I KNEW THAT I WAS IN A DREAM, BUT I COULDN’T PULL MYSELF out of it. I lacked the strength to open my eyes, let alone move a leg or an arm. So, reluctantly, I surrendered, letting the phone ring unanswered, allowing the dream to progress until I could muster the energy to lift my eyelids.
First, I had to get the damned corpse off of me. I could hardly breathe for the dead weight of the body lying on my chest. I pushed, lifted its leaden arm, and felt it land with a thud. I struggled to roll its torso and shimmy off to the side. Finally, the body slid off. Air rushed into my lungs. I sat up, pulled away from the corpse, and looked at it.
Nick, not a corpse, lay beside me, soaked in blood. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I shook him. He didn’t respond. The phone stopped ringing, shocked to silence.
Frantic, I looked around the room. I saw parallel bars, easels, a fireplace with burning embers. Where were the nurses? The staff? Once again, I tugged at Nick’s arm. It flopped limp and cool.
“Nick!” I whispered. Nick’s eyes remained closed, his body motionless.
I was on my feet, running in circles. Still Nick didn’t move. I reached for a lamp, knocked it crashing to the floor. I tried to find the light switch on the wall, couldn’t. Of course I can’t, I told myself. This is a dream. There’s not going to be a switch on the wall. It’s a nightmare. Not real, not real. Wake up, I told myself. But my eyes were stuck shut. I couldn’t escape, not yet.
And Nick’s bulk lay lifeless near the fireplace. His arm was where it had been when I got up, his back drenched in blood. I sank down beside him, trembling.
I heard myself howl and pounded his chest, trying to remember CPR, the xiphoid process. Something about the xiphoid process. I exhaled into his mouth. Again. But Nick lay stubbornly lifeless. Dead. Gone. He wore a vacant expression, not emotional, not relaxed. Just blank. Discarded features with no one inside them. I backed away, shivering. This is a dream, I thought. A dream.
“Oh God,” I mumbled, rubbing my eyes. Empty plates and wineglasses sat unwashed on the table. My napkin lay on my plate, just where I’d dropped it. Molly’s damp socks and boots lay by the door. This dream had too many details, was far too vivid. The phone started to ring again.
It took all my energy, but I strained, tugged, squirmed, twisted. Somehow, I pulled myself free of the nightmare. I opened one eye. Finally, the other. The corpse disappeared, but the phone kept ringing. I could barely lift my head; it weighed tons. Groggy, I let it go. It fell back onto the pillow.
“Oh God,” I repeated. The phone jangled on. I reached across the bed to wake up Nick but couldn’t find him. My hand groped crumpled blankets, tangled sheets, scattered pillows. But no Nick. I rolled over and blinked through the darkness, straining to see his side of the bed. It was empty. Nick wasn’t there.
Maybe I wasn’t up yet. Maybe I was still dreaming. Maybe that was why I was so groggy. Besides, Nick must be around somewhere. In the bathroom. Or the kitchen getting a snack.
“Nick?” My voice sounded raw, shaky. “Nick?” This time I called louder. No answer.
The phone rang on. Where the hell was it?
I tried to sit up. Too fast. A wave of dizziness rose suddenly, knocking me back down. I lay still, but the bed seemed to rock, a raft in a stormy sea.
Was I sick? Hungover? Maybe Nick was, too. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t answered the phone; maybe he was throwing up. In the bathroom. Or outside. Maybe he’d gone outside for fresh air. To clear his head.
Maybe.
I sat up, made myself wake up enough to stand. Cold and naked, I wrapped up in a flannel sheet, got out of bed, and headed toward the ringing. Was it downstairs? Maybe the main room. Or the kitchen. It might wake Molly, although nothing could wake Molly when she was tired. Unsteady, wobbling, at the end of the bed I bumped into a table, knocking the lamp onto the floor. Where was the damned phone? And who was calling in the middle of the night? Oh dear—was there a police emergency? Was Nick’s department trying to reach him? I hurried, stumbling through darkness, searching for a light switch.
Still caught in the images of the nightmare, I felt my way along the wall, searching for a switch. Finally, I made it to the stairs and, trying not to trip on the sheet, went down carefully, step by step.
“Just find a light,” I told myself. “Turn on some lights. There.” I flicked on the kitchen switch. Light blasted the counter, the stove, the sink and spilled into the living room, blinding me, making me blink. I looked for Nick’s cell, found it beside a salt shaker on the kitchen table. Of course, as in a nightmare, it stopped ringing before I could cross the room.