure.

“Stayed overtime in the clothing stores, I see. And bought a new dress.”

“I did, but how did you know?” Meredith felt amazed. She watched as confusion clouded her husband’s eyes.

“It’s all right, I guess.” Richard turned to walk back toward the living room. “Pretty. But I’m not sure it’s quite you.”

Her legs trembling, Meredith followed as far as the living room door. She stopped there. The walls were once more the pleasant coral color she had chosen for them three weeks ago. She looked down and stood stunned. She was wearing the brown nylon dress.