explained.
“The dream was that night?”
“Yes.”
“And before the second dream?”
“It was more of a vision really. I don’t think I slept—it was more like I fainted. Wayne kissed me. That’s hardly reason. It wasn’t traumatic or stressful anyway.”
Dr. Harding crossed her legs. “Well, there are several things going on here, any of which might trigger episodes of dreaming. Stressful episodes, for one, induce the brain to work on problem solving, and sometimes this comes out in the form of dreams, even if they seem unrelated to the inciting event.”
Shauna took her eyes off the file cabinet and tried to focus on the therapist. She had such distracting hair, the way it stuck out in a mass of coppery frizz.
“Another factor at work here is that your brain knows it’s missing some memories. Then along comes Wayne, who has connections to this blank chapter in your story. On a subconscious level, you figure he can help you fill in the blanks. Your brain might be processing this possibility by generating vicarious scenarios that involve him. Dreaming is really a very personal attempt to construct and reconstruct important memories, but not always rationally.”
“Too bad dreams don’t distinguish between what’s real and unreal.”
“Dreaming can be valuable, nonetheless.”
“What about the drug trials? Could the pills cause these . . . visions?”
“We’ll certainly be looking into that as a side effect. But these drugs aim for the centers of your brain that involve memory storage.” She tapped a candy- apple fingernail on her temple. “And because dreaming is about the process of accessing and disassembling memories, it’s entirely possible that your dreams are at least partially drug induced.”
“Should I stop taking the medicine?”
Dr. Harding’s laugh sounded closer to a cough. “I don’t think so. We can sit here all day and theorize and not avoid the possibility that the dreams are nothing more than delusional confabulations.”
Delusional what?
“You might even consider enjoying them as private entertainment. For now.”
The suggestion left Shauna both relieved and dissatisfied. Entertainment?
“Keep a journal if you want. And let me know if the dreams grow more frequent or”—she searched for the right phrase—“change in tone.”
“Change tone?”
“Do the dreams frighten you?”
Shauna weighed this. The real sense of pain had frightened her, as had the confusion, the sense that she was someone else.
“On some level.”
“I’ll want to know if that level goes up. Come see me again Tuesday. Let’s see how the weekend goes.”
The independent film, a gloomy Scandinavian project that had done well at the Sundance Festival, showed at the Dobie Theater at ten. Wayne and Shauna arrived with enough time to park some distance away and walk down the Guadalupe Street Drag, a street known for its underground bookstores and tat-too parlors and eclectic stores. On this Friday night the Drag was crowded with university students looking for a distraction from their studies and midterms.
The theater was located on the second floor of the Dobie Mall. The movie house was a strange little place that boasted a gourmet concessions stand—Wayne bought a mocha for himself and an herbal tea for Shauna—and four small screens in themed theaters. Their flick was showing in the Gothic Gargoyle room. Shauna couldn’t fathom the possibility that she had ever actually enjoyed such a place.
For the sake of her memory, however, she tried. But so far, as at the Barton Springs pool, the location did nothing to tap her past experiences here.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said as they took seats on the end of the strange diagonal aisle that cut through the room. There was no stadium seating in this place. Apparently the tall people were expected to be polite and sit in back.
“Just thinking.” The grotesque gargoyle murals on the walls distracted her. She sipped her tea,
“The dream was that night?”
“Yes.”
“And before the second dream?”
“It was more of a vision really. I don’t think I slept—it was more like I fainted. Wayne kissed me. That’s hardly reason. It wasn’t traumatic or stressful anyway.”
Dr. Harding crossed her legs. “Well, there are several things going on here, any of which might trigger episodes of dreaming. Stressful episodes, for one, induce the brain to work on problem solving, and sometimes this comes out in the form of dreams, even if they seem unrelated to the inciting event.”
Shauna took her eyes off the file cabinet and tried to focus on the therapist. She had such distracting hair, the way it stuck out in a mass of coppery frizz.
“Another factor at work here is that your brain knows it’s missing some memories. Then along comes Wayne, who has connections to this blank chapter in your story. On a subconscious level, you figure he can help you fill in the blanks. Your brain might be processing this possibility by generating vicarious scenarios that involve him. Dreaming is really a very personal attempt to construct and reconstruct important memories, but not always rationally.”
“Too bad dreams don’t distinguish between what’s real and unreal.”
“Dreaming can be valuable, nonetheless.”
“What about the drug trials? Could the pills cause these . . . visions?”
“We’ll certainly be looking into that as a side effect. But these drugs aim for the centers of your brain that involve memory storage.” She tapped a candy- apple fingernail on her temple. “And because dreaming is about the process of accessing and disassembling memories, it’s entirely possible that your dreams are at least partially drug induced.”
“Should I stop taking the medicine?”
Dr. Harding’s laugh sounded closer to a cough. “I don’t think so. We can sit here all day and theorize and not avoid the possibility that the dreams are nothing more than delusional confabulations.”
Delusional what?
“You might even consider enjoying them as private entertainment. For now.”
The suggestion left Shauna both relieved and dissatisfied. Entertainment?
“Keep a journal if you want. And let me know if the dreams grow more frequent or”—she searched for the right phrase—“change in tone.”
“Change tone?”
“Do the dreams frighten you?”
Shauna weighed this. The real sense of pain had frightened her, as had the confusion, the sense that she was someone else.
“On some level.”
“I’ll want to know if that level goes up. Come see me again Tuesday. Let’s see how the weekend goes.”
The independent film, a gloomy Scandinavian project that had done well at the Sundance Festival, showed at the Dobie Theater at ten. Wayne and Shauna arrived with enough time to park some distance away and walk down the Guadalupe Street Drag, a street known for its underground bookstores and tat-too parlors and eclectic stores. On this Friday night the Drag was crowded with university students looking for a distraction from their studies and midterms.
The theater was located on the second floor of the Dobie Mall. The movie house was a strange little place that boasted a gourmet concessions stand—Wayne bought a mocha for himself and an herbal tea for Shauna—and four small screens in themed theaters. Their flick was showing in the Gothic Gargoyle room. Shauna couldn’t fathom the possibility that she had ever actually enjoyed such a place.
For the sake of her memory, however, she tried. But so far, as at the Barton Springs pool, the location did nothing to tap her past experiences here.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said as they took seats on the end of the strange diagonal aisle that cut through the room. There was no stadium seating in this place. Apparently the tall people were expected to be polite and sit in back.
“Just thinking.” The grotesque gargoyle murals on the walls distracted her. She sipped her tea,
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