closed her eyes. “I’m a bug and Charlie sits on me at dinner.”
“Where are you?”
“At someone’s house.”
“Whose house?”
“The Spencers’. Wilt and Sherry. They have bad art and an orange Eames chair that no one ever sits in. Charlie hated their apartment. Anyway, that’s not important.”
“I don’t agree, but go on.”
“He sits on me and I’m helpless. Trapped. Under this unending swath of corduroy.”
“Did Charlie wear corduroy?”
“Never. But in the dream it’s clearly corduroy; there are wales.”
“Go on.”
“I’m pinned to the chair. No air, no light, though I can hear them all talking. I’m praying he’ll need to relieve himself and get up. But time goes on and on and I can’t move and I’m forced to listen to all of it for hours. There’s no chance to excuse myself, or breathe, or rub an elbow distractedly or even scratch an itch.”
“You said this is a recurring dream. How long have you been having it?”
“Well, I used to have it when he was alive, like I said. And I’m not just any bug, I’m a green leaf beetle. Have you seen one?”
“No. But I assume they’re green?”
“Yes, they are. They blend. I always blend too perfectly with the upholstery, so I’m never noticed, and he sits on me every time. I’m always perched delicately on the chair as though I’ve just got there, just landed and am taking the room in, when the solid square mass of Charlie descends. This is awful, it makes it sound like I hate him.”
“You felt trapped by him.”
Claire picked at a nail.
“Charlie is always the guest of honor in this dream, and his is the only voice I can make out, that’s the other thing. I can’t hear any other voices clearly, only his, in loud barreling echoes.”
“You felt suppressed by him, overshadowed.”
“I don’t know. I guess maybe I did,” Claire said.
“It’s not unusual, you married very young.”
She watched the second hand on Lowenstein’s wall clock tick by.
“Dr. Jung says dreams are an expression of your current condition, not a preexisting one. So you still feel suppressed by Charlie. Even in death, you can’t escape him. You’re still overpowered by him to an extreme—you’ve painted a harrowing account of claustrophobia—one that leaves me, just listening to you, struggling a bit for air.”
“You know what I hated sometimes, about most of the social things we went to?” Claire pushed loose hair back from her face.
“Tell me,” Lowenstein said.
“No one laughed.”
Lowenstein scribbled something down.
“They were stern, or cold?”
“I mean, they just didn’t sincerely laugh. There were ironies or intellectual inside cracks that required a familiarity with Nietzsche or somebody’s blue phase or Kierkegaard’s concept of despair. These were not met with laughter, but instead more of a bark.”
“You thought them insincere perhaps.”
“I miss real laughter. No one laughs anymore. You know, where it’s uncontrollable and sometimes brings tears. Richard’s girlfriend, Bridget, laughs sometimes, but I think it’s a nervous tic. Sasha’s had too many injections to laugh, and Ethan thinks it’s a weakness of character. Real laughter explodes without warning, like a sneeze.”
Claire produced a magazine from her handbag, a copy of OK! with Jack Huxley on the cover. He was wearing a blue sweater and jeans, walking on a sidewalk in New York. His head was down and under a baseball cap, but not so far that you missed the trademark smirk. A four-page spread in the middle addressed the simultaneous claims on his sperm by three different women—a young actress, a dancer, and a makeup artist, in no special order.
“This is who Charlie was writing about,” Claire said. “This was the work in progress when he died.”
The doctor studied the pictures for an unusually long time. Claire thought she saw her smile. But she handed it back straight-faced.
“You know who Jack Huxley is,
“Where are you?”
“At someone’s house.”
“Whose house?”
“The Spencers’. Wilt and Sherry. They have bad art and an orange Eames chair that no one ever sits in. Charlie hated their apartment. Anyway, that’s not important.”
“I don’t agree, but go on.”
“He sits on me and I’m helpless. Trapped. Under this unending swath of corduroy.”
“Did Charlie wear corduroy?”
“Never. But in the dream it’s clearly corduroy; there are wales.”
“Go on.”
“I’m pinned to the chair. No air, no light, though I can hear them all talking. I’m praying he’ll need to relieve himself and get up. But time goes on and on and I can’t move and I’m forced to listen to all of it for hours. There’s no chance to excuse myself, or breathe, or rub an elbow distractedly or even scratch an itch.”
“You said this is a recurring dream. How long have you been having it?”
“Well, I used to have it when he was alive, like I said. And I’m not just any bug, I’m a green leaf beetle. Have you seen one?”
“No. But I assume they’re green?”
“Yes, they are. They blend. I always blend too perfectly with the upholstery, so I’m never noticed, and he sits on me every time. I’m always perched delicately on the chair as though I’ve just got there, just landed and am taking the room in, when the solid square mass of Charlie descends. This is awful, it makes it sound like I hate him.”
“You felt trapped by him.”
Claire picked at a nail.
“Charlie is always the guest of honor in this dream, and his is the only voice I can make out, that’s the other thing. I can’t hear any other voices clearly, only his, in loud barreling echoes.”
“You felt suppressed by him, overshadowed.”
“I don’t know. I guess maybe I did,” Claire said.
“It’s not unusual, you married very young.”
She watched the second hand on Lowenstein’s wall clock tick by.
“Dr. Jung says dreams are an expression of your current condition, not a preexisting one. So you still feel suppressed by Charlie. Even in death, you can’t escape him. You’re still overpowered by him to an extreme—you’ve painted a harrowing account of claustrophobia—one that leaves me, just listening to you, struggling a bit for air.”
“You know what I hated sometimes, about most of the social things we went to?” Claire pushed loose hair back from her face.
“Tell me,” Lowenstein said.
“No one laughed.”
Lowenstein scribbled something down.
“They were stern, or cold?”
“I mean, they just didn’t sincerely laugh. There were ironies or intellectual inside cracks that required a familiarity with Nietzsche or somebody’s blue phase or Kierkegaard’s concept of despair. These were not met with laughter, but instead more of a bark.”
“You thought them insincere perhaps.”
“I miss real laughter. No one laughs anymore. You know, where it’s uncontrollable and sometimes brings tears. Richard’s girlfriend, Bridget, laughs sometimes, but I think it’s a nervous tic. Sasha’s had too many injections to laugh, and Ethan thinks it’s a weakness of character. Real laughter explodes without warning, like a sneeze.”
Claire produced a magazine from her handbag, a copy of OK! with Jack Huxley on the cover. He was wearing a blue sweater and jeans, walking on a sidewalk in New York. His head was down and under a baseball cap, but not so far that you missed the trademark smirk. A four-page spread in the middle addressed the simultaneous claims on his sperm by three different women—a young actress, a dancer, and a makeup artist, in no special order.
“This is who Charlie was writing about,” Claire said. “This was the work in progress when he died.”
The doctor studied the pictures for an unusually long time. Claire thought she saw her smile. But she handed it back straight-faced.
“You know who Jack Huxley is,
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