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Authors: Kristin Harmel
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here?”
I shake my head. “Susan wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what ? Kate, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me!”
I hesitate. “I’ve been having these dreams about Patrick. Or at least I think they’re dreams. What else could they be, right? But I know things in them that should be impossible for me to know, things that turn out to be true in real life. And they’re so vivid, Gina. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Oh.” I see sadness and concern in her eyes as she sinks into the seat beside me. “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
And so I do. I explain about waking up with Patrick the day after the engagement party. I tell her how strange and beautiful it was to see him in so much detail, right down to his salt-and-pepper hair, his laugh lines, and his broader belly. I explain how real he felt: his touch, the familiar scent of him, the steady beating of his heart.
I go on to tell her about last night too, but I don’t tell her about Hannah, because her presence somehow makes everything seem less authentic. Patrick once existed, so it seems like there’s some sort of possibility he could be crossing the thin line between heaven and earth, as unlikely as that sounds. But how do I explain Hannah, a girl who can’t possibly be our child but who calls me “Mom”?
Gina listens intently, and I’m relieved not to see judgment on her face. When I’m done, she looks at her hands for a moment, and when she glances up again, there’s sadness written across her features. “I used to dream about Bill sometimes too,” she says. “Not quite as vividly as you’re describing. But seeing him once in a while, even if the dreams were sort of vague, always threw me into a tailspin for a few days.” She pauses and adds, “It’s never going to go away, is it? The way we feel right now?”
I shake my head, and some of the stress melts out of my shoulders. Having lost a husband is a bit like belonging to a club. It’s a club no one would ever want membership in, but it’s comforting all the same to know that you’re not alone.
“But the dreams, Kate, they sound more or less normal. Don’t you think?”
“Then how did my finger wind up sliced open?” I ask, holding up my bandaged pinkie.
“What?” Gina stares at my hand.
“In the dream, I cut my finger,” I tell her. “And when I woke up, I was bleeding on the sheets. How is that possible?”
She gapes at me. “Well . . . It’s not. Maybe you sleepwalked in the middle of the night and cut it on something.”
“Wouldn’t that have woken me up?”
“I—I don’t know.” She pauses. “But you’re not saying that you think these dreams are actually real, are you?”
I avoid her gaze. “I know it sounds nuts. But how could I be dreaming things I don’t actually know, like the fact that Robert got a job offer in San Diego eleven years ago?”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe you overheard something Susan or your mom said at some point,” Gina says slowly. “As for the rest of it, maybe your brain just has to wrap itself around the reality that you’re about to start a new life.”
I take a deep breath. “But what if seeing Patrick is reminding me just how much I want my old life back?”
“But you can’t have it, Kate,” she says softly. “Those chapters are closed. It took me a long time to realize that—to really realize it—but when I did, everything felt a little better. Maybe you’re just not there yet.”
T he cranial CT scan, neurological exam, and blood tests all come back clean, and the doctors assure me I don’t have a brain tumor or anything else physiological going on. After sending me to get two stitches in my pinkie, they refer to me to psychiatry, and after a brief meeting with a doctor, I’m sent on my way with a prescription for sleeping pills, an antidepressant I know I’ll never take, and a reassurance that what I’m describing sounds
I shake my head. “Susan wouldn’t understand.”
“Understand what ? Kate, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. You’re scaring me!”
I hesitate. “I’ve been having these dreams about Patrick. Or at least I think they’re dreams. What else could they be, right? But I know things in them that should be impossible for me to know, things that turn out to be true in real life. And they’re so vivid, Gina. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Oh.” I see sadness and concern in her eyes as she sinks into the seat beside me. “Why don’t you begin at the beginning?”
And so I do. I explain about waking up with Patrick the day after the engagement party. I tell her how strange and beautiful it was to see him in so much detail, right down to his salt-and-pepper hair, his laugh lines, and his broader belly. I explain how real he felt: his touch, the familiar scent of him, the steady beating of his heart.
I go on to tell her about last night too, but I don’t tell her about Hannah, because her presence somehow makes everything seem less authentic. Patrick once existed, so it seems like there’s some sort of possibility he could be crossing the thin line between heaven and earth, as unlikely as that sounds. But how do I explain Hannah, a girl who can’t possibly be our child but who calls me “Mom”?
Gina listens intently, and I’m relieved not to see judgment on her face. When I’m done, she looks at her hands for a moment, and when she glances up again, there’s sadness written across her features. “I used to dream about Bill sometimes too,” she says. “Not quite as vividly as you’re describing. But seeing him once in a while, even if the dreams were sort of vague, always threw me into a tailspin for a few days.” She pauses and adds, “It’s never going to go away, is it? The way we feel right now?”
I shake my head, and some of the stress melts out of my shoulders. Having lost a husband is a bit like belonging to a club. It’s a club no one would ever want membership in, but it’s comforting all the same to know that you’re not alone.
“But the dreams, Kate, they sound more or less normal. Don’t you think?”
“Then how did my finger wind up sliced open?” I ask, holding up my bandaged pinkie.
“What?” Gina stares at my hand.
“In the dream, I cut my finger,” I tell her. “And when I woke up, I was bleeding on the sheets. How is that possible?”
She gapes at me. “Well . . . It’s not. Maybe you sleepwalked in the middle of the night and cut it on something.”
“Wouldn’t that have woken me up?”
“I—I don’t know.” She pauses. “But you’re not saying that you think these dreams are actually real, are you?”
I avoid her gaze. “I know it sounds nuts. But how could I be dreaming things I don’t actually know, like the fact that Robert got a job offer in San Diego eleven years ago?”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe you overheard something Susan or your mom said at some point,” Gina says slowly. “As for the rest of it, maybe your brain just has to wrap itself around the reality that you’re about to start a new life.”
I take a deep breath. “But what if seeing Patrick is reminding me just how much I want my old life back?”
“But you can’t have it, Kate,” she says softly. “Those chapters are closed. It took me a long time to realize that—to really realize it—but when I did, everything felt a little better. Maybe you’re just not there yet.”
T he cranial CT scan, neurological exam, and blood tests all come back clean, and the doctors assure me I don’t have a brain tumor or anything else physiological going on. After sending me to get two stitches in my pinkie, they refer to me to psychiatry, and after a brief meeting with a doctor, I’m sent on my way with a prescription for sleeping pills, an antidepressant I know I’ll never take, and a reassurance that what I’m describing sounds
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